My future autobiography

I have finally decided what I shall name my future autobiography.

Cat and the cars - a match made on a bad day in hell

Yes, car trouble... once more. Then again, when have I not had car trouble? Actually, our family (or make that my parents and then me) seems to have angered the car fairy in previous lives. I've never been able to figure out another reason for why not a single car of ours has ever stayed whole for a longer time. But let's not get into my family matters. I'll just list off the cars I've driven since I got my license six years ago.

1. Suzuki Swift -'89: My first car. I bought it for the equivalent of $473 (current exchange rate) in 2003-2004 somewhere. I hadn't taken my license yet but I thought it'd be nice to have a somewhat easier car to practise with than my father's heavy battle-ship of a Volvo 240 from 1983. The Swift wasn't by any means a pretty car. It was a murky white, with one black side panel that had been added to replace a rusted up panel and the interior was a bit worn. But god how I loved my little Swift. I had nice times with that one. It was smooth, easy to drive, quick to accelerate and extremely cheap where petrol was concerned. And it always started. I remember this one time when it had been buried under a blanket of snow in the coldest part of the winter, for over a month. We decided we had to pull it out to make sure it was still ok before the snow got it too badly. So with a little help from the stable owner and her sturdy Nissan Terrano we got it out of the pile and I slid in to turn the ignition key. I didn't expect much but my little Swift purred and started smooth as anything, without a single hitch. Unfortunately it wasn't too well off where other things were concerned. The undercarriage was so rusty I couldn't use the manual jack on it without the edges sinking in, and I'm pretty sure there was a hole straight through to the undercarriage under the carpet on the drivers seat. We finally decided to get rid of it for several reasons. One was that my dog was starting to get too big for it, he took up the whole back seat. But other reasons were a) an air tube broke quickly followed by the realisation that b) the cooler looked more like the Niagara falls than anything else. On top of that I got a flat tire in a nasty bend in the road while on my way to the stables. Thankfully I wasn't driving all that fast since the road was slippery from snow. However, we still careened off the road and into a rocky outcrop, resulting in a big dent on the passenger door. Afterwards we also realised that the spare tire couldn't hold air. All of those things happened within 2 months of each other. So, yeah, my lovely little Swift wasn't so lovely any longer.
2. Dad's Volvo 240 -'83: For a short time, while my Swift was working on losing air in the spare tire, I borrowed my dad's Volvo. Hoo-boy... To this day, it's the only car, that I know of, that have gotten an engine failure and shut itself off in a downward slope. Not to mention the fact that, even though I drove it apx. 5 Swedish miles a day for a consecutive week, one day it just decided not to start at all and never did again while in our possession. I finally got the permission of my father to sell the beast to folk racing for the equivalent of $315. I still count that day as one of the best I've had.
3. Suzuki Baleno Wagon -00: Fed up with car troubles my mum finally decided we had to get a newer car. So she and I drove my little Swift to the car dealer and test drove a few cars. Finally we settled on a bottle green metallic Suzuki Baleno Wagon. It had room for the dog in the back and seemed quite fun to drive. It had a low mileage too. So we traded my Swift in for a part of the price of the Baleno and we thought things would get better... We should've known better, I guess. Just a few weeks after buying it I was testing the dog cage and was gently seeing if it fit. I swear to god I did not slam the back door, no matter what my dad was accusing me of at the