The Democratic Process and Swedish Blog Campaigning

I was recently nominated for a blogging award. Which is kind of cool. Because I am a selfish person who needs constant praise in order to help myself sleep at night. Luckily, since I am always right and awesome, praise is heaped upon me. But awards help too. And you have the chance to confirm that. So make sure to take part in the democratic process. And if you're still undecided, keep reading. I'm sure my campaign, with help from readers just like you, will help your decision.

And in case you’re thinking to yourself, “hmmm… I’m not too sure about this guy. I haven’t been impressed by the lack of writing lately. And he’s just kind of exhausting to read,” have no fear. I have culled some of the most supportive comments to help you make your decision.

Like Henrik, for example, who asks:
“Har du sniffat lim eller?”

Henrik thinks my writing is so good that it can only be aided by performance enhancing drugs. Like glue.

Or an anonymous supporter who says:
“förmodligen fattar du inte svenska heller din dumme jävel.”

Who was so impressed by my command of the English language that there was no way I could understand a second language.

Then there is Kurtgreger who says:
“Why don't you make us here a favour and get your ass out of Sweden again.”

Obviously Kurtgreger, despite spelling favour with a British “u” is American and just misses me. He wants me back in his country, to claim my superior writing skills as his own.

And who could forget when Anders said:
“You're a good writer, not very smart, but talented with words”

In the end, it’s the writing that counts. Intelligence is highly overrated. Just look at me.

And finally, anonymous says:
“vilken jävla tönt du är”

Well, actually, that’s just not very nice. I’m a dork, but a damn dork is just too much for me.

With all that said, I think it's pretty obvious who you should vote for. So head over to Lexiophiles and vote for me as one of the Top 100 Language Blogs 2009.

Welcome to Sweden. And a rousing endorsement from readers of this blog.

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The 4th of July and the World Championship Porcupine Race

Let me start this out with a simple U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A! Because what I experienced on the 4th of July was well deserving of the chant.

I was in Idaho during the 4th of July. Idaho gets a bad rap sometimes. I blame the crazy fringe militia that popped up a while back. Idaho is an incredible state filled with all kinds of exciting things. Skiing, hiking, fishing, rafting, they’ve got it all. But one city rises above the rest. Council.

As of the official census data from 2000, the population of Council, Idaho was 816 people. Since then, it is thought to have decreased. And when the population decreases in a town of 816, it becomes obvious. Luckily, I love small towns. I love the Rocky Mountain states. So give me a small town in a Rocky Mountain state, and well, then I’m in Council, Idaho.

The goal was actually not to end up in Council, Idaho. Instead we were heading up to an area near McCall and chose to drive through Council to avoid the traffic. And what a serendipitous shortcut it turned out to be. Because from the back seat of the car, staring back at me, damn near taunting me, was the greatest sign I had ever seen. World Championship Porcupine Race and 4th of July Celebration. In that order. The World Championship Porcupine Race took top billing over the celebrations of America’s independence. Obviously.

Now I’m sure someone out there is thinking that the claim of Council, Idaho being home to the World Championship Porcupine Race is just more American hubris. Of course, those people are idiots and have no sense of humor.

The citizens of Council do have humor though. Obviously, I was intrigued. So I broached the subject with the family. Because what better way to spend the 4th of July than watching porcupine racing? There was skepticism. Understandably. Were these real porcupines? If so, why? How did they race? So many questions.

Turns out, Morfar (see what I did there with the Swedish?) knows people. Lots of people. Like people at the Chamber of Commerce in Council. So after a couple of phone calls, it was confirmed. Yes, the porcupines were real. Porcupines would be racing on the 4th of July.

Once again… U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A!

I had never actually seen a live porcupine, let alone one racing. I couldn’t sleep on the night of the third. The excitement was palpable. That’s not true. At least the sleeping part. But the excitement was palpable.

We arrived a bit early to watch the parade. Because it was the 4th of July and that’s what you do. The parade in and of itself was glorious. Flags. Little kids driving four-wheelers. Anti-Obama floats. And porcupines. Twenty-one porcupines were paraded through town in preparation for the races. They were treated like heroes. As they should be.

