Working in Cafés

IMG_1892

Another glass of white wine, chardo-nnaayy.

In the past few days, I’ve earned some hard-earned cash by doing various freelance work. Man, hustling for work on the internet is only for the brave. And the pale. I’ve seen so much horror, so many worthless SEO text assignments, work-out app translations, online casino advertising schemes. Filthy money.

I thought I’d go to a café to feel more freelancy-free and bohemic with my work. Now I am here, literally trapped in a corner by a group of generic mid-level business people. Sometimes when I’m surrounded by artists and aesthetes, I find myself talking appreciatively about business people, admiring their skills in the noble art of making money, a discipline in which me and my friends rarely shine. I often dream of lucrative business schemes, smiling in my sleep. But now, being swamped by them, I realize just how angry I get when I hear someone who is absolutely serious with business jargon. No, wait, it’s not just the jargon. It’s something else. Their after-work chat is simply unbearable. One of them explains the difference between SEO, SEA and SEM. She beams with pride. Anyone with that knowledge should be ashamed of himself.

- You should become an in-house consultant, another says.

- What is the most expensive beauty creme brand? the only man in the group asks.

- Those are called pinchos.

- I really like our new premises and our new co-workers. Things are really happening.

- When I moved to Lidingö, I thought it’d be paradise, but really, it’s a suburb.

- No, Lidingö is nice!

- Yes, but there are high rises.

- But don’t forget, you can be on Stureplan in 15 minutes.

God, it’s a parody.

Apartments, which one to buy.

- A mortgage loan, that’s not a problem for you, is it?

Pension funds. I want to steal a pincho. I’m done here.

Old Artefacts #2: Studio sign from 2006

1269614_10152630648676393_77299994_o

Going through some old boxes, I found this sign that we had put on the door to the room where we recorded a lot of our first record The Province Complains in the summer of 2006, in an old wooden house in the centre of Turku where I lived for a few months. /Ville

Complaining – it’s worth it

479px-Persea_americana_fruit_2Today, I’ve earned 500 kr + two avocados just by complaining. The reason for the first complaint was a loud, clattering noise coming in the rental car I used when I moved to Stockholm. The noise was only triggered when you drove at speeds above 110 km/h, but it was enough to make listening to the radio impossible and me furious. The guys at the rental office hadn’t managed to reproduce the noise on the motorway, but they still gave me a healthy refund, assuming that I spoke nothing but the truth.

The other complaint sprung from my lunch salad bought at a grocery store. The avocado pieces in it, admittedly picked by myself from the salad bar, had an unpleasant taste, maybe stemming from the  fact that they were frozen. I instantly marched back to the grocery store. “They come as frozen”, the shop assistant said. I thought that it was a weak excuse, so I persisted. “Well, if it is avocados you want, you can go get some from the fruit and vegetable department.” I clenched my fist in a victory reflex and walked towards the avocados, knowing that I had done a good day’s work.

Any Idiot Can Do It

electroluxI am absolutely sure that Electrolux had constructed the washing machine so that after a certain number of pulls, the door handle would break. Strangely, this number was reached the first time used the machine. I ordered a spare part for an undisclosed amount of kronor, thinking that I could at least avoid bringing a technician into the apartment, since I’ve heard that just getting them to show up costs ten times the undisclosed amount of kronor. [read more]

Me and the Graaf Sisters

graaf_35397When I was 16 or 17, my parents took me and my twin sister on what was supposed to be the last family vacation, since children of that age and younger could still travel with their parents at a reduced price. The destination were the two Greek islands of Santorini and Naxos. This was a time when I had begun to realize certain things about myself and my family, and I suppose I wasn’t in the most secure mindset, but I still wasn’t prepared for the sudden onset of severe anxiety when stepping into the bus that would take us from Santorini proper down to the beach from where the ferries to Naxos departed. The road, a dusty old serpent, was only loosely attached to the steep volcanic wall, and I instantly felt it would be my last bus ride. [read more]