PIGSVILLE - THE FOUL FLAVOUR

Ignoramus that I am, the graffiti tags, to me, often are like hieroglyphs. Or any other kind of glyphs: Egyptian or cosmic. When I walk around, I notice new tags with a kind of awed atta chment. Mystic markings, mayhap crude artist trademarks as often as poignant visual statements, saying: here am I. I do things. I can do this. I dare to do this. I put my mark on the world because I can. This is my expression.
Now, the city of Lund – which is where I reside – has declared a Zero Tolerance graffiti policy. Sometime early in 1999 the police department (which oddly enough has decided to use the american style moniker LPD, at least interdepartmental ly) announced that it had "busted" seven culprits, responsible for damages worth several 100 K Swedish crowns per annum. Yeah fucking right.

Three weeks ago, on my way from having set up an interview with The Make-Up (option- {or right-} click to get the interview - unedited - as mpeg layer 3. It's about 18 Megs, but you get to hear me chatting to lead singer Ian Svenonius. What a novelty gabfest!;), I witnessed yet another bust. Two po-lice officers having 4 kids, approximately 15-16, up against the cop car. One laid prone over the h ood, handcuffed and all, while the officers searched them and their Eastpaks. Sho' nuff, a few spray cans clanked down on the asphalt. The police went on to call for backup. Fuck me gently with Titanic, but I thought they were there to protect the innocen t or something, not fooling around, playing yankee coppers, flashing their lights. Phooey!

Yugoslavia, then? Still a messed up mess. No one knows what to say, do or think. Recently, I read a text which tried to justify the "ethnic cleansing" with the "fact" that many Albanians act the mafia act, families sticking together, manufacturing and distributing heroin en masse. Like killing the "skunk" dealers in Holland, for crissakes. I mean, crikey!
Still, it’s a horrid situation and one of the "best" waged info wars so far. But let me tell you one thing: massive carped bombings are not known for its good effects. During the Vietnam war, the infamous "Rolling Thunder" b ombings produced nothing but several dead and a pissed off nation of native warriors with great incentive. Just a thought.
Spend money that you could use on your own poor, disabled, hurt, kicked and spat upon… go ahead, stupid svengali president. Flex that military cock, m'laddo. Oughta impress the fuck out of the ladies and Colonel Kernels of the world both. No mo re Mister Wimp.
I think, in my own stupidity, that ground troops from more countries should have been employed, maybe even with conventional force. Just because we care, you know. Just because we care.

This weekend, my old friend Malcolm and my newer friend, Catta, came to visit me, spending two nights. They be a couple, since a year back, them two. Malcolm lives in Paris, working at the World Bank. He was here in Sweden for World Ba nk President Wolfensohn's visit. Old Boris Yeltsin called Malcolm’s mobile phone. That was pretty impressive, I thought. Or weird, rather.
We ate at my place on Friday, drinking some champagne – well, you know what it's like in France – , some red wine, some white wine, some Ricard. I cooked ginger glazed salmon. We went out for a slow drink and then went back to my apartment and crashed. Next day, we had breakfast at our old favourite place for eating good and cheap, Alfredo’s Pasta. Had a cuppa, so much tastier than the Paris variant. French coffee ain’t very good. Italian coffee rules supreme. Malcolm and Catta w ent to neighbouring town Malmö for a christening ceremony of sorts. The girl, adopted from the Hunan province, I believe, was named Nora Lee after Woody Guthrie’s spouse.
Then Malcolm and Catta came back from Malmö, bringing my friends Alex, Tobbe, Camilla & Petter. Petter was cooking supreme on my Hammond, taking requests for tunes as lovely as Lambert Walk, the theme from Star Wars and AC/DC' s humdinger of a song, TNT. We had some wine and spirits too, I reckon. I didn’t come home until 5 AM. It was sad to see Malcolm and Catta leave. I guess I gotta go to Paris & Stockholm to visit them.

What else is new? Last weekend my friend Core, Martin Fredrikson, opened his exhibition at Galerie Leger. A success, I guess. Core is a graffiti artist, an old school boy. We all got pretty darn drunk on beer and Calvados, and Alex ended up puking on Petter's jacket. Oh well. It was fun, the whole shindig. I've never frottated with the art couterie before. There where the older stately homos of Malmö, drunken ladies spilling wine, graffiti kids paying respect, representing, and the usual suspects.

We were supposed to go to a new underground-ish jungle slash d'n'b club called Super Sharp Shooter, featuring Moonbass and other stalwarts of that scene. Most of my friends did, but me, Frans a nd Core ended up chatting to some girls. We took a cab back to the girls' place, and after several hours of chit-chat, featuring me as The Sole Drinker, knocking back half a litre or so, I finally made a pathetic display of the emotional I. Booze talk. Mo stly true, I guess, but I made up some sexual exploits/proclivities, I guess to impress the only girl awake. Frans went to sleep in one girl's bed, ever the sexual strategist. Well, after a while, 8 AM, if my memory serves me, we went to sleep. I woke up about 11 AM, since there was some serious hanky panky going on next to me. Bugger this! Dam me up before you go go, to misquote them pesky rascals Wham!. Core had already left, and I stumbled over to Alex's apartment, fit as a fiddle, dead as a doornail, un-fucked, un-kissed. God damn it all to Sheol! Hehe.

And Oh! If anyone reads this, let me know in some way. Am I just a moaning unlucky bastard waxing on waxing of waxing shit waxing supreme? Or whatevah? Mail mart in@sunnerdahl.org and make a lad happy.

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