As the parade wound down, I thanked a 10 year old boy who had helped me get a popsicle for free from one of the floats. Turns out, parade participants are hesitant to throw popsicles to 25 year old guys with beards, but have no qualms about throwing an extra one to a 10 year old.

Anyway, being the superior conversationalist that I am, I got some information about the races from the kid. Follow the crowd to the football field. The races will be held there. Watch out, it can get pretty wild. Sometimes the porcupines get out of the race tracks and into the crowds. Porcupines have what can best be described as son of a bitch quills. They are a son of a bitch to get out because they are barbed.

With that knowledge in mind, we headed off to the football field. Home to the eight-man Lumberjack football team. State champions in 2006. Gooooooooo Lumberjacks!

But I digress. The area was still filling up so I camped out on the sidelines. A front row seat if you will. I was either going to get a close up view of the porcupine races or get a son of a bitch quill in me. I liked my chances.

We were surrounded by locals. And we were very obviously not local. You ask how I know. It’s easy. My body isn’t covered in tattoos. I’m not 18 with a kid. I’m not pounding beers at 11 in the morning with a cigarette hanging out of the side of my mouth. But most importantly, my teeth are relatively straight. While Council apparently has an orthopedics office, (I know because they sponsored two of the racers), they seem to lack an orthodontics office. Unfortunately.

As the sun beat down on my poor Swedish colored scalp, which would eventually turn a nice shade of red, the event began. But first, some background information on the event.

Each porcupine is sponsored by a person or company. The porcupines also have two handlers. The handlers are the men and women responsible for racing the porcupines. And also for catching the porcupines the night before. How do you catch a porcupine? Carefully and with a trap. Apparently the citizens of Council are remiss to give out their secrets to catching a porcupine because that’s all we got out of them.

Once the porcupines are captured and sponsored they are put up for auction the day of the race. Rumors swirled and no one really knew where the money went. Most agreed it went to a charity. Which charity? Who knows? Maybe the Chamber of Commerce. One lady, her voice haggard from years of cheering at porcupine races, and probably a lot of smoking, informed us that the money actually went to whoever had purchased the winning porcupine at auction. The money was then divided between the sponsor of the porcupine, the handlers, and then the auction winner who then gave the money to charity. Thousands of dollars were spent. In cash. The top bid for a porcupine was $200. The winning porcupine was purchased for $140.

After 21 porcupines were finally auctioned off, and I had contracted skin cancer on the top of my head, the races were ready to start. Three heats of seven racers each. The races begin when the handlers place a porcupine in a trash can. Dump the trash can over. Tap the trash can gently with a broom to get the racers facing the right way. And away they go. The broom is used to guide them. As is the trash can. After watching one race, I was expecting PETA to descend from the heavens in biodiesel helicopters, rappelling down on hemp ropes, chanting slogans and snagging the porcupines away to safety. Luckily, PETA knows better than to venture into Council, Idaho. Which turned out to be a good idea. There was a rifle raffle in the middle of all of the excitement.

Three heats later, and no rogue porcupines in the crowd, the finalists were lined up. Everyone knew who was going to win. Poke ‘n Go. Everyone knew because the handlers of Poke n’ Go had won three of the last four races. And at some point it stops being luck and starts being some sort of skill in racing porcupines. Sure enough, Poke ‘n Go won the race making it four out of the last five for the handlers.

I was emotionally drained. I had lived and died with those porcupines. The adrenaline was pumping. My voice was hoarse. And my internal chanting of U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A! had damn near driven me crazy. As the races wound down, the MC asked us all to pick up the quills afterwards. That eight-man football team didn’t want to compete against porcupine quills when practice starts up. They have other concerns. It’s been a couple of years since their last state championship.

After the races most of the locals headed off to watch the lawn mower drag races, but I had had enough excitement for one day. My 4th of July was complete with the World Championship Porcupine Race. And now yours can also be complete. Because I filmed the action. Enjoy heats one and three from the 2009 World Championship Porcupine Race in Council, Idaho:

Welcome to the USA and Council, Idaho. Population 817… once I move there.

