DISNEYLAND (BY HANS)
1 month ago
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Sunday, May 24, 2009
The News. Long Post...3 seconds on Wells!
It's taken me too long to write something here about my recent experiences abroad. I apologize to you, dear reader, for this absence.
I'm traveling. I've traveled before; over the past ten years or so I've been fortunate enough to have spent time in Spain, France, Germany, the UK, Mexico, Jamaica, Canada, Peru, Brazil, Argentina, Uruguay, Sweden, Finland, and Russia. Some places were "safer" than others, sure, but I've always felt OK about my circumstances. Obviously, it helps that I'm a male (and not necessarily a typical-looking American one at that), have now accrued enough traveling experience to, hopefully, be aware enough of where I am and how I present myself to parts and people unknown, have mostly lived with locals everywhere I've been, and, at least in Spanish-speaking countries, speak the language. All that said, this editorial/fright piece in the May, 30th, edition of the New York Times entitled "Cume Laude in Evading Bandits" (nice title, dickhead) by Nicolas D. Kristof has me incensed! Read it for yourself. It's short and not sweet and will surely scare young people (and their parents) away from traveling, as it offers such sagacious advice to would-be travelers as the following discriminating nugget: "14. If terrorists finger you, break out singing “O Canada”!" Again, I realize that not all parts of the world are safe, that traveling abroad, especially alone, can be dangerous, and that traveling as a cultural and personal practice is unfortunately, not for everyone (I'm not always so sure I'm made for it myself...), but Americans of all ages need to see the world in order to avoid the personal and cultural solipsisms and solar myths that plague our country and add to the general culture of fear that runs rampant o'er the ramparts.
For a different take on travel, I recommend this interview with Rick Steves from salon.com from a few months back. Who knew this dude was so hip?
***
I spun 45s with a friend named Javi Bayo this past Friday night here in Madrid at a place called Sala Juglar. It was cool to be able to DJ in Europe, and not have to travel all the way to Scandinavia to do it (more on that below), and even cooler that most all of my friends here in Madrid made it out to see me in DJ action. At times, in fact, the dance floor was too crowded for people to really dance. Pictures should be forthcoming! I'm not sure that I was the best selector that night, however, since I was going one-for-one/back and forth with Javi and our tastes don't exactly align, but mostly because I found myself saving all the hott schitt tracks till the end; but the end, it never came. Once we stopped spinning around 3:30am, I went for a nightcap with a friend named Álvaro to a "rockers" bar. I'm not so sure we fit in, especially since Álvaro was wearing a Hawaiian shirt and Japanese-looking pants, but it was fun to see that kind of social milieu in Madrid all the same.
The next morning, another local DJ friend, DJ JADD, whose real name is José Ángel Díaz Duran (an only slightly Spanish name, especially when compared to the full name of the Spanish poet and dramatist, Federico del Sagrado Corazón de Jesús García Lorca), talked me into going with him to a DJ gig in San Sebastián in the Basque Country, in the the Northwest corner of Spain. Carpe diem, I guess. On the way there, we traveled en clase preferente.
José Ángel is an absolute character - at one point he explained to me how he loves train stations and airports because he knows he's always guaranteed to see pretty women in a hurry - so the six-hour train ride was fun enough. My energy was quite low, however, and, as the night progressed I was never really able to fully commit myself to the night. José Ángel was one of four DJs spinning and was by far the best. The others played too much "mehhh" modern soul and "quiet storm" type adult soul for my taste. Always a critic!
The little I saw of the city itself was quite impressive.
The air was fresh and I felt healthy just breathing it in, not like here in Madrid.
***
(What follows goes back about one month in time, and will be fragmentary. If you've made it this far in the post, though, you can only keep reading.)
After Sweden, I went to DJ in Helsinki, Finland as part of the "tour" that took me from Sweden to Finland to Russia.
A surprisingly unadorned city, at least in terms of its "functional" architecture, and one that is currently losing its greenness to thousands of rabbits originally let loose by a crazed pet rabbit owner, I had a fine time in Helsinki with my host, Soul Sami, aka Soul Salmon.
