It's A Deal Garlic Man!

My friend Niklas and I have made a deal.

We will try all the 101 shots that pub Bröderna Olssons have on their menu. At least 2 new shots per week hopefully within one year. We will check which of them contain garlic (i.e., no garlic breath, no good garlic shot). Maybe we will round it off with a garlic beer and/or a garlic dessert.

They are also opening in Palma (Spain) apart from Stockholm and London. So educational trips to those pubs are not out of the question.

I'll probably stink garlic but what the hell. It's all for a scientific cause.

Antibes

Visited my friend Benoît in Antibes this past week.

From discovering the city to playing dodge ball on the beach until 5am, playing board games and visiting Cannes, Monaco and Nice, being burned by medusas and having drunk britts and dutch people spill beer on each other while we all sing along to a brittish cover band on La Gaffe....its all been great!

Thanks for having me Benoît:)

Here are some pictures

Soledad

A lo mejor es un buen comienzo.
Como dice la gente que tal vez pierden todo.
La luz que nos alúmbra y desarropa el disfraz que engaña nuestras mentes.
Me quéma el exterior, todo lo que pensaba era real.
Solo mís propías sensaciónes ajeno los de ustedes permanecen.
Y solo quedo.
Muy solo.
Para vivir.

Reggae For Some Peace of Mind

A little peace in the form of reggae.
Cultura profética always took the limelight away from other bands when rehearsing at La Glorietta (an outside open house/lusthus) at the University, Rio Piedras.
They have always been a very open and friendly band singing about peace and unity.

At times like these, with bombings, terrorist attacks and G8 meetings I find their music fitting.

Check them out here:

Video from one of there live performances. Song about peoples fear of standing up for themselves and against the pretext found in certain types of music.
Cultura profética ('reggae rústico' my favorite song)
more cultura profética ('donde no alcanza mi verso')

I really like this last songs lyrics. I'm adding it here:

Quisiera palpar el silencio.
Ser el yo quien sople el viento.
Bañarme de estrellas quisiera.
Vestirme de mar y de cielo.

Practicar el lenguaje.
Que no se habla ni es silencio.
Hablarte en otro idioma quisiera.
Decirte asi lo que no puedo en verso.

Llegar donde no alcanza mi verso.
Mi mente surreal no es suficiente.
Quiero llegar donde no alcanza mi verso.
Mi verso oohh...

Quisiera habitar en tus piernas.
Creciendo como la hiedra en ti o navegar mil leguas quisiera.
Fijado en el timon de tus caderas.
Caminar la llanura.
Que haya en tus ojos encuentro.
Bañarme de tu cuerpo quisiera.
Andar las costas de tu cuerpo entero.

Llegar donde no alcanza mi verso.
Cantar y recitar no es suficiente.
Quiero llegar donde no alcanza mi verso.
Mi verso oohh...

Danzar sudor y cadencia.
De pulso agitado y sereno.
De ver tus suspiros quisiera.
Embriagarte con mis besos.
De tu piel tu mirada.
Mil canciones de noche engendro.
Pero antes de cantarlas quisiera.

Andar las costas de tu cuerpo entero.
Llegar donde no alcanza mi verso.
Tu cuerpo imaginar no es suficiente.
Quiero llegar donde no alcanza mi verso.
Mi verso oohh...Oohh...

Give The Cup To Zidane

I'm taking a look at the obvious juxtapositioning that took place yesterday at the world cup finals.

We saw:
Two football players.
One incident.
One reaction.
One result.
Juxtaposed within the context of football playing a condemning in the form of a red card.

But in a larger context. Acknowledging the need to make a stand. To say 'no' this cannot continue. The winning part was the opposite. And the outcome should have been different.


Zinedine "Zizou" Zidane.
The greatest football player in the world (1998, 2000, 2003 and probably now 2006). Called by experts one of the best players of the last decenium. Has dedicated much of his time and money engaged in social projects against poverty and rasism.

...vs.

Marco Materazzi
Italy's (and probably the worlds) most hated football player.
Check out this video if you dont believe me.

....
We all saw what happend. Theres no question in my and many others mind (e.g., this italian blog) that Zidane did the right thing. He had already announced his withdrawel from professional football. This was a perfect opportunity to do what all profesional football players had always wanted to do, but not been able to do during this world cup:

Kick this clowns ass once and for all.

Yes, Italy got their cup. But it was relinquished by Zidane and hence rendered worthless the same moment that Zidane probably lost interest in it. Letting scumbags like Materazzi play is a statement in itself that the game of football has lost much of its purpose. Zidane must have felt very dissapointed at the whole spectacle. Letting a clown like this make a mockery of all he stood for and the game he loved so much.

Värme/Heat

Vi slår oss ner, Federico och jag, i halvskuggan kisandes mot klipporna. Rynkorna hos ett gammalt landskap, en öken, utan luft. Andalucía, Cadaqués, El Morro - samma blodstemperatur, samma värme, slår mot oss, trycker ner oss.

”Sanden måste vara stekhet.”
”Förmodligen likt lava som koagulerat, torkat och pulvriserats” mumlar Federico.

Är det rom eller whisky jag dricker? Solen snuddar horisonten vart eftersom. Många nätter har passerat och vi är båda utsvultna och trötta.

”Härligt att öknen är lika röd som vår tro, skänker oss vila och trygghet.”
”Vad menar du med tro? Republikan visst, men inte kommunist för fan Federico!”

I sanden ritar Federico en figur. Skuggan av handen som rör sig slår hårt mot klippväggen bakom oss. Trolskt sveps figuren fram, böjer sin kontur efter den tjocka sanden. Ett hårt stick i naveln och Federicos figur är klar.

”Se, sanden är magisk. Levande, som du och jag, om än utan mänsklig skepnad”.

Federico lägger sig på marken bredvid sin figur. Hans vänstra hand greppar tag i sanden så hårt att den blir blodröd.
”Ursäktar du mig en stund? Marken pulserar fortfarande av förnimmelse, och jag vill veta om jag ska dö snart."

Solen träder åter fram. Bränner bort Federicos tårar och han reser sig upp. Figuren ser ut att sjunka ihop, ett dovt rop från fjärran. Likt en tjur böjer sig Federico fram, rusar fram och ropar.

”Granadino! Din jävel, är det min tur nu, är du tillbaka för att stånga ihjäl mig du med!”

Hans armar och ben suddas ut i värmen, ett svart streck som gör djupa hack i omgivningen. En till klunk. Jag sväljer syran. Tittar ut men ser inte längre Federico. Han är borta. Jag lyfter blicken från min bok med Lorcas poesi. Lägger den vid min sida och sluter ögonen.