time. Either way, the back wind shield went crack and dissolved into tiny, tiny pieces of glass. After that the heat shields underneath the car had to be removed and so on. I feel that there shouldn't be a single thing left on that car that we haven't had to fix. Let's not get into details, though, since it'll only depress me. Suffice to say, it came to a point where the car workshop guys knew me by my voice on the phone. So, needless to say, I was quite disenchanted with the car after 5 years of visiting the work shop. Which brings me to the latest little golden nugget (or more like faded red pebble).
4. Toyota Corolla -'87: Yes, you read it right. I switched from a '00 car to an '87. And, man, I will never regret it. The car has been in my family since my grandfather bought it in 1992. It's been through a lot of things with my grandfather throughout the years but it's a real trooper. When my grandfather passed away in 2007 my uncle bought the car from my grandmother, who didn't have a license. He used it sporadically (since he lives in Argentina large parts of the year) and in the end decided that he really didn't have any use for it since he was planning to live more permanently in Argentina for at least a year and a half. So, I gingerly asked if there was a possibility that I could buy it from him, so I could finally get rid of the moody Baleno. Instead of letting me buy it he generously gave it to me, which I am extremely grateful for. The problem with old cars is that you can more or less take for granted that they have their problems. The fifth gear on the Toyota has always been a little finicky. So, while driving the 70 Swedish miles from Stockholm to my home town, Umeå, after switching cars at my parents' place, the fifth gear simply decided it had had enough and gave up around halfway home. Hoping it was something that could be easily fixed (the fifth gear does work, it's just that the stick won't stay in position so I have to hold it there with my hand while driving) I brought it to the workshop. The nice thing with having an older Toyota, as opposed to a semi-new Suzuki, is that just about any workshop can work on them. So I got to take it to a somewhat cheaper workshop than my previous ones. Turns out they'd have to replace the whole gear box. It was also discovered that the shock absorbers in the back was in a bad shape and would probably need to be replaced. Both things are quite expensive to fix on their own and put together...Perish the thought. The last major problem (as in: will be expensive to fix, most likely) with it is that the heat fan is moodier than a woman with PMS. It only works on the highest setting and more and more often lately it's just decided to quit working even there without any provocation at all. I've always managed to fiddle it back into working though. Or rather, I used to manage to fiddle it back. As of yesterday the heat fan decided to flip me the bird and retire. So today I spent most of the afternoon trying to get a hold of the workshop (which didn't work very well so I'll try again tomorrow). And then I went to the stables. it went quite well, if you discount the fact that I was freezing my ass off on the way there. On the way home, on the other hand... I had one hand on the wheel and the other holding a combined ice scraper and rubber... thingy, in order to clear the inside of the wind shield from fog. The outside was caked with road dust and salt. Stupid as I am I thought that if I'm quick enough I should still be able to wash the outside for a somewhat improved line of sight. The fluid froze in a thin film on the wind shield, leading to me having to get off the road to scrape the outside as best I could. And then back inside and driving the last bit home in darkness, being blinded by the lamps of meeting cars reflecting on the fog and scraping the inside of the windshield about every 30 seconds. My, and I thought it was bad that time there was a snow storm making me unable to see where the edges of the road was...