Dude loves his salmon soup. And his rare records. Together with Markus-Setä and Heikki H., Soul Salmon and I spun at Soul Sides on Saturday, April 25. Heikki H. was an interesting type to me, in a good way, and he actually moved to the UK for a couple years because he's that into northern soul. Anyways, I was half-deaf all night, however, due to wax buildup exacerbated by air pressure from the flight from Göteborg to Helsinky a few days before. I have a body; but sometimes it has me. The party was great fun, nevertheless, and we all seemed to get a good reaction from the crowd.
Here I am, dancing mostly with my hand, as I am wont to do.
Before the long night was over, I fell in love with a Serbian named Svetlana. Apparently a common name in the Balkans, Svetlana was not a common name to me. Her jacket was turquoise, her personality was golden. You should've seen her singing along to Pink Floyd at the after-party. "Shine On You Crazy Diamond." However long that song is, she sang the whole damn thing. I was there. The whole time, I was there. She was not to answer my call.
Seeing as how I couldn't hear much of anything, I eventually went to the doctor in Helsinki a few days later to have the earwax removed. A bit of a wasted day in a foreign land, I suppose, but I had to hear.
I will tell you this, though, Finnish reggae is for real! So many dreadlocks. So much love.
From Helsinki, I took an early morning bus to St. Petersburg, Russia. I had heard from former travelers that I would need to keep some money handy in order to bribe the Russian customs police. "They prefer dollars," I was told, but I had no dollars with me. "They will get on the bus and point their automatic weapon at you and demand that you give them money." Huh? I don't know whether I just didn't believe these anecdotes or simply thought I was tougher than the 60 year-old lady that told them to me, but they turned out to be patently false anyway. (As it was, on the bus ride back from St. Petersburg to Finland, I was greeted at the entrance to the Finnish customs office by a lovely little rasta rug.)
Russia was a blur. I DJ'd three nights in a row at three different venues - the final night in Ekaterinburg. Look it up. On a map or a globe, if you have one handy. It's in the interior. The party in Ekaterinburg looked to be the coolest party I've ever been a part of (no pics, unfortunately), but when it came time for me to start my DJ set I cleared the dance floor maybe 20 minutes in. :/ How did that happen, exactly? Well, I could start off by saying that the lights were too bright - even though this didn't seem to affect the partygoers when the other DJs were spinning - but I think it had more to do with the facts that 1) I played more soul than funk* and 2) the crowd expected someone with actual DJ skills, i.e. the ability to mix and scratch, or, in other words, a DJ that did not let the songs go all the way to the end.
I wish I didn't have to say that the pictures will have to suffice to tell the Russian tale, but, for now, they will. The whistle has been blown on this one.
*Perhaps the words of a Russian I met who went by the unfortunate nickname of "Igor" because of his general unattractiveness really do ring true, then: "Funk is one of the American utopias." That is, he did not say the same about "soul."
I'm traveling. I've traveled before; over the past ten years or so I've been fortunate enough to have spent time in Spain, France, Germany, the UK, Mexico, Jamaica, Canada, Peru, Brazil, Argentina, Uruguay, Sweden, Finland, and Russia. Some places were "safer" than others, sure, but I've always felt OK about my circumstances. Obviously, it helps that I'm a male (and not necessarily a typical-looking American one at that), have now accrued enough traveling experience to, hopefully, be aware enough of where I am and how I present myself to parts and people unknown, have mostly lived with locals everywhere I've been, and, at least in Spanish-speaking countries, speak the language. All that said, this editorial/fright piece in the May, 30th, edition of the New York Times entitled "Cume Laude in Evading Bandits" (nice title, dickhead) by Nicolas D. Kristof has me incensed! Read it for yourself. It's short and not sweet and will surely scare young people (and their parents) away from traveling, as it offers such sagacious advice to would-be travelers as the following discriminating nugget: "14. If terrorists finger you, break out singing “O Canada”!" Again, I realize that not all parts of the world are safe, that traveling abroad, especially alone, can be dangerous, and that traveling as a cultural and personal practice is unfortunately, not for everyone (I'm not always so sure I'm made for it myself...), but Americans of all ages need to see the world in order to avoid the personal and cultural solipsisms and solar myths that plague our country and add to the general culture of fear that runs rampant o'er the ramparts.
