God, I just returned from an awfully big lunch. I always eat more when I’m watching The Sopranos. And cuss. First I had the fish, as you do, and I wanted some salmon and eggs, and a slice of bread with sausages. But then the eggs were so runny that I needed more bread. Alas, you can see where this is going. I’m in bad need of a siesta.
Talking of fiesta, though.
Friday I ran home early to assist one of the girls moving out, because I’m such an amiable guy. And I wanted to configure my latest big buy, the 12" Apple iBook, viz. add some writing and chat programs. Just a bit after dinner I was called up by Kornelius and a mate, who invited me over for beer not taking no for an answer. Since they didn’t take no for an answer I said ‘sure’, and put my shirt and some deoderant on. We were chatting about music and literature, and having some beer, until we finally arrived at the truth of the matter; either we’d have to get out on town or go our separate ways. We put Captain Beefheart on the stereo to let the rhymes dictate our immediate future. The forecast told of rain but the evening seemed to turn into a tropical hot dog night, so my friend borrowed me a leather jacket from the seventies, and fit for fight we danced to the bass tracks booming from Oslo’s one thousand night clubs as we entered the streets.
A little whif of rain accompanied us to the first hangout, a café on the East side, where we had a beer before heading further into the metropolitan bowels in the center of town.
Next we went to a hard rock place. The three of us have been expelled from one of the regular places due to a small misunderstanding, and we were all in want of something fresh and exciting. Whenever I go to one of these hard rock places I am reminded of the uncertainties from High School. 
"Lo and behold! I wear black because the world doesn’t understand me, and I am too excellent to explain anything, let alone understand it. I am also in bad need of a new self-esteem, although I’ll spell it with my fists." You can’t take it seriously. They are supposed to have grown up by now, to have learned a few things from their experiences, so if they want to stay the hurt teenager then so be it. They are like goths without self-irony. Emo, emo, emo.
But the chicks seem to dig it.
We soon figured that this wasn’t a staying place. But we also knew that most places would be closing in a matter of hours. Someone had to make an executive decision, and while the other two were in the men’s room, I pondered on checking out the strip joint nearby. I hadn’t been there for over a year, and it was about time to check out the new faces. And the old ones. When the war council returned, I pieced out the plan for my generals. The assembly voted unanimously in favor of the art of war. Like Sun Tzu said: «The general that hearkens to my counsel and acts upon it, will conquer: let such a one be retained in command!»
Horses saddled and pockets full, we entered the most valuable strip joint in Oslo an hour before closing time. We sat mostly by ourselves talking, checking out the shows, while I received many winks and hello’s from the past. It didn’t take long for a new face under the assumed name Lala to sneak into the camp and seize a bottle of wine. Rather a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy. At this point my spoken language was getting pretty incomprehensible, so the girl gracefully declined my offer to teach her some English verbs. But the text-book tactics of split & conquer had taken its toll on our travel party, making us weak to the pleasures of men. Time went by like a cloud across the moon, and soon many others had joined the home of the world weary poseurs.
Until I needed a cigarette.
Lala insisted that I sit, and she would take care of it.
Sitting is what I do best, I insisted. The time was nigh for a nachspiel.
The regulars left and only VIPs persisted. Ashtrays were handed out, bottles of wine in buckets of ice, and the five-six girls who wanted to stay with us. I seem to remember Lala leaving, but there were some old friends and some new ones, and plenty of wine to go around. Champagne for my real friends and real pain for my sham friends! The owner closed the shop down and left us to our own devices. Well, first his side-kick gave me a lift to the nearest ATM to withdraw some cash. I think recent lawsuits require them to accept cash only after dark. It has nothing to do with taxes though, since in Norway stripping is art! I didn’t mind the short detour. After all, this web page is five years old next Friday! And how many times does that happen in a website’s life? We all saluted the sigg3.net visitors, all of you, before we hit the stage to cranked up hard pop.
The world’s a stage and each must play his part. Some parts with less clothes on than others. Believe me when I tell you ’twas a scene that any man would hardly forget. Shit, I still have bruises from that stripping pole. It’s a lot harder than it looks. Pictures were taken, and hopefully lost. It was a party to be reckoned with, only to be surpassed by the 10th anniversary another five years from now. Cheers!