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The Benefits of Privatization in Sweden

Some things seem obvious to me. And then I realize that what is obvious to me is most definitely not obvious to the average Swede. So much of that has to do with having grown up in the US. Maybe a little has to do with me being somewhat conservative and somewhat stubborn. Some might argue that those two are one and the same. Those people would be wrong though. Because I am always right.

The current Swedish administration, Moderaterna, the Moderates, are one of the more conservative parties in Sweden. During their run they have begun selling off certain previously state-owned assets (as a quick aside, privatization has been going on under all kinds of administrations since about the 1980s). The reaction to this seems to have been a mixed bag. Plenty of people don’t really mind. And plenty of people are quite opposed to this. I don’t mind at all, for whatever that is worth.

A recent study looked into the profitability of companies that were once state-run and then privatized. The results, to someone who grew up in the US and studied business, weren’t all that surprising. These companies became more profitable when they were privatized.

As I said, this seemed obvious to me. Privatization, in my mind, always seems to be a better idea in terms of profitability than the government running things. There is so much more incentive to succeed. And people respond to incentives. Especially monetary ones. In the end I would just prefer not having the government running businesses.

What caught my eye about this study was not so much the opportunity to claim that privatization is good or that government owned organizations are bad or even the article itself. Instead it was a subsequent article. “Increase state bank ownership: Left Party.”

So, a study comes out saying that privatization is beneficial in terms of profitability and competition and the Left Party says that the banks should go in the opposite direction and be bought up by the state. Lars Ohly is stating that the current economic crisis is the result of an “unregulated capitalist market.” Despite the obvious fact that the markets are far from being unregulated. In the face of evidence the Left Party stands pat. I suppose there is something to be said for that.

It seems that the average Swede doesn’t really mind the government owned enterprises. It is a system that they have grown accustomed to. A system that they believe in. But it is a system that I just can’t support wholeheartedly. Even if I am living in Sweden.

Welcome to Sweden. Where privatization works.

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Stockholm Arlanda is the Worst Airport in the World

I have a shortlist of airports that I hate. London Heathrow. Chicago O’Hare. Stockholm Arlanda. But my last trip through Arlanda cut that short list down a bit. I now have a winner in the airports I hate list.

Stockholm Arlanda. The worst airport in the world.

I have traveled a decent amount now. I have hit enough airports to make a relatively comprehensive comparison of airports. And Stockholm Arlanda is awful.

The airport is in constant disarray. They say they are improving it and to excuse the construction. Unfortunately, this has been going on for years now and all they’ve managed to do is create a shopping area which is constantly understaffed and low on stock.

The customer service is bad. Even by Swedish standards. And while the customer service can be contributed to the actual companies, like SAS known as the worst airline in the world, or US Airlines, the latest in bad experiences with airlines at Stockholm Arlanda, Arlanda still houses them all under one roof. And so it will take the blame.

The food is overprices and lacking in options. I was delayed and wandering around trying to find something to eat. I gave up after realizing that the one place that actually offered something other than a dry sandwich didn’t have anyone working at it. Despite being lit up and pretending to be open.

Even the security guards leave something to be desired.

Having recently traveled through Stockholm Arlanda, I was reminded just how bad it was.

I found myself in line moving at an average speed of one foot per minute. So I had plenty of time to watch the world go by. I watched a man abandon his bag and cart in the middle of the walkway and come to the line and talk to the woman behind me. They knew each other. He was a talkative fellow. The bag continued to sit in the middle of the walkway. Unattended. You know, just how they warn you to never leave a bag in an airport.

Two security guards came strolling by. One of them stopped. He seemed to remember that taking care of such things was probably part of his job description. His partner, however, was less interested. He exchanged a few words with our concerned security guard. Pointed to a woman standing about 50 feet away, and convinced his concerned partner that the woman owned the bag and there was nothing to worry about.

Now, I knew that the man behind me owned the bag. I was not concerned. Not for that bag at least. Of course, the complete lack of action by two men hired to take care of things like that was a bit concerning.

But not nearly as concerning as the complete lack of any sort of customer service by US Airways.