So, as you can see, my luck with cars is practically nil and nothing. The odd thing is that while I felt almost homicidal every time the Baleno acted up, and could barely think of anything other than getting rid of it, I'm more inclined to hug my little Toyota, pat it on the hood and tell it everything will be all right.

I will, somehow, scrape up the money needed (thank god for salaries) to fix its "ouchie" and then we will be happy again. I do not even want to think about not having my Toyota. I love it to bits (obviously). I've never felt more safe and comfortable as when driving my Toyota this past winter. Sometimes I swear, although it's probably just fanciful thinking on my part, that I can feel my grandfather sitting next to me, smiling and doing his best to hide the fact that he is quite worried about my driving.

My conclusion is that the slogan "I love my Toyota" is more of a rule than just a fanciful slogan. At least in my case. I really, truly adore my little red pebble. And if I ever rake up enough money to actually fix all the problems with it I'll probably convert to Toyota:ism, the religion where they worship the almighty Toyota. I'd gladly take up the position of head priestess, if the spot is open.

Another candle to be lit

Today I received some sad news. Another one of my parents' cats has died.

My mother called me yesterday, asking what she should do with their cat Lukas (although my mother always insisted it was spelled 'Lucas'). He had acted strange since the day before yesterday, walking around meowing loudly and licking his fur frenetically. He'd also started picking fights with their other cat, seemingly for no good reason. From what it sounded like when she described it, it seemed like he was a bit frustrated, maybe annoyed because of the winter fur shedding. My mother described it almost as if he was behaving like he was in heat. The thing is, he was neutered around the time he turned 1 year old. Either way, it didn't sound all that serious. He ate and drank as he should, and used the litter box. I suggested she call the vet if she was really worried but it sounded like either he'd gotten lice or was just annoyed at the shedding. This morning when my mother got up from bed she made sure he ate and drank and gave him his vitamins, which he ate without any fuss. In other words, he seemed no different from his usual self.

Which is why it came as such a shock when my father called me earlier today, his voice choked, to ask if I knew where mother was working today since he needed to talk to her. I asked what it was about and he said something horrible had happened.

Apparently he had walked into the living room during the early afternoon and found Lukas dead. I don't have any details as of yet and my mother asked me not to call today since she'd only be crying in the phone.

Lukas was a great cat. He was big, weighing close to 9-10 kg. A big black lump of attitude and cuddles. He had firm opinions, much like any cat, but could always be reasoned with, at least to a certain limit. He was my mother's cat for the most part. She was the one he clung to, always staying close to her whenever he wasn't out hunting whatever thing he believed he'd be able to catch. Many a night they spent with my mother brushing his fur while he was oozing out over her bedspread in a mass of perfectly relaxed cathood.

Despite his obvious favouritism of my mother (which might also be because I was usually the one doing the bad stuff, like forcing him to eat his anti-parasite pill or cutting his claws) he was still a very special cat to me as well. I was there when he was born. For the whole evening and a bit into the night I stayed by the box his mother was in when giving birth, and soothed her when she got agitated. I slept fitfully, always attentive to her every noise and movement. And then they were born, one black and one grey/white little ball of cuteness. I saw Lukas and his brother, Maximus, open their eyes, learn to walk steadily and shortly thereafter raise hell with their weary but strict mother keeping a sharp eye on them. And then as he grew up to become the huge but mellow bundle of purring fur that he was up until today.

I will sorely miss him, just like I am still missing the other cats we've loved and lost: Lukas' grandmother Mia, his grand uncle Kim, his older brothers Bilbo, White nose and Grey nose and his younger brother Rufus; my sister's cats, the sisters Tiger and Doris. All I can do now, though, is hope that wherever they are now, be it Heaven, the Rainbow bridge or just gone, they are not suffering and that they knew, during their always too short time here on earth, how much I and my family loved them.

While most of us walk into it with open eyes, knowing we will one day have to part from our beloved pets, nothing can ever dull that pain when the animals leave us behind to mourn them. No matter how well prepared one thinks one is, it still hurts like one's heart is being ripped in two.

My thoughts go out to my parents and the one cat that is left to wonder where his friend, his half-brother, has gone. And I will mourn on my own, with my own cats for support.

And when All Hallow's eve comes around this year, Lukas' candle will join the others burning in my home in remembrance of the persons, humans and pets alike, that have passed on. And I will cling to the hope that Lukas's will be the only candle joining the others this year.

Rest in Peace, big little Lukas!

We will miss you!

My horse keeps me sane

I'm just going to throw it out there. Today was a really shitty day. I woke up feeling kind of numb, neither happy nor sad or even slightly annoyed at the early hour. That's usually a good sign something's not right in my world. Anyone who knows me could tell you that if I'm not in the kind of mood where I'd bite someone's head off if they so much as glanced at me when I got up early in the morning, something is definitely off.

I think I managed to keep a fairly straight face at work. I kept up a fairly good tempo and even managed to sell. But as soon as I got home everything just kind of crashed down on me. Still feeling slightly numb, and extremely exhausted, I took what has become my routine nap. And when I woke up a few hours later, instead of feeling somewhat refreshed I felt like I just wanted to crawl into a dark corner. The thought of having to get up from bed and drive to the stables had me on the verge of tears. Still, I had to. My horse is my responsibility, one I've gladly chosen to take upon me. But there are days...