For a different take on travel, I recommend this interview with Rick Steves from salon.com from a few months back. Who knew this dude was so hip?
***
I spun 45s with a friend named Javi Bayo this past Friday night here in Madrid at a place called Sala Juglar. It was cool to be able to DJ in Europe, and not have to travel all the way to Scandinavia to do it (more on that below), and even cooler that most all of my friends here in Madrid made it out to see me in DJ action. At times, in fact, the dance floor was too crowded for people to really dance. Pictures should be forthcoming! I'm not sure that I was the best selector that night, however, since I was going one-for-one/back and forth with Javi and our tastes don't exactly align, but mostly because I found myself saving all the hott schitt tracks till the end; but the end, it never came. Once we stopped spinning around 3:30am, I went for a nightcap with a friend named Álvaro to a "rockers" bar. I'm not so sure we fit in, especially since Álvaro was wearing a Hawaiian shirt and Japanese-looking pants, but it was fun to see that kind of social milieu in Madrid all the same.
The next morning, another local DJ friend, DJ JADD, whose real name is José Ángel Díaz Duran (an only slightly Spanish name, especially when compared to the full name of the Spanish poet and dramatist, Federico del Sagrado Corazón de Jesús García Lorca), talked me into going with him to a DJ gig in San Sebastián in the Basque Country, in the the Northwest corner of Spain. Carpe diem, I guess. On the way there, we traveled en clase preferente.
José Ángel is an absolute character - at one point he explained to me how he loves train stations and airports because he knows he's always guaranteed to see pretty women in a hurry - so the six-hour train ride was fun enough. My energy was quite low, however, and, as the night progressed I was never really able to fully commit myself to the night. José Ángel was one of four DJs spinning and was by far the best. The others played too much "mehhh" modern soul and "quiet storm" type adult soul for my taste. Always a critic!
The little I saw of the city itself was quite impressive.
The air was fresh and I felt healthy just breathing it in, not like here in Madrid.
***
(What follows goes back about one month in time, and will be fragmentary. If you've made it this far in the post, though, you can only keep reading.)
After Sweden, I went to DJ in Helsinki, Finland as part of the "tour" that took me from Sweden to Finland to Russia.
A surprisingly unadorned city, at least in terms of its "functional" architecture, and one that is currently losing its greenness to thousands of rabbits originally let loose by a crazed pet rabbit owner, I had a fine time in Helsinki with my host, Soul Sami, aka Soul Salmon.
Dude loves his salmon soup. And his rare records. Together with Markus-Setä and Heikki H., Soul Salmon and I spun at Soul Sides on Saturday, April 25. Heikki H. was an interesting type to me, in a good way, and he actually moved to the UK for a couple years because he's that into northern soul. Anyways, I was half-deaf all night, however, due to wax buildup exacerbated by air pressure from the flight from Göteborg to Helsinky a few days before. I have a body; but sometimes it has me. The party was great fun, nevertheless, and we all seemed to get a good reaction from the crowd.
Here I am, dancing mostly with my hand, as I am wont to do.
Before the long night was over, I fell in love with a Serbian named Svetlana. Apparently a common name in the Balkans, Svetlana was not a common name to me. Her jacket was turquoise, her personality was golden. You should've seen her singing along to Pink Floyd at the after-party. "Shine On You Crazy Diamond." However long that song is, she sang the whole damn thing. I was there. The whole time, I was there. She was not to answer my call.
Seeing as how I couldn't hear much of anything, I eventually went to the doctor in Helsinki a few days later to have the earwax removed. A bit of a wasted day in a foreign land, I suppose, but I had to hear.
I will tell you this, though, Finnish reggae is for real! So many dreadlocks. So much love.