I arrived to the airport on time. Which is not always easy for me. I made my way to the US Airways counter only to notice a line that stretched at least 100 feet long. And a counter that was staffed by four women and one man. All representing US Airways to the best of their abilities. Unfortunately, their best just wasn’t good enough.

My flight was leaving at one in the afternoon. I began standing in line at about 11:20. By 12 I had moved maybe, maybe, 30 feet. By 12:15 I was inside the US Airways ropes. Of course, most flights close check-in 45 minutes before take-off. An at this point it was lunch time. So despite the long line. Despite the worried faces of scores of passengers. Despite the lack of information. Two of the US Airways employees left their counters. God forbid the paying customer actually receive any form of service.

By 12:30, I was nearing the counter and managed to find an Arlanda employee. The flight had been delayed. No worries. Everyone would make the flight. Of course there had been no announcement. The flight board still showed a take-off time of 13:00. I patiently made my way through line. By 12:45, nearly 90 minutes after I first plopped my ass into line, I was checked-in. The man checked my bags, and handed me my boarding pass.

He said nothing. He did not apologize. He did not explain the situation. Hell, he didn’t even tell me the flight was delayed. I had to ask him what time the flight was leaving. He didn’t know. He guessed maybe two or three hours later than planned. Awesome.

That means I had a few hours to kill. I spent my time trying to find exciting things to buy from the tax-free shop. Which resulted in lots of candy and some booze. You can’t really go wrong with candy and alcohol.

A couple of hours later I made my way to my gate. And waited. The flight was supposed to leave at 15:30. And I waited. Arlanda doesn’t really let you in to your gate. They have these sorts of holding room. So you go through passport control and are put in a holding room. You can see your gate but the door to the gate is locked. So you wait.

And the time kept ticking. At a quarter past three they allowed us into the gate area. Remember the flight was supposed to leave at 15:30. Now, I have never worked for an airline. Or an airport. But I do know that it is damn near impossible to completely board a large trans-Atlantic flight in 15 minutes. Luckily, we didn’t have to worry. Because when we made our way into the gate area we waited some more. With no announcement whatsoever.

By 16:00 I was on the plane. I don’t even know what time we actually left Arlanda. It didn’t matter at that point. The airport had done it again. It had defeated me. Sucked the very life out of me and left me deflated. Angry. Sad even.

I still don’t know what the delay was for.

Welcome to Sweden. And Stockholm Arlanda.

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Purple Shorts and a Purple Tie are not OK

I am not a fashionable person. I am sitting here writing this in a t-shirt I have owned since I worked as a janitor in high school. That’s about eight years ago. My shorts are stained. Personally, I’m impressed that my socks match.

Living in Sweden has made me a bit more fashionable though. For example, I own a yellow shirt now. Considering it isn’t blue, black, white, or grey, this is a big step for me.

All that being said, even I know that some fashion choices aren’t ok. A fashion faux pas if you will. And the other night night, something caught my eye. At first glance, I was convinced it might be the Grimace. But I was wrong.

I looked closely and instead of a large fat purple blob creature that loves McDonald’s hamburgers, it was a regular Swede. About my age. About my height and build. Short dark hair, conspicuous because of its lack of product. A decent size guy over all. For some reason, the fact that he was somewhat tall made what he was wearing look even more ridiculous.

My initial reaction to a purple creature wasn’t too far off. The guy was wearing purple shorts. Which, in and of itself, is just ridiculous. But it got better. Or worse, depending on your point of view. Because along with his purple shorts was a matching purple tie.

My old man never taught me much about fashion, but he taught me when to wear a tie. And while never explicitly stated, it was implied that a tie should never be worn with purple shorts. It’s a good lesson really.

The evening continued and I was transfixed by the purple man. It was like watching a train wreck. Here was as guy who was over 6 feet tall, wearing a purple tie to match his purple shorts while dancing around. He looked like a he should have just stepped out of a miniature car and started making balloon animals with a group of clowns. Instead he was dancing. With a girl. Who, by the way, was wearing bright red shorts. But no red tie to match.

That’s when I realized it. I will never be European. At least not that kind of European. I have an EU passport. I speak a European language. But European fashion escapes me. Despite my yellow shirt.