Anyhow, I got dressed, feeling choked up and tired, and drove the 20 minute drive to the stables. I got there, chatted a bit with the absolutely wonderful owner of the stable. I'm pretty sure she noticed something was off but understood enough not to push. Either way, I managed to keep it down. Then I went into the stable to clean out my horse's stall. My horse was already inside and apparently he, too, felt that I was not feeling at my best. He chose a slightly different route of handling it, though.

If he could he probably would've crawled into my lap. But since he weighs in at about 550 kg he probably figured it'd be counter-productive. So instead he pressed up really close to me and pressed his muzzle against my shoulder and just stood there, snoozing on me. That's when it all uncoiled within me. Thankfully the stable was empty of other people, only the horses were there to see (or rather hear) me sob into my horse's mane. And he just stood there, cuter than cute itself, somehow knowing that this was what I needed. Once he sensed that the worst had passed he turned into his usual mischievous self, demanding to be scratched and placing himself in between me and the wheelbarrow so I had to twist around him while cleaning. When the stable owner's daughter came back with her horse I felt collected enough to chat and smile again. And as I drove home I felt a lot lighter, more centred. I'm still feeling pretty down in the dumps but it's not as stifling as it was before I went there.

Today, and similar occurrences in the past when I've had rough times, really got me thinking. It's amazing how animals just seem to instinctively know exactly the how and when to behave a certain way in order to cheer their humans up. You can fool another human, you can pretend to be strong, and manage to hide so much. But, no matter how good you think you are at it, an animal always knows when life's been handing you lemons. And they know the perfect recipe for a tasty lemonade.

Animals give selflessly of themselves. Of course, I'm pretty sure they're subconsciously aware of the fact that they are more or less dependent on us humans. And most living beings know to keep the hand that feeds them, whether directly or indirectly, in a good mood. However, animals always seem to go the extra distance. They put themselves out there for us. They tolerate so many things that are otherwise foreign and strange to them, just because their human asks them to. And they are always there to lend their quiet, warm support when their human is feeling decidedly cold and heavy, and just needs a silent oasis to breathe in.

When animals give so much, why is it that there are still so many humans out there clinging to this medieval belief that animals are worth less than humans, are less "intelligent", and think that because of that us "intelligent" humans have the right to use, abuse and oppress the animals? What makes us humans so much better that we feel we have the right to treat animals as things, soulless items? It only takes a quick glance into the eye of a horse, or a cat, or a dog, or whatever animal you encounter (that have big enough eyes to look into) to realise that if there's one thing animals DO have, it's definitely a soul.

How on Earth can we call ourselves the most intelligent creature, just because we've invented a lot of stuff (that in actuality most often serves to destroy the very world we live in) and can speak in words? What's saying that the sounds and signals horses, for example, use to communicate aren't more advanced than a human word? Just because we don't understand their language on an "intelligent" level we decide that they're lower than us because they can't speak human language. But, come on. Animals may not speak in human language, they may not sit there and write multi-page essays on the world economy or whatever, but they sure as hell know what we're talking about when we speak. They understand us a lot better than we seem to even understand ourselves. And, let's face it, unlike human languages, animals speak more or less universal languages. A horse from the USA may be put together with a horse from the open plains of Mongolia and instead of getting caught up in which country, or race, is the better while talking in two different languages, the horses just simply go in there, look at each other, maybe scuffle a bit and sooner rather than later they've reached a perfect understanding. Can we humans claim to be able to do the same?

So what does all this say about humans and animals? Humans can speak in human language, and write on papers, but cannot in general understand the animal languages and all their facets. In fact, often humans can barely understand each other. Animals have their own languages, intricate, intrinsic and effective for what they need it for. They can read minuscule changes in stature, tone of voice and intonation, without getting caught up in regional differences. They understand human language, connecting it to the signals they can read, and adjust their behaviour accordingly without even missing a beat.

So, really, who are the truly intelligent beings in our world?

Recycled renewal

First of all, I won't lie to you when I warn you that there might be a slight flavour of bitterness in this post. Just consider yourself duly warned.