From Helsinki, I took an early morning bus to St. Petersburg, Russia. I had heard from former travelers that I would need to keep some money handy in order to bribe the Russian customs police. "They prefer dollars," I was told, but I had no dollars with me. "They will get on the bus and point their automatic weapon at you and demand that you give them money." Huh? I don't know whether I just didn't believe these anecdotes or simply thought I was tougher than the 60 year-old lady that told them to me, but they turned out to be patently false anyway. (As it was, on the bus ride back from St. Petersburg to Finland, I was greeted at the entrance to the Finnish customs office by a lovely little rasta rug.)
Russia was a blur. I DJ'd three nights in a row at three different venues - the final night in Ekaterinburg. Look it up. On a map or a globe, if you have one handy. It's in the interior. The party in Ekaterinburg looked to be the coolest party I've ever been a part of (no pics, unfortunately), but when it came time for me to start my DJ set I cleared the dance floor maybe 20 minutes in. :/ How did that happen, exactly? Well, I could start off by saying that the lights were too bright - even though this didn't seem to affect the partygoers when the other DJs were spinning - but I think it had more to do with the facts that 1) I played more soul than funk* and 2) the crowd expected someone with actual DJ skills, i.e. the ability to mix and scratch, or, in other words, a DJ that did not let the songs go all the way to the end.
I wish I didn't have to say that the pictures will have to suffice to tell the Russian tale, but, for now, they will. The whistle has been blown on this one.
*Perhaps the words of a Russian I met who went by the unfortunate nickname of "Igor" because of his general unattractiveness really do ring true, then: "Funk is one of the American utopias." That is, he did not say the same about "soul."
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Göteborg and Party Joel
This past Thursday night was my last night in Göteborg, Sweden, and, even though I had an 8:50am flight out the next morning, I went out Thursday night.
The evening started with a pizza dinner with my relative, (see my previous post for more info. on this) Mark, and his stepson, Jack.
It had been warm that day, but cooled off considerably into the evening. Still, we decided to eat outside because there was a heater next to our table and because the restaurant provided its customers seated outside with blankets.
I've come to understand that this is a common practice in Scandinavia - providing blankets at restaurants to people wanting to sit outside - in part because it's so cold so much of the year that people just want to be outside, so blankets and heaters allows them to eat outside even when it's chilly.
Eventually Mark went back to his home in the suburbs and Jack's best friend, Joel, met up with us and helped convince Jack and I to go out for a few drinks. This only makes sense because Joel was recently named the #3 partier in all of Göteborg! I think you can see it in his eyes. (Also, see if you can find the party pic of Jack, Joel, and me on this page here.)
As the man himself tells it, he lost his job back in January. But he's is a-ok with that, because in Sweden if you lose your job you receive 80% of your salary for the next 200 days. Thus, in Joel's case, losing his job meant a two-week trip to Thailand, a new bicycle, and nothing to do in the morning! Apart from being the #3 party-man in all of Göteborg, Joel also enjoys minimal techno, MILFs, using the affirmation "For true!," and gets laid every night he goes out, which means he gets laid every night.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Family Ties
Greetings from Göteborg, Sweden! While I understand next to nothing of the language, I know that my roots (on my mother's side) are here in this country, with the last name of Lindeman. This has always been known to me, though not in great detail. Brother Jay had to do family tree projects a number of times in grade school, though I never did. Now things are known to me on a deeper level.
I've been staying with some e x t e n d e d family here in Göteborg: first with my mother's cousin, Mark Johnson, his wife, Kacka, their daughter, Ellen, and puppy dog, Twisty, in Göteborg's country suburb of Björsared, and now with Mark's stepson, Jack, in central Göteborg. (I was forced to make the move from the countryside to the city on Tuesday night - a move that was, perhaps, made for the best as I was thus able to see the city itself - as the Johnson family cat, Cartman, had my allergies in such a state that I had trouble breathing deeply at night and thus could not sleep soundly. Cats! On Saturday night I was the guest DJ at Club Function in Malmö (about a 3-hr drive South from Göteborg). It was a fun night and cool to have Mark come along and see me do my thingthing; I really enjoyed the other DJs, especially all the other excellent and RAER modern soul the other guest DJ, Johan, spun, though found the crowd kinda hard to read and maybe even uninspired. Was it me, my records, or is it just that Swedes don't necessarily go crazy and let it all hang loose in the sweet soul breeze of the smoke-free night? All I know for sure is that I accidentally used the ladies' toilet a few times before i realized my mistake, and that I also used all my free drink cards on Gin and Tonics and glasses of Estrella Dam.