Welcome to Sweden. And purple pants.

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Revisiting a Strange Morning with Swedish Boobs

Last week I was asked about my time in Sweden. Why I was here. What I liked and didn’t like. Why I started writing this blog.

I began by explaining all of the differences in Swedish society that I didn’t realize until I made the move. Then I started recounting some of the ridiculous things that had happened to me while living here. Unfortunately, one of those things might be seen as somewhat inappropriate. Maybe not inappropriate, but the story does not always lend itself to many situations.

So instead, I cut myself off, making myself seem borderline creepy, but sparing my audience any undue embarrassment. It was the ultimate sacrifice really. I’m basically a verbal martyr.

I didn’t really think much of it until last night. And since then, I haven’t been able to keep boobs off my mind. One boob to be exact. The left boob. I don’t have some sort of strange left boob fetish. But I was in a reflective mood. And who doesn’t like reflecting on boobs? Swedish boobs at that.

Just over a year ago, I was on the elevator when a girl walked in with her left boob hanging out. I did not know said girl. She did not know me. But I will never forget her.

Because of the imprint she left, I decided to re-post my Swedish elevator boob experience. Kind of lazy, I know. Although, I just wrote a rather lengthy introduction. Anyway, without further ado, A Strange Morning with Swedish Boobs in Stockholm

From June 10th, 2008:
Today was definitely one of the weirdest mornings of my life here in Stockholm. Maybe just of my life in general.

The day started out fine. Showered. Ate breakfast. Brushed my teeth. Managed to dress myself in a halfway professional manner for my less than professional job. I left the apartment at a relatively normal time. I live a few floors up so took the elevator down. And for a couple of floors everything was normal. Until the elevator stopped at which point a girl got on. And said hello, which in and of itself could qualify as pretty strange here in Stockholm. But anyway. She was kind of punky, hipster looking. Skinny. Dark dyed hair. She had a grey hangy wife beater shirt on. Kind of one of the styles that seems to be popping up in this summer weather. Under that she seemed to have some sort of bikini top. Now, in general I don’t stare indiscriminately at girls chests. But something was amiss here. And being the astute and observant fellow that I am, I looked.

Instead of that bikini top acting as some sort of bra it acted more as a shelf. Because her left boob was hanging out. As all of this was registering she decided to take the weirdness up a notch. She asked me where she was. I responded. She thanked me. She then took out her phone and tried to make a phone call but was discouraged to find that since we were in the elevator it didn't quite work. Now mind you this all happened pretty quickly. Of course I was trying to figure out exactly how in the hell to handle this situation. It’s not exactly like telling someone they have a little broccoli in their teeth.

But the elevator ride continued. We rode down a couple of more floors and stopped once more. At which point she got off. And another guy got in. Whose eyes immediately found the left boob. He looked at me, I kind of smiled and chuckled and so did he. We shared a moment if you will. The girl then got back on and mumbled something about it not being easy and that she probably shouldn't get off there. I agreed.

So we made it to the bottom floor and she got off. I started to pull away in hopes of just getting out of there, because come on, her boob was hanging out. She walked fast though. But I have long legs. So as we got outside I pulled away a little bit. She was a sneaky one though and caught up and asked me how to get to a train or subway station. So I pointed her in the direction of the train station and started walking. She came with me. Keep in mind her left boob was still hanging out. At this point I had just made my decision that I was going to keep my mouth shut. Walk quickly, eyes straight ahead and delve deep into my Swedishness. That is to say avoid at all costs any sort of situation that could be the least bit awkward. And plus I kind of hoped that the cold of the outdoors might tip her off that something just wasn’t right. Of course that doesn’t solve plumber’s crack…

Finally, as we crossed the street she must have checked herself and the next time I looked at her, her boob was covered. Good times indeed. Anyway, we walked to the station with me giving directions every now and again but mostly just walking in an awkward silence. Because her boob had been hanging out for a few minutes. After a few minutes of walking in silence a light went off in her, what I assume to be, foggy head. “Oh I know where we are, my mom works right across the street.” You are kidding me. So now she’s trying to make small talk. At this point my mind is just blown. I respond and we continue walking. Somehow still together. I’m telling you, this girl walked quickly. We got to the train station. She pulled ahead on the escalator and I just let her go. No thank you or even a good bye. I mean clearly we had shared something special, but I was nothing to her.

