Infrequent flyer

I took a weekend trip to Norway to visit my husband who is currently acting out his talents on the National Theatre in Oslo… that is not what this is about.

At Copenhagen Airport a woman from the watch staff confiscated my can of Nivea – the classic blue one. I asked her why that was necessary, and she answered that it was due to reasons of security. I didn’t pursue the matter any further, although I wanted to… any of you readers who have ever been to Copenhagen Airport knows that the check-in leads straight to the Gate of Stench aka. the perfume/booze gift shop. The cow robbed me according to the rules, whilst in my line of sight was all the ingredients needed to make myself a Molotov Cocktail. I saw bottles of vodka. I saw bundle packs of cigarette lighters. I saw boxes of tissues… I also walked straight towards an advertisement for Nivea, the makers of the can of lotion that just got legally snatched by a member of the security personel. I hope she finds good use for it, although there is not enough lotion in the world to make that thieving, haggard bitch any smoother.

Infrequent flyer/pissed off customer

Thomas Haardell

So this happened

I was out yesterday with friends. We’re drinking beer and quoting RuPaul’s Drag Race. We’re operating on various levels of cuntiness while still being charming. I’m deep in conversation with a friend I havent seen in a while, and out of nowhere appears a man who feels me up like I’m a fucking prize stud. He tells me that him and a group of unidentified friends had been talking about me, and they had a wager going on how old I might be. He ask me to disclose my age, and I reply that I want to know first what the bets are and how high the wager is. He says the bidding goes from twenty-four to thirty-six – I’m thirty-seven and very pleased with myself at this point of the evening. I’m perversely thankful for being able to pass for twenty-four in the eyes of a stranger whom I’ve never met, and at the same time I just want Colonel Feely McGropeson to get his fucking hands of my back and stop complimenting the broadness of my shoulders.

My voice of concience tells me to be grateful for the attention, because as we all know, being handsome is the ultimate currency amongst a group of men who shares no common trademark other than their sexuality, and even that is at best debatable. Who the fuck taught me that my looks are all that matters? I’m not even that fucking hot. I look unphotogenically dorky on most pictures but I do have a striking physical presence as all scandinavian men does who are built for a climate where the power of sunlight looses it’s grip six months out of a year. Why do I feel guilty about not wanting the attention. I hear the voice of a woman hawking: “other people would be thrilled to get the attention”… i put this warning in the same box as “children are starving in Africa, so eat your potatoes!”

I snatched the Soft Spot

A friend of mine noted that for a guy who writes music, I almost never blog about my work. I wasn’t sure how to reply.

I’ve never really achieved any of my goals with my songs except one… I insist on learning new tools as I go along instead of just doing the same thing over and over, and I feel that has been achieved. Actually, not achieving my goals is a bit of a stretch, cause I did release one album back in 2008 – Arrival – but I’ve never really been particularly proud of what I’ve achieved with it.

I just parted ways with my band. We used to call ourselves Snatch, and after a couple of years of being poorly named after a woman’s genitals we changed our name to Blødpunkt, which means Soft Spot in Danish. That name fit our Goldilocks identity as guys who were neither too hot, nor too boring, but just right!

When I had the break-up talk with the guys, the bass player – Morten – said to me almost as an afterthought: “You’re sure you want to do this… you have a tendency to get excited about things and forget them the week after.”

No-one has said anything like that to me ever. But he is absolutely right. Im always writing new songs but I hardly finish any of them. Always looking for new people to work with, but never sticking around long enough to get the job done.

I’m not sure why I am like that. I enjoy the fulfillment of writing something new. I revel in being inspired. Almost every time I met with the band, we wrote something fresh. I’m  rarely out of material it seems, and what the fuck is wrong with that?

I’m not a good producer… well I’m not a patient one. I hate that in order to make a recording of an instrument sound good, it requires a particular setting in a virtual environment that is so complex and arbitrary that I can make neither head nor tails of it. I hate that afterwards all our efforts revolves around a amateurish sound-recording that doesn’t impress the industry-gatekeepers because they only know style and money. They have no clue of what to do with a demo song that is not yet a finished product, and I get frustrated because I have to juggle other people’s opinions on things that aren’t finished yet. I love working with musicians but I absolutely loathe pleasing businesspeople who really have no clue of what the process of creating music is.

