Sigg3’s Sunday service here to bring you the latest from the hungovered front.
Man, it was a strange night last night! I had been invited to an old friend, an ex-colleague, who was having a party to consecrate his new appartment. I knew no one there, so I was pretty much up for anything, and all I had to do was sit back and wait for the fullness of wine, blood of Christ, to do its tricks. It is no secret that I can be somewhat of a social loser at parties, but after a few hours it usually transcends to a blend of smiles, laughter and security. According to this friend I visited, I’ve got philosophy to blame. I couldn’t disagree more.
So, there I was along with all these positive people, chicks getting high on homemade wine, guys smoking bongs on the bedroom and some of us trying to play some serious texas hold’em poker. They had some funky music too. There was no destruction, though. No bleeding edge reality pushed forward by the mishap unable to keep his wits together. No anger. Nothing.
"So this is what they do west-side…" I thought to myself. Baffled at how people perceive themselves, how they openly lie to their hearts.. No matter how cynical you become, it’s never enough to keep up. It just didn’t work for me.
I didn’t get off though, so at half past one in the morning I walked to the heart of the city – where I belong. You should’ve seen it. The appartment building of my friend was a twenty minute walk from Oslo centrum, but you could see the SAS hotel through the falling driplet rain shimmering like falling diamonds in the headlights of cabs passing by. And there’s always this glow above sin city, as if virtue and vice is on fire in the nightly cold. I love this city. Then I got there. Had a couple of beers at Choice and got in talk with this girl who had just gotten out of a six month depression. I could tell, she was eerily high on tranquilizers. Go happiness!
We were sitting there and I was slowly falling in love with her brown eyes, her friendly being and somewhat interesting conversation. By the time the managers at Choice had put on Riders of the Storm by the Doors I realized something was very wrong though. I had the sneaking feeling I can imagine rabbits do when they’re reaching for that tempting looking carrot while something in their minds go: watch the snare!
I was being set up!
In came a third player, a nervous-looking user, but he was friendly enough and seemed to know this particular girl and her scheme pretty well. I have no idea whether he was her boyfriend, pimp or dealer, but there was something going on there I couldn’t grasp. And she wouldn’t let me pull the movie-arm trick, so I settled with the conversation. She told me I was smart. After a long discussion I had to confront myself with the possibility that she was right. But I felt that this smartness wasn’t really playing on my team.
Closing time she asked me whether I wanted to go to a nachspiel. It cost a houndred crowners to get in. It was a special kind of nachspeil, she said. "Wouldn’t that be an interesting project?" she teased with a glimmer of death in her eye. By now I was all too suspicious and stated the fact that I was entirely broke, but that I – in another world – would’ve joined her without thinking.
This morning I woke up to the realization that they could’ve been up to all sorts of evil stuff. It didn’t make sense that they just wanted to rob me, as I downed the one beer after the other. And she wasn’t interested in sex either. It could’ve been the local heroin-conglomerate reaching out for new customers. Or worse. A snuff-film production. I have no idea, but it really nurtures my fantasies. They were probably vampires looking for young blood.
So she and this other shaking-looking fella was off and I was out there in the cold with a group of boys from the west side. This kid wanted trouble, calling me a homosexual. I have nothing against homosexuals, but where I come from that’s a fatal insult. I stayed cool, giving him the evil eye, and probably looking ridiculous.
He was up front trying to pick a fight. I looked down at his fist. He was pulling the old key-trick. I’m not stupid. Does it look like I want my face slashed open? But I was still smiling, in a very serious manner, and simply stated that we should go one on one without his army backing him up some day. And that he should show some effin’ respect nevertheless.
I’m not going to wind up in the hospital because a west-side kid airs his frustration.
But I’d really like to send him to the hospital.
That’s bleeding fucking reality to you.
Pissed off I reached home, produced a glass of water and sat down in my black leather chair with Lou Reed’s Future Farmers of America playing loud on the stereo. "I could crush them in my -, I could crush them in my -, I could crush them in my fist!" Heh. That’s the sort of satisfaction I got before the lights turned out and I ventured to the realm of psychosis and surrealism. Sleep, that is. And if all goes as the story goes, I’ll be back in a week or so for another smashed weekend.