Departing at 5pm

Flying to Hong Kong to renew our visas.
I’ll probably swing by the local fake-market, just to make sure they haven’t got anything ours don’t.
You see, I have a tendency of not wanting to miss out of too much here in life. I’m not exactly sure what I’m afraid to miss, but I bet it’s something.
Can I please be everywhere at the same time.
Schizophrenic as I am I quickly revoke that.
No I don’t, life being me requires personal time.
It’s more intimate to how Andy Warhol so eloquent put it:
- I'm the type who'd be happy not going anywhere as long as I was sure I knew exactly what was happening at the places I wasn't going to. I'm the type who'd like to sit home and watch every party that I'm invited to on a monitor in my bedroom.

Spectacle in the bank

We just opened our first Chinese bank accounts. And it was exciting.
We could only submit to the performance of pondering stamps shattered through the place like a symphony of poorly played drums.
It was grand and I wanted to take pictures or document it in some way.
But don’t want to be conceived as the troublemaker.
Like the mute spectators we yield into act as, we witnessed entire forests vanishing before our eyes as every single piece of paper from the bank was signed.
Exhausted, I was happy Louise had taken the part as ambassador of our Swedish team. Doing it right for both of us.
Then it was my turn.

Winning is everything and nothing else matters

Watched We are Marshall the other day. Actually, I never finished it, had to run out and do something important *.
Nonetheless, it’s a great movie about bringing the American patriotism and team spirit to another, higher level. Giving it a new, fresh touch that reassures and reminds everyone that there are no greater people in the world than US citizens and nothing else matters.
What we do in life...echoes in eternity.
They roar and we think they're a bit silly.
Hush, calm down, theeere you go.
But I have to admit, I can be a total sucker for these movies.
I had goose-bums all over my body every-single-second on my virginity of Armageddon.
When Independence crashed I wasn’t sure where I was, I tore my hair, jumping, wanted to bite some weird parts of my body and tear my hair in desperation.
It's too much, unimaginable, they're our heroes.
The block of surreal excitement hitting you in full velocity can only be done from the masters in Hollywood.
Surrender. 'Cause you need that sometimes.
There are some master chiefs in plastic-land, Bay and Scott to mention three. They guarantee entertainment.
And isn’t just that exactly what movies should be all about sometimes.

*No I didn't

Giving your best is what matters

Juno:
No, for real, I think you are the coolest person I’ve ever met. And you don’t even have to try.
Bleeker:
I try really hard, actually…

Let’s have a coffee

You think it’s ok. It’s just a beverage, and mankind needs liquid to stay alive.
For god’s sake, do it for your own survival, boy.
And then you go down to the stupid coffee-place and can’t resist the divine Walnut Pie you haven’t tried and promise yourself to just have a tiny bite. That’s it.
We can even share.
And as she leans forward with her fork you use your most lethal stare to take her down.
It’s mine.

Guilty as hell

Made some notes on a paper today. Once the paper was removed I discovered spots that evidently were done by none other than yours sincerely.
Trying to stay calm I only got warm.
They mustn’t notice.
Quickly, I tried the usual, lazy but trustworthy, way of evaporating it, I licked my fingers and started whipping as hell. The skin almost departed from my finger.
Maybe it’s not such a big thing.

A friendly finger points out the crime scene.

The spots will probably decorate my desk for some time now.

Sweat like a stung pig

I could easily take a shower and get dryer after one of my runs.
I'm ridiculously soaking wet.
This, phenomena, is quite frustrating to be frank. The whole body just opens up all channels and releases all my bodily-sweaty-related liquids.
Flow, it roars, get out there; march.
It has a tendency to keep going for a while as well. This goes into my everyday planning.
Wake up, run, after-sweat and shower is the standard procedure before getting dressed.
One of them is more time-consuming than the others.
Going outside of the apartment, away from the cool frisk air is a risk. This also goes into ones daily planning.
Have everything ready before you leave and eliminate all reasons to get late, stressing about and just forget about forgetting anything.
But once you managed to walk the weary, unexpected path of hot exterior temperature wall slamming your body with a bat and the constant crowd of people to the office, the breezy air of the AC that greets you here is beyond compare.