I don’t know if I’m ever gonna have a future in music, but I know this… Since I broke up with my band two weeks ago, I’ve written more songs than I did in several months leading up to it… and again, I have no fucking idea what that means. I dont know which decisions are the right ones… this one just felt right.

I hate HIV! There, I said it.

HIV has frightened me my entire adult life. I know it’s out there just waiting for me to slip and make a mistake. People I have known have gotten infected and a small handful of them have even died… well, of course none of them have died from HIV because that is not the way the infection works. HIV is not a killer, but it IS the greatest disease-enabler of them all. With HIV your body is open to any infection possible and how that used to work resulted in the death of everybody who had the infection.

Death was certain.

Medications was invented! It took many trials and errors to find the right combination of poison to sustain the infected. I call it poison judged from the apparent liquid shit storm which a human being’s daily excavation of waste is turned into. Constant diarrhea kills more people world wide than HIV does, but being “healthy” and having diarrhea apparently seemed like the better alternative.

Death was uncertain.

People survive with gaunt features and bellies big and taut. Steroids saves the body in a way by increasing muscle mass but it does not save the face of the infected. Gift givers and bug chasers are born. Bare back sex is now a thing. The death of the future becomes the party of today. Why only use poison for treatment? Why not use poison for recreation? Why not embrace the culture of the infected. Why not dance and fuck the night away? Everyone dies but I alone decide how I live!

Death is for some other time.

Radioactive tattoos tells a story if you know what to listen for. Men are now PREPared for the life they want to live. We take poison to look strong. We take poison to avoid infection. We take poison to dance until sunrise. We take poison to stay hard. What should have been a culture free of decease and full of love becomes a culture full of sex and and unsung emotions. The beat is hard all through the night. The cocks stay erect all through the night. We never talk about love.

Death is so far removed even life seems out of sight.

When do gay men start talking about how it affects us as a group to have the threat of death and disfiguration hiding under our beds?

Take the pill – you know you want to.

I figured out what it is I don’t like about the new Truvada treatment. I find it irresponsible.

My entire adult life HIV has been something that I have tried to avoid. At first it was because it killed you. Later it was because that even though it didn’t kill you anymore, the treatment would render you disfigured and unfuckable many years before entering old age. To summarize… I didn’t want sex to kill me and I didn’t want to live my life as a slave of drugs – yeah I know. It’s only two things. It didn’t really need a summary.

A brand new drug has entered the market and what do you know, they’ve succeeded in convincing a whole range of gay men that the way to live life is to willingly make yourself a slave of a drug, because if you do, you can fuck bareback as much as you want, and you will only be infected with chlamydia, herpes, gonorrhea, hepatitis and syphilis to name a few. I mean three of these can be treated with penicillin – while it still works. Herpes only shows up once in a while and it will take ages for hepatitis induced liver failure will weaken you to the point of death.

You don’t need to take care. You don’t need to use your head. All you need is to take the pill and all your worries will go away. It is even said to be a better prophylactic than condoms! Catholics rejoice!

Beware of the sulk!

One weekend in June I went home to my parents house in Aarhus. I wanted them to come visit the weekend after because my husband and I were celebrating our tenth wedding anniversary. It felt right to have them attend.

Day one of my visit was amazing. The mood was right. Conversation flowed as it should. Barbecuing in the garden was terrific.

Second day of my visit was less amazing. With me still sleeping on the couch, my dad comes storming through the room at seven in the morning. I suggest in a sullen tone that it would do me good to keep on sleeping, and that he should keep his voice down. That was the equivalent of throwing a snow ball down a white mountain. The old man did not allow anyone in his own house to talk to him that way. It ended with me shouting at the top of my lungs while I reduced my dad to three-hundred-pound pure sulk!

We haven’t talked since. It’s only been a couple of months. Two of my cousins didn’t talk with one another for seven years. I wonder if my dad and I will break that record.

Whoosh – anger begone!

At work I am constantly whirled into silent fits of rage, where I want to throw things and break stuff. I keep it inside because I have no outlet for anger at work. Usually it shows up when I’m confronted with other people’s defective systems… and at work they are abundant. Every fix seems to me like a badly chosen patch which only slightly deals with the original problem while opening the doors for a fresh batch of shit.

It is getting increasingly difficult dealing with people that are supposedly better educated than me – at least on paper – which I usually respect – but some of their decisions are just half-baked, half-assed, half-brained fuck-uppetry.

Whoosh! What do people do when they don’t have the tools – like my writing – to dissipate their anger? Throw stuff?