Tuesday was the main event, though. Mark and I headed out for the Swedish midlands in his Prius in search of our common, Swedish roots. I was thoroughly groggy from the night before, however, since I was basically unable to sleep, so I myself was rather uninspired as we started off the day tagging along with a group of geology enthusiasts (Mark is a geology prof. at the University of Göteborg) on the lookout for natural springs. Still, we saw some interesting sites, and even came across an ancient Viking burial site in Dimbo, Sweden, before we started off in search of the rather ancient burial sites of our own kin.
Our roots tour started off at the cemetery of a church located in Frösve, where Mark showed me the grave of our oldest know relative on record, Påfvel Törsen, born 1682, died 17??.
In the same cemetery lies the grave of a man who married one of Påfvel's daughters, Sven Andersson, born 1729, died 1772, who was a one time a member of Parliament (or a Riksdagsmannen).
Only a few miles away is Herrekvarn (roughly translated as "Lordmill" or "Mastermill"), the farmland, stream, and mill that Påfvel owned way back when.
Apparently, the doorposts on this current house are the same ones Påfvel had built centuries earlier.
The next stop was a brick factory. No relation to the family here, but Mark, being the curious geologist that he is, thought maybe there would be a clay pit around somewhere. There wasn't. But I still got in a few cool photos.
After that, we went on to see the first gravestone with the actual name of Lindeman on it in the cemetery at Värsås church. (Again, Lindeman is my mom's maiden name.)
Jonas was born with the surname of Andersson, but at some point he and his brother, Anders, took on the name of Lindeman. Jonas was a pastor at the Värsås church in the mid-1800s, and apparently developed a reputation as being quite a character. (More on this later...) Jonas lived with his wife, Johanna Regina Mebius, on the parish farm called Klockaretorp. Up until this past Tuesday, there had been no information recorded regarding this farm, save its name, but Mark had a hunch that we could find out something more if he started to ask around. Unlike in the States, in Sweden many farms have names and keep these names over the years. Thus, Mark asked about Klockaretorp at a local gas station, where the attendant told him that the name rang a bell and that it was the second farm over yonder. We arrived at this spot quite excited to have possibly found something new to add to the records and started taking pictures of the house after no one answered the door. We eventually noticed, however, a little old Swedish lady coming out of a nearby woodshed; upon speaking to her she informed us that the house in front of us was hers and had never belonged to a Lindeman. She did recall the name though, along with the farm name of Klockaretorp, and pointed to a different farm about 1/2 kilometer away in the gray distance.
The first house we came to on the land turned out to be a rented home, but the couple there told us that the farmland was indeed called Klockaretorp and that the current landowners lived in the next house over. As no one seemed to be home there, we started taking photos.
As we tooled around the plot a bit, a blond farmer dirtied by the land and animals came out of a storage shed. Mark asked him the relevant questions, and the man confirmed that we were in the right spot! He even knew an anecdote about ol' Jonas Lindeman, the kooky preacher, which he related to us in broken English about the time Jonas, also a blacksmith, was doing his blacksmithing and was so caught up in his work on a Sunday morn that he lost track of time and didn't realize that church had already started and that he wasn't there to deliver the sermon. Eventually, his wife notified him of his error, and Jonas, all covered in soot, ran to the church a few kilometers away, where he delivered the Sunday sermon, dripping sweat and soot. HAHA!!
Our new-found farmer friend told us that the original house on the parish farm, built at some point in the 1850s and where Jonas and his family used to live, was still standing, though now being used as more of a shed. This is it!
The first Lindeman who made it to Kansas, Johan Rickard Lindeman, most likely lived in this house as a child and struck out from here when he left for America. Johan died in Salina, Kansas - where my mom is from - on December 6, 1907: seventy-three years and ten months before I was born.
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