My Cool Cousin Ben
[Post #1 Friday november 14th 2008, Mørkved]
Good news today. The blog is aparently dead. (Jippie-kaye bloggosphere). I have been eagerly waiting for this day since blogging became cool around the turn of the century; cuz it seems I'm one of those pretentious fucks who will not (or can not) do whatever it is most people think is cool at any particular time. Some phobia against the normality choking the life out of this planet I guess.
The blog, much like the computergame, is an un(der)developed genre: Im probably not one of those guys who who will write Nobel prize-blogs; but surely I can help spread the message of artistic ambition and human decency without beeing some sort of genius?
I'm part to that generation whom grew up in a time when there was a very real threath of a nuclear ragnarokk, when pollution meant dead trees and not the end is fucking nigh, when everybody hated the germans and not the muslims, and shops where closed on saturdays.
Im also part to the generation that grows up today in ways my elders never can understand. I was no more than 5 years of age the first time I played a consolegame. My father, my mother, my brother and myself where vacationing in Lofoten at my grandmothers house (where my mother grew up); and my cousin Ben who was 6 brougth his pong game. A few years later Ben was part of the Amiga demo-scene (and I was doing the pen&paper roleplaying-thing, the equivalent of modernWOW, I guess.)
As a kid Ben always did the ninja-thing. By virtue of beeing my elder, Ben kicked my ass (ninjastyle) a few times. My hippie parents never could understand why a kid brougth up as a pacifist was so interested in weapons and war. They acctualy felt they had failed as parents although it seems clear to me in retrospect that the cold war, the heavily covered Iran/Irak-war and Bens older brother Peter would have had some influence on an impressionable child mind.
Peter was a freak. He molded tin-soliders and miniature painted them. He breakdanced and was politicaly concervative. He was interested in computers and jointed the army. And now hes running some sort of computerbusines, married to a sweet nurse and has three children. Peter, as older brothers do, tried out his kung fu on Ben who tested his kung fu on me, who tested my kung fu on my youger brother; who was saved by Jesus and is a lawyer with a sligthly flippio wife studying psycology and two way cool kids.
Ben studied music in highschool, seventeen years age he stole a married woman, twice his age, with three children from a man who loved her well. He moved to Oxford, studied digital animation and media science for a few years, got a child, got divorced, gave up animation, lived on the street for a time, migth or migth not have lost his mind, and in the end he moved back home to the islands where he has been living on a small government pension for the last few years.
He fixes peoples computers. Usually for free. He lives in the house of his grandparents, above the goldsmith-shop of his father. He listens attentivly to Krishnamurti. He games. Sometimes he goes out to the local pub across the street in the center of the pictouresque Lofoten town. I see local women stare at him with hungry eyes. Which is a bit strange, cuz he is no classic or modern beauty. A short man in the beginning of his thirties, balding hair which is neigther long nor short, usually unshaved but never with a beard. He uses a lot of womens clothing without becoming some sort of ladyboy; oft stating that I like to play with the feminine and masculine. He feels that the embracing of one or the other on the path to darkness is.
Every second or third weekend his daugther comes to visit. She is at beautifull inteligent and free child on the treshold of becoming a (very young) woman. Then, atleast, they have family dinners at his mothers. I'be been to a few of them over the years and they are nice. Nice food, quite a few glasses of wine, jokes, stories, discusions, a lot of laugther and emotion. It is his home city and he still has some very good childhood friends. The loyal kind. He hangs out with the students from the local art and film school.
My cousin is a fanboy of coffieflavored-coffie and he usually drinks enough of the stuff to start talkig incoherently; then he goes home and ponders upon whatever fancy migth take him. He has, for a man not overly manly, an unusual knack for finding masculine arenas. In a town of 2-3 thousand he has found a morningclub in a small coffieshop open from 6-7 til 9 in the morning where men drink black coffie and roll sigarettes while they gossip about manly things like they where a womens circle. Sunday afternoons he does the same with his father and the local elite.
I've always said that my cousin is cool, but I never realized how cool he acctually is until quite recently. He had picked up a stray for a few days; a former artschoolgirl who had kicked a serious drughabit by going to live with her alcoholic failed artist insane mother with four cats in a singe room appartment. Now she was no longer into serious drugs; but was completly alcoholic and deep into doctordrugs that could take the edge off of anything. And she was alowed by herself and Ben to indulge in ganja. To me ganja is the scientific and logic proof that god loves us. To the stray; ganja's just another way to take the edge of things, an undisputable proof that god loves strays.
The girl had some strange pride in her drug-ways and kept dissin' me as an amateur who did'nt know shit about shit since, in her world, the only way to reach rock bottom is heroin. I am not perfect and the ganja-prophet in me reacted with pride. We smoked til she could not longer move. I could not feel my body and all signs of the false ganja death they've dubbed the bad trip was there. I laughed and smoked the rest of our ganja while she could not, however she might try, partake; and then, to prove that she knew nothing of ganja I rolled her a sigarette while she kept trying to put the tobacco in the paper.