I feel like I often stumble upon the word "renewal" when I read employment ads, business descriptions and the likes. The word isn't always spelled out but there nonetheless, in between the lines. It's made me wonder. Being an unemployed journalist I often find myself reflecting over journalism in general, trends within the area and currents conditions on the employment market.

This is just my personal opinion but to me it feels like the word "renewal" has taken on a slightly different meaning than the word should have where journalism is concerned. Considering the difficulties for young, "green" journalists to land a steady job, or being noticed by the more or less institutionalised news desks in the first place, I can't help but feel sad. I've, on more than one occasion, half-jokingly said that journalists are the only ones who never truly retire. It seems to me that the older you are, the more attractive you'll get where media is concerned. I am fully aware that it often comes down to the whole experience and social connections/networking thing. When you're older you're more likely to have more connections to draw on for a story. However, since the young journalists are so seldom given the chance to get into the business to learn they are also inadvertently prohibited from creating those important connections. And in the end the established, "experienced" journalists more or less just does a side-step between the news desks, wildly heralded that they'll bring new ideas to their work place, while the new, fresh journalists stand outside, looking in and hoping against hope that they'd at least get paid for whatever freelance article they've managed to create.

Within established Swedish media "Renewal" seems to, disturbingly enough, have become a new synonym for "recycling". The established journalists are recycled or the news desks just cling on to their aging, "experienced" work force. The thing is, I often happen upon articles brimming with such a sense of blasé weariness, kind of like "Yeah. I wrote about that same thing, just with another company, last year. I can probably use the same style in the text today", it just makes me want to shake my head. There's no sense of urgency, desire for action or interest for new angles. It all just rolls on in a never-ending hamster wheel where the same old texts, wordings and angles are recycled over and over. Where's the "renewal" in that?

Which brings me to another pondering I've had in the dark hours of the night. During my studies in journalism we were once told that journalism was often considered a reflection of reality. And maybe it is although, looking at the articles published on the web or in established, printed media, I get the feeling that reality is more and more being reflected through a tinted glass. Once upon a time journalists were the nightmares haunting the minds of corrupt politicians and corporations all over the world. The journalists could, with one skilfully and timely placed wording, overthrow plans that had taken years to concoct. And the journalists thrived on that. The public knew where to turn in order to find out what was going on behind the polished doors of government buildings and corporate conference rooms. Lately, though, media seems to have been domesticated, tamed. Instead of pushing ahead, digging into archives, protocols and anonymous tips the journalists seem to spend more and more time reporting on the obvious. They seem too afraid (or too tired by the sick workload caused by "potentiating", forcing less people to do more work) of the powers that be, the government, the corporations practically owning the established news media of today, to actually dare to stick their chins out and write about what they're really seeing, or instinctively sensing.

On another note, a reflection can never be reality. I think we all know that already. If you're facing a mirror and raise your left hand, your brain tells you that the hand being raised by the reflection is also a left hand. However, had the reflection been another person instead, that left hand would've in all actuality have been their right hand. In order for it to be a true reflection you would have to stand with your back against the mirror and still somehow be reflected from the front. Otherwise it's merely a case of your brain supplying the answer where the mirror is messing with your perception. So what does this mean? Somehow I can't help but draw parallels to the philosophical tree in the forest. If a tree falls in the forest but no one's there to listen, does it still make a sound? If a mirror is reflecting something but no one is there to see it, or doesn't have the brain to supply the information of that skewed image, is it still reflecting reality?


And with that I'll end this rather fragmented ramble before my brain decides to fool me into thinking I'm seeing things I'm not. I'll leave you with a quote I found in one of the books I've read lately:

"[...]Even the clearest mirror reverses right to left" - from the book The Door Into Fire by author Diane Duane

Boys (and girls) be ambitious?

I was getting ready to go to the stables this evening when all of a sudden I was struck by the sudden thought:
"What have I done with my life?"
And then, as I was driving to the stables, I was overcome with a sense of surreality. To realise that I am 25 years old and wondering what I've done with my life... What the heck?!