I’m quietly judging you

On my way to work, shopping fake-clothes, buying a coke, or even running in ridiculous stairs, I am constantly judging people.
It amuses me.
There’s an old lady sitting on a bench with a something in her hand. She wears a hat, but it’s not sunny.
She’s most likely escaped from the hospital and that’s a squirrel she caught - she’s got super-fast reflexes, and as she now considers if she’s going to eat it raw or if it's worth finding a stove and cook it, I quietly judge her.
I know this isn’t true, and it doesn’t always go so far or weird.
Sometimes I can just make up my mind about the guy hurrying from a building to a taxi.
He’s obviously been cheating on his wife and is in a hurry back to his office so he can call her from the office phone and tell her that the meeting was boring and he almost certainly wants stew for dinner.
He knows that eliminating the traces he’s afraid she’s caught up with is crucial.
I won’t hold or show any grudge or harsh judgments against this guy or anyone else. As soon as I hear, learn or experience anything that contradicts my version of the situation or person, I simply change.He’s probably a very decent guy, doesn’t even like stew.
I do it simply because I can and because it amuses me.
It’s just as Tom Cruise’s character, Frank T.J. Mackey, in Magnolia (on a very different subject) explains so well in the interview.
I’m quietly judging you.

Marvel

Yesterday I'd planned to watch Iron Man. I bought it the other day at one of the fake markets I try to frequently visit.
It remains one of the best films I haven’t seen.
Because then 300 came on HBO and everything just seemed a bit smaller as I heard Butler’s mighty voice roaring through the entire film.
I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have a single line in that movie where he’s not shouting, and talking about Frank Miller have to be on a separate note.


Now it’s time for Spiderman 3.
It’s one of my other best movies I’ve never seen.
I’m such a dork when it comes to comic books, spend more hours reading them and trying to draw busty men with chiseled abs then I should.
X-Men, Ghost Rider, Spawn, Hulk, Transformers, Punisher, all of ‘em.
But Spider Man was really the first one that managed to convey the greatness of the Marvel spirit into film.
He has always been a pioneer.
So, by watching this movie in a while it will probably complete me the way Mary Jane perfects Parker.
You had me when you threw the net.

All heroes managed to show up for the shoot.

Where to eat

We're about to have dinner soon. And I love Asian food. Probably my best kitchen in the entire world and I could, with ease, eat it every single day.
Louise knows this.
And yet, she asks me every single time where I wanna go. And every single time I reply with the same standard answer.
I love it, can’t fake it.
I’m great at lying but horrible at faking.
Although no one who knows me would agree with me on this.
It’s obviously my hidden superhero-skill.

Love of the game

I am, of course, blue.

We have a foosball table at our work. Two actually, but hey, I can only play one game at a time.
And it’s getting just as addictive as the running.
Maybe it’s because we athletes have this inner, multi-layered spirit, deep within us, something that makes us challenge, no - push - ourselves to the very edge. Seeking the core of victory is perhaps our given quest in life.
Louise beats the shit out of me fair and square pretty much every time.
I try to tell her that it’s not just about winning. It’s about winning; playing the beautiful game, passing the ball, throwing tactics onto the pitch.
I see it as a serious offense to not use my undisputed wits and understanding of this game here.
She just laughs and scores again.

From an imminent winners perspective.