We where smoking our handrolled sigarettes and drinking fruitjuice when Ben walked into the room in nothing but a silk nigthrobe. He had the light from the hallway in his back, his hands in the large robe-pockets and he said goodnigth to us and wished us a nice evening. While I blessed him and prayed that he would have good dreams it struck me that he looked and played like some character from a Tarantino movie, or something, and in hindsight some version of words from the movie True Romance ring through my mind: You're so cool, you're so cool, you're my cool cousin Ben.
I am under no illusions as to how easy it is to perceive me as, if not a gangster, a small time hood. My way of presenting my self with clotes, hairstyle and jewelery is a factor. I am not that big, but my 100kg's make me big enough to be a badass. Maybe there is something in my eyes. Who knows.
It might even be argued that I am a hood, or even gangster. I have been twice to jail. I enjoy the holy ganja both for recreational and medical purposes, and thus break the law – ever so slightly on a regular basis even if I am sober most of my days.
Goodbye dinner.
Beeing a friendly sort of guy; having very little fear due to my condition; having few prejustises due to my experiences; living by the code of honour some call Omerta – the oath of silence: I have gained one or two friends who at one time or another have been involved in some sort of criminal activity. And while I tend to respect the law, in many ways more than most, I never stop anyone from doing anything criminal unless it is dangerous or degrading.
Reading Camus' The Plague in the searing sun. The first bus to Oslo was full so we had to wait 2-3 hours for the next one.
Consorting with criminals and doing crime makes a hood, a gangster, maybe even a career criminal. Aparantly it doesnt matter that the only crime I ever commit these days is bying 5 grams of hashjish for the weekend, and that my involvement with criminal elements is a critical part of the process of obtaining the illegal substance.
In Norway Cocio cost more than 20 kroners, in Sweden less than 10. Which is like the magic economic border, cuz I always buy it in Sweden and never in Norway. Tastes good in the sun.
Some of these things a customs official can see. Others can be guessed at if you are good. Taking the bus from Malmö to Oslo I was half expecting to get stopped by customs since I usually am (stopped), and the only precaution I took was taking my Christiania-cap off. No point begging for it, you know. At the stop in Göterborg we noticed two junkies on our bus, and with that we felt somewhat assured we wouldnt get stopped. But ofcourse we were.
I made two mistakes (except not lying which easily could have been a third mistake, that most likly would have earned me an assfisting/rectal drugsearch). While one of them was checking the guy in front of us I was watching the procedure, he noticed and thus the first rule was broken. Always ignore them unless they are speaking directly to you. Talking to me I saw him looking at my jewelery before asking where Id been, and thus the second rule was broken. Never wear anything that sticks out – escpecially caps, gold or silver chains, hoodies et cetera. When he first started asking us where we'd been I knew it was game over. Malmö and Lodz are both suspicious towns in their minds. No great tourist attractions and a lot of drugs and crime. He took our IDs, and even though he told us he'd be back we just started packing.
On the norwegian customs-station on Svinesund. Maps of Norway and Sweden shaped like butterflies.
It amazes me that these guys can find my record every time, but cannot find the reports on the 10 other failed searches they've had on me. What seems to be a small army of them search us and our bags for 2 hours. Checking everything but our asses and her pussy, opening the sealings on teabags (effectivly spoling the tea) et cetera. The junkies arent checked. Neighter are the many people of asian and african decent who doesnt have to show as much as a passport. Good Job fellas!
As an ex-inmate I know that the only thing I will earn from protesting is an assfuck. So I smile, say nice and funny things. Like an old whore beeing raped one more time. The inconvenience of beeing 3½ hours late and loosing a evening with my mate Sh0 in Oslo, we don't meet so often, is one thing. The indignity and inherent stupidity of it, another.
I guess its just life in what I have dubbed 'Facist Utopia', but really, if this is their strategy on figthing drugs it is no wonder they fail.
We were sitting in different cells, but I could hear her singing. Beautiful accustics.
Why would I smuggle amfetamines from Poland or weed from Denmark on a bus, with my wife!? I realize some people are that stupid, but people that stupid are gonna get caugth anyway – and they never smuggle much. There are hundreds of illegal bordercrossings between Sweden and Norway, and anyone bigtime would use any one of these. And even if they did cross over Svinesund (like we did), the largest bordercrossing between the two countries, they most certainly would drive a car or a motorcycle. If you take the bus, not only is it uncomfortable, but you will get stopped 3/5 times. While your odds are amazing in a car as long as you dont match their profile (or already have been tagged).
Worst of all though is the fact that everytime they put me in that cell I go into inmate-mode which is really fucking unpleasant. I hide my pride somewhere they cannot touch it; but the prize of hiding your soul is always that nagging feeling of unreality that follows you in days and weeks to come. And I hate the way this undiginified shit makes my wife hurt. Fuck you guys, she is a civillian and she should be able to marry me without getting harassed on the border every time we cross it.
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