I am sometimes overcome with a feeling of restless impatience, as if I should be somewhere I'm not. And the reason I'm not where I should be is because I haven't done what I should've done earlier. I have missed opportunities, made wrong turns and so on. But at the same time I can't help but feel how impossibly stupid it is to think like that. If you ask my family and friends they'd tell you that I have always seemed to know what I want to do and where I'm headed. Looking back at old diaries and the likes I sometimes laugh at how straight a line my life has been. Ever since early childhood I liked to write and draw. At age 7 I wrote in my diary that I wanted to be a journalist. Today I am a journalist, or at least I have gotten the education of one even though I currently am not employed as one. I have never flitted about, trying things out, like many others seem to have done. I've kept a red thread throughout my life, with the occasional twirl. I might not have thought it at the time but everything I've done in the past seems to somehow have led me up to this place where I'm at now. I should be happy and satisfied. I've obviously managed to find out what I want to do and gone on to find ways to get there, without even realising it myself. And yet I feel like I should be somewhere else, even though I have no idea where or why I should be at that place. Or why I should feel like I've already missed my chances despite being only 25 years old.

The thing is, however, that I sometimes get this feeling that the society at large expects you to be well into your life and career by this age. You should already have working experience (forget about getting a job if you don't have it... even though you can't get experience until you get a job) and have started thinking ahead several steps. You should be hungry, ambitious and always looking ahead for the next big step.

I'm not a go-getter. I really am not. Which makes my chosen career as a journalist kind of tricky since nowadays the only jobs within journalism seem to be freelance gigs, chasing the news with a magnifying glass and a lasso. I am not a chaser in that regard. I do not lie awake at night, pondering and analysing the goings-on around me. I do not often look around me and wonder how I can find a newsworthy angle on the copious amounts of road construction going on in my town right now. I have no ambitions to unmask corrupt politicians, unravel the wicked plans of major corporations to fool the people or even catch a big name doing something they shouldn't be doing. I do not wish to be in the middle of the action at the battlefields around the world. I am not aiming to change the world. If one person could do it, it would've already been well under way (or that is my opinion at least).

My ambitions are modest to say the least. I am happy as long as I have a steady income which enables me to comfortably pay my bills, eat and make sure my animals get whatsoever they may need. If I like my job... all the better. It's not a requirement at this point, however. I'm game as long as I at least can feel I can do my job, earn my pay and not have to worry each day whether I'll have money to pay my rent once next month comes a-knockin' on my door with knuckle dusters. My dream job as a journalist hasn't got a thing to do with "The BIG SCOOP". I want to be the journalist that comes into the office every day, checks my mail and then goes out to do an article on the city council meeting or the neighbourhood festival that day. I want to write about the everyday news, about what's going on around me, in the community I live in. And at the end of the day I want to go home and feel like I did the best I could today to give the people I see on the streets around me something to talk about in between coming home from work and going to bed. Or over breakfast. I want to be the kind of journalist that makes people think: "Oh, I didn't know we had something like that just around the corner", "Oh my, did our mayor really think it would be a good idea to suggest that at the meeting yesterday?" or "How about we go out on Saturday and check out that park they recently opened downtown?". I'll gladly let others chase down the big news and stay in my little corner of the world writing about the news that, on a global (or maybe even national scale), are just drops of water in the sea.

The problem is, there doesn't seem to be any call for such journalists. If you're not constantly on the move, searching and chasing, you're not ambitious enough.

Fine. I'm not ambitious, we've already established that. But isn't that a good thing?

At least I won't be switching jobs every third month. I won't go chasing the better job, the higher pay (that's not to say I wouldn't like having a nice, fat salary but it's not a complete must). If I find a steady job where I can relax and be myself I will stay loyal, I will stay steady and do my best within the frame for that job. Sure, I may or may not come with the occasional suggestion for eventual improvements but I will be happy as long as I can feel safe in my job, feel like I can do it well enough and receive an occasional pat on the back. I would love to be the inventory employee, the one who's always there, steady and reliable but maybe not all that exciting all the time. Why isn't there any employers out there who seem to know how to appreciate the potential for firm loyalty and steadfastness?