First time

Imagine this kid, glued to the TV. The presenter has just announced that a brand new show is coming up next.
First episode ever of Björnes Magasin.
The claustrophobic sense of time-encapsulation is attacking from all angles. He wants to tear a hole in space, throw his excitement there and seal it with a sigh.
Almost bouncing he feels that the tears are near, but restrains himself, he knows from experience that moist eyes won’t be of advantage when watching TV. He's ready.
But this kid’s excitement of being part of this imprint of Swedish television, introduced to a new, fresh cartoon bear-character and his best-mate; Snigel, can only be measured by the disillusionment of what the brilliant cartoon-intro revealed.
Björne doesn’t look animated at all. It’s a guy in a bear suite.
Even a kid with his chest jam-packed of anticipation and clustered eyes of excitement can tell you that.

How Björne and Snigel really looks like.

No reason

The streets in Shanghai are usually very crowded; cars, bikes, mopeds, trucks, people, all wrestling their way ahead.
Forward, they cry. *
I might be silly westernized, but I’m used to follow and respect the red lights. Now, I wouldn’t go as far and say that people here don’t notice them or so.
It’s just that they don’t give a shit about them.


They also honk a lot.
More often for no other reason than the obvious need for the minutely horn-status-check.
Nighttime, you stroll the streets, and suddenly, it’s empty. No cars, you’re alone for a while. It’s quiet.
And then as a car eventually pass, he suddenly honks.
No, you're not too close, not in his way and it's not the typical; hey get into my car, cutie. More a, yep, check, still functioning.
They just honk.
Imagine those busy, busy days, when the streets are swarming with vehicles and restless drivers.
All with a ravenous urge to check their horn.

* No, they don’t.

Fashionista

Standing in the elevator, I contemplate my outfit.
Shirt and shorts by Polo. Flip-flops from Louis Vuitton. And underwear from Dolce&Gabbana.
Funny how the wife-beater from H&M cost the most.

Let’s talk to the main man

Me:
Let's see if he’s free so we can ask for advice and directions.
Louise:
Aohm no, I think he’s busy downstairs.
Me:
No he isn’t.
Louise:
Ah. But I really thought so.

Almost immediately

This years Euro will be a test as time-difference will be challenged.
Battling against heavy eyes and cozy beds, committing to the games that’ll never live up to their potential, matches that’ll go way beyond my bedtime.
The Euro is so close you can skip saying; it’s so close. It’s much, much closer.
It’s graspable.
I must treat it as my allied, pet it, hug it, embrace it.

So you know it’s fake

Me:
Hmm. Not sure about this logo, prefer the one-color one.
Great sales guy at fake market:
No, no, Polo also makes this logo. Promise!
The way he emphasizes also is brilliant. I'm not his first customer, I tell you that.
He's probably sold hundreds of fake shirts to stupid tourists before.

It's a decent shirt and an ok logo, I guess.

But I still prefer the one-color one.

Nihao

When I’m late to my Stair Running I usually meet the cleaning girl. She comes out around my third lap.
She never says hi.
And even though I feel like a sweaty, heavy-breathing idiot running up and down the stairs, I 'nihao' her a lot, possibly every time.
Not even once.

Lack of missing

When I lived in Amsterdam, we always went to Letting.
Unlike other Dutch's, the employees always smiled, they served great American pancakes with bacon and loads of maple syrup and their café latte completed every visit.
But I don’t miss it. Not even once have I thought about it until I brought it up with Louise just now.
Makes me think of Le Grand Bleu. Jean Reno’s character, Enzo, educates Jean-Marc Barr’s, Jacques, about love.
... I was seventeen, I loved her so much I tried to die for her. Two years later I couldn't even remember her name! Let me tell you, time erases everything!
They had an awesome latte.

Stairmaster

I’ve mentioned the air here and the consequences to us athletes. This has led me to our hotel's gym and their treadmill.
But.
The gym opens at 10 am.
Which is great for everyone who wants to workout before work.
Forced to aim for other options, I’ve turned right, so to speak.
I run in the stairs now.
To the top, elevator down* and all over again a few times. Up and down. Exactly as idiotic it sounds like.
But the most annoying thing is, after a while you get kinda dizzy after too many consequent-right-turns.
So I’ve developed a sharp tactic:
Gawk to your left running up. It decreases dizziness and helps you from keeping track on which floor you’re at. Persuade your brain you’re not the moron you feel like.
I’m starting to realize this is almost as focus-ensuing as running on a treadmill.