The title for this post, by the way, is a quote from one William S. Clark who managed to do a lot in his life. It is said that the quote came about as Clark took his farewells of his students and co-workers at the Sapporo Agricultural College (nowadays called Hokkaido University) in Japan. The reason I chose that title (and added the "girls" part since he'd apparently only addressed males) was because I can't help but wonder why there seem to be such an obsession with ambition. Ambition is good, don't get me wrong. But there are more kinds of ambition than the "go-getter", constantly looking for the next big thing/change the world-type. I feel like we should remember and appreciate that potential for diversity.

Musical musings

There's been a lot of talk about the re-formation of the old boy band Take That on the radio lately. As I usually listen to the radio while doing the chores in the stable I can't help but hear and make some personal reflections over it.

I find this whole boy-/girl band phenomena quite fascinating. Most fascinating of all in my opinion is how people can actually tell the bands apart. To me, they all seem to be same same, without any difference, other than maybe their accents.

Firstly, they're all built up around the same sort of line-up. There's always a "cute pretty-boy"; a "sensitive, poetically inclined guy with slightly brooding eyes"; a "hip/cool guy with street attitude"; a "bad boy" and then most often a fifth member that is cast in various other roles but seldom especially noticeable.
Backstreet boys is, to me, a glaringly obvious example of these roles. They had five members when they first began. There was Nick, the "cute pretty-boy"; Brian, the "sensitive, poetically inclined guy"; A.J, the "cool guy", Kevin, the "bad boy" and Howie (whom I really never got a hang of, not being that into the band more than to note these stereotypical roles). Looking at pics today I can't help but wonder if he was cast in the role as the "open-minded, sweet friend".

Secondly, the bands usually deal with the same type of lyrics about love, pain, romance and various other, to me quite sappy, subjects. And all of them seem to have eaten chalk to get those soft, sweet voices supposed to caress the ears of the adoring audience. Personally I've always felt sleepy when hearing it, unless I'm busy cringing over the complete lack of depth and originality in their lyrics. Or, for that matter, the paradox of hearing the "bad boy" sing like that. While he may look the part, the part doesn't fit into the music they sing.

And thirdly, they always do those, yet again in my opinion, silly little choreographed dances, all the while smiling soulfully/wickedly/sweetly and so on according to their roles and what they're singing at the time. I do admit that I have sometimes felt impressed by their stamina and agility while doing those choreographies, but since the steps are so similar between bands I actually haven't paid enough attention to the actual techniques.

To return to the first part of this post, Take That was a bit before my time, but not that much before it (Boyzone and later Backstreet Boys were the big boy bands during my teenage years). Still, I've heard enough of Take That's early works to be able to discern some patterns. I think that what they had going for them was, as one of the main things, the rather distinctive voice of Robbie Williams. I'm not surprised he's managed to do so well on his own. Other than that they all had the looks "suitable" for a boy band, attracting teenage girls of most types. However, looking at their pictures today, after the re-formation, I just have to raise the question... Can they still be considered a boy band? They're far from pretty any longer, a few of them could be what is politely called "distinguished" and, granted, Robbie Williams seems to have either been graced by good genes or plastic surgery (I don't know enough to say which although I suspect a little bit of both), but overall there's no getting around it. They're middle aged men trying to sing like they did xx years ago. Once again, what they have going for them is Robbie Williams's voice. Listening to their new release "The Flood" however makes it glaringly obvious to me that whatever they once were as a band, Robbie Williams has grown too large for them. Meaning that while one almost immediately recognises Williams's voice, the others feel more like background noise, indistinguishable from each other and without any specific trait to mark one from the other. So, rather than the re-formed Take That, it feels like it's Robbie Williams and his back-up crew. I might be overly harsh and some might argue that I'm way off my rocker and out of line for saying it, but that's what it feels like. So once again I raise a question, if a once popular boy band re-form after xx amount of years doing their own stuff separate from each other, what genre would they then belong to? And why do it? Boy bands have a best before date nowadays. Just like so much of the music today.