*Louise says it’s really bad for the knees to run downwards in stairs, I trust her.

Fascinating

We ate at Hot Pot King yesterday. In the middle of the table is a boiling hot pot and you cook your meat or veggies there. It was good food and I departed, as usual, overfed.
I like it, but it fascinates me.
In Europe they’re known as fondue or grill venues, but they're all aligned under the same, ingenious concept.
Let the customer do the work.
It’s funny how these places are so hugely appreciated amongst folks.
Oh, put the asparagus in the water yourself, this is awfully fun n’ exciting.
People comment, lifting their soggy, green stick and pay more money then if the chef did it.

Hotel / Service Apartment

We live in a service apartment.
Not a hotel.
The manager made this perfectly clear on the day we moved in.
I brought to his attention the lack of cups, glasses, plates, knifes n’ forks, pots, pans, towels etc. Everything you need when moving abroad into a rented, furnished apartment.
And he taught me the severe difference between accommodations with a grim smile and the words still clinching to my head.
Haha, noo, this is nooot a hooootel.

Yesterday I never had my massage

Ever since last weekend, I was so sure it was going to be a regular Sunday-occasion.

Incomprehensible

On a more serious note.
The Sichuan earthquake at this date:
Over 60,560 people dead, another 26,221 still missing and 353,290 injured. 5 million left homeless and over 11 million forced out of their homes and with no place to live. Estimated 45 million have been affected by this huge disaster.
Anyone can donate:
Mercy Corps, Red Cross, How To Donate; China Embassy; Google

100 bucks says you can’t

Spotted The Ten Thousand Cents-project from Takashi Kawashima and his partner Aaron Koblin, from San Francisco.
Teaming up with Amazon's Mechanical Turk, they encouraged one thousand artists from around the globe in a collaboration to remake a 100-dollar bill.
Each artist painted their spot from the bill and worked anonymously and without knowledge of the project, Takashi and Aaron payed them one cent each (total $100) and now they're selling these pieces. Procedes goes to One Laptop per Child-project.


What’s really sweet about this is its extensive inside-out-thinking.
Instead of traditional advertising that merely communicates (I know this isn’t advertising, but Takashi works at Goodby, and I exercise my right of doing-what-I-want-on-my-blog). People from over 50 countries participated, enabling them to be a part of the ‘campaign’, before it's even finished, instead of just letting a message be delivered to them.
Do something with them. Instead of saying things to them.
Once they discover their piece is being used somewhere in a greater sphere, guess who’s going to tell all their friends about it.

Lack of running

The air is apparently not so clean here in Shanghai. Really bad I’ve hard.
You can almost die from a gulp of air.
The thing is, I’m an addict. I love to run, I need to run. Some understands this.
We athletes have this dependence for bodily-movement.
I’m no Jeremy Wariner, I tell you that, and I don’t have the physical features of an athlete in any shape or form, my girlfriend can tell you that.
But although I’ve won uncountable marathons and saved billions of people in cooler ways than John McClane (running gives you very unworthy thoughts) I’m not satisfied, I still need to finish my runs before work.
It relaxes me and soothes my brain for the rest of the day. Keeps me from stressing around. And steers away this constant guilty-conscience for whatever I’m (not) doing or eating.
I want to have my candy and ice cream without apologizing to my belly.
But I can’t run here. The air pollution is too screwed up. Everyone keeps telling me. You can die.
I know I have the gym and the treadmill. But I hate it. Stresses me up like a motherfucker.
How much time, how far, how many calories. Am I really this slow?
But far more annoying; super-focus ALL THE TIME so you don’t fall off.
I might be the worse treadmill-runner ever, but it just takes away all the pleasure in running for me.
Aren’t you tired? Why go up so early, that’s crazy. You should be happy that you don’t have to go up in the mornings now.
People say and eat another muffin with a promise to hit the gym later.
But I want to run before work. I'm an addict, don't you get it?
Knowing they’ll never will, I just wipe away the mix-berry smoothie stains from my moustache.
Maybe my laziness finally caught me on the flight over and I just need to ask it to go screw itself.