Which brings me to my second reflection:
I once got into a discussion with my teacher about music. I said that I didn't think there had been any actually good music released in the western market since 1995. I still mostly stand by that opinion, even though I've since had to admit there are some exceptions to the general rule (the song Hero of War by Rise Against being a most obvious such exception to me, thanks to its very interesting lyrics and the simple music supporting it).

The thing is, I generally feel that with the music of (mainly) the 60's and 70's the artists had a cause. They often used music to raise the overall awareness of what went on in the world. Issues like war, injustice, bigotry and so on came alive in the songs and together, the song and the meaning behind it, made a whole. And since the artists really believed in what they sang the songs have an impact even today, even if some of the issues might not be very topical of today's society.

If I was to put a picture or metaphor to the different decades of music I'd say that the 60's and 70's were all about fire and glam. Fiery passion, beliefs and the hope to make a difference. Or glitter, glamour and sass.
The music of the 80's and 90's feels a little bit dirty, gritty like the aftermath of the heated glamour-party of their predecessors. Like a sequinned dress lying forgotten on the dance floor among deflated balloons and leftover food, with a bottle of alcohol next to it.
The music of the late 90's to the present feels, to me, like plastic, like Tupperware. Practical, useful for the moment but easily discarded and forgotten. Mass-produced music with recycled or nonsensical lyrics, lacking most of any real content or feeling, has become mainstream and a song's worth seems to be judged by how often it is played on the radio in a day, never mind the fact that the song doesn't sound much different from any other song that day. Meticulously manufactured, uniform music is practically flooding the Western world with the aroma of American Idol (and its' spin-offs). If music is supposed to reflect the people and the contemporary society... what does it say about us that the hit lists are topped by these recycled, easy-listening kind of songs?

I should've been born before technology

It's a bit of a standing joke within my family that I am pure death on technology. I barely have to touch my technological stuff (let alone actually turn it on and work on it) before it crashes, breaks, go bonkers or just plain annoys the hell out of me. And it always happens when I have the least financial abilities to correct it. Just a small list:

- I've bought 2 laptops within 2 years (the first one my mother bought and it held for a few years before the lid cracked, the second one met partial death by red wine and the third one is probably trying to find the most inopportune moment to crash any day now)
- I've reformatted them umpteen+ times,
- I've gotten close to getting on first-name basis with the support technicians at at least two different companies (I suspect I was close to being invited to their Christmas dinner too)
- I've bought in total 4 new cellphones in 6 years (one met death by eager puppy + very wet brook, one had a shitty battery in plastic casing and the clasp broke so the battery was loose, one just... went bonkers and started fucking things up + the keyboard became loose at least once a year. I'm just waiting for my new one to fuck things up)

Anyway, the reason I'm writing this right now is because I'm quite fed up. Today my external hdd (which I had lots of my favourite things on) decided not to boot up at all. I checked around, cold and clammy, worried that it was the hdd itself that had crashed. Turns out it seems to be the AC adapter, the green light on it just blinks, regardless of the type of power outlet I connect it to. Now, this might sound like a pretty easy problem to fix... if the HDD hadn't been 2+-3 years old and the AC adapter for it isn't common to find in electronics stores nowadays. The places I've found what seems to be a suitable replacement at lists the price at 250-400 SEK (apx. $34-$54). This might not sound like such a large sum in the bigger picture... unless you've got bills that takes over 75% of your total income and still want to buy food for both yourself and your (kidney sick) animals. Either way, I've got no choice in the long run. I'll have to live on noodles and oatmeal for a while. Can't skimp out on the cats food.

Anyway, as if that wasn't enough... my desk lamp, which has got these ridiculously small, strong lamps (not LED), decided to call it quits too. And of course I've used up all the spare lamps I bought when my economy was bit more decent.

So, in short... Tomorrow I need to go out and spend money I'd rather not spend because technology (I'd rather not bother with but have no choice but to bother with) fucked up again.

This joke about me and technology... it's so painfully true it's not even funny.