Status: Champs & Knackered

I love time difference. It’s so refreshing to wake up after three hours of sleep.
I’m still not sure what time it was in Moscow when the game eventually started.
The TV-studio covered everything. From predictions to grass-status-updates. The lawn seemed to be exceptionally crucial. Everything but when the kickoff was.
Maybe I could have managed to slink in a powernap?
The forecast said rain. Who will benefit the most?
I guess both team will be equally wet.
It was like a cruel series of offenses against nerves, emotions and in this case tiredness. Afterwards, it was more a soothing relief than the anticipated mammoth feeling of victory that ensued my body.
Nonetheless, a triumphant one.

Before Ronaldo scored in the Champions League final, his first goal ever against Chelsea, his 42nd in total this season, critiques still questioned his ability to step up in the ‘big games’.


Van Der Sar slept better than Anelka, Terry and rest of the blue money machine.

Unrequited love

It’s not new in the sphere of internet.
Probably really old. And I’m a fossil. But wrinkled as I may be that won’t stop me from loving Blu from Argentina.
During his seven-minute + film he consistently fucks with my head. Throwing logic, ambitions and persistence at me.
I should dodge.
But it comes from such a new and fresh perspective.
I just want to hug him.

Brilliant

Now, I’m not talking about the idiots in the US.
I’m referring to the red and blue jets, slowly cruising the streets of Shanghai.
Deceived by the luminous blinking we’re startled at first.
Something might have happened.
But be fooled. Day or night they flash by. Other light distribution is of greater insignificance. No rush. No calls. Definitely going nowhere and without a purpose or pace.
But by heck if they're not gonna get there in bright, shiny manner.

Painting with boldness

The Olympics is coming up and sport is fun.
My favorite sport-entertainers are the cocky artists from the US. They’re usually very scared. Afraid they will pass without notice.
So armed with big, fat brushes, dipped in loud buckets of pure American self-confidence, and with wide strokes, they paint big sketches of their capabilities and skills, regardless of what’s in their way. And sometimes because it's in their way.
This is very entertaining.


My favorite artist is Maurice Green. Inked with speed he painted colorful motives of the fastest man on the planet.
Back then, he was.
The thing is, the brush that American athletes’ use is very big and bushy. And it’s uncomfortable for other people. They don’t like the colors nor the motives. It’s smudging off and getting in their lanes or ahead of them in a sand box, big, stinky, spots of American self-confidence. It's everywhere but behind them.
These are the people that think a 13th spot is admirable and dream of reaching to qualifying round.
For them self-confidence is like a stain on their tightest pair of spandex gone twisted.
Keep it to yourself.
They whisper in the corridors, applauding their audience after a perfect zero-result.
Keep it to yourself?
If you’re better than someone else, you deserve the right to tell everyone. Interest is of irrelevance.
I pray this Olympic will be full of frightened Americans. Terrified they’ll be forgotten before they’re seen; they offer a show that’s unparalleled.

Kicking off at Party Palace

The place was enormous, literally like a huge palace. Decorated by Jean-Paul Gaultier or someone of his peers.
Tiny TV-rooms hidden behind mirrored doors everywhere. With the screen in front of the U-shaped sofa and two microphones connected, the stage was set.
People trying to hit the right notes and wailing away like Mariah Carey.
Apparently Chinese are really good at singing. Like, everyone.
We just shouted and laughed mostly.
It was a great night.