The weird thing is she didn't reek of booze. She must have been drunk though. I hope. She was surprisingly chipper so early in the morning considering her boob was hanging out and she didn’t know where she was.

Throughout the day I’ve been reliving this in my head. Each time I have to remind myself that this actually happened. These are the things I will never forget when I leave Sweden. Stadshuset? Moderna museet? Djurgården? They’ve got nothing on the girl in the elevator with her left boob hanging out.

So welcome to Sweden. I couldn’t make this stuff up if I wanted to.

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Regular Furloughs during Life in Prison – Murder Ensues

A man who was convicted for murder and sentenced to life in prison was recently hanging out on Kungsholmen. You may find it strange that a man supposedly imprisoned for life was hanging out on the very island which I ran around twice in a row to complete a solid half marathon. Let me remind you though, this is Sweden.

The Swedish justice system has a very interesting take on life in prison. And crime in general. They believe that everyone can be saved. That there are no bad people. That we will all one day sit around the camp fire and sing Kumbaya and hold hands.

Then a man who is serving life in prison is hanging out on his regular furlough and murders someone. Furlough is the fancy word that The Local used to report this story. An interesting little tidbit, look for synonyms of furlough in Microsoft Word and you’ll see that vacation pops up. Awesome. Because murderers definitely need vacations. Hell, the average Swedish worker gets about five weeks of it. The average murderer should get a piece of that pie too.

I do not like the Swedish justice system. Things like this happen just enough to make me think twice about the effectiveness. Like the guy downloading over two million pictures of child pornography for nearly twenty years who received only six months in prison. Or the convicted murderer who escaped while on a field trip during the busy Christmas shopping period.

But this one might take the cake. Because a convicted murderer sentenced to life in prison, killed another person while on vacation.

Surprisingly, it gets better. Because our convicted murdered had been on such good behavior, Gunnar Brodin recommended that life be shortened to 21 years. He had already spent 13 years in prison. Which is a pretty solid amount of time to spend in prison, but it is a lot less than life. Our good friend, Gunnar Brodin, whoo recommended the prisoner have his sentence shortened and be allowed out on field trips, says he won’t take any responsibility for what happened. Apparently, the prisoner had been going out on regular furloughs for a few years now. Awesome.

Mr. Brodin (just pretend you’re reading the Financial Times with the Mr. in front of his name) did however, admit that allowing the murderer our on the streets was “a poor decision.” In other news, puppies are cute, grass is green, and the Red Wings suck. No shit Mr. Brodin.

I don’t even know where to begin. It is just asinine to allow this sort of thing to happen. Fine, you want to treat the criminal and rehabilitate him. Fine. But do not allow this person to wander around Stockholm, uninhibited, until you are damn sure he really is rehabilitated. Because, just guessing, just thinking he is, is not ok.

Welcome to Sweden. Where Mr. Brodin is a head prosecutor making decisions with the support of the Swedish justice system.

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The Week Thus Far in Stockholm, Sweden

I got pooped on. By a bird luckily, but still, I was pooped on. I heard the splat. I feared the worst. But it hit my backpack. Brown and nasty. Which was surprising, because I thought bird poop was always white. Turns out the white poop had landed on my black jacket just inches from my neck.

It rained. And rained. And rained some more. It rained so much that I bought a cartoon covered umbrella. I cursed the Swedish summers. I complained to friends and family. I was basically a bipedal Eeyore. It was bad. And then the sun came out. All was forgiven. When the winters consist of 17 hours of darkness, sunlight becomes very important.

I was completely ignored by a cashier. She looked right at me. I said hello and began putting my groceries on the conveyor belt. Then a man came out of nowhere. She had already begun helping him and he had forgotten something. So obviously, this being Sweden, she was unable to speak to anyone else. The sad thing is that being ignored by cashiers when speaking directly to them is more common than I would like to think.

That being said, I was also pleasantly surprised by the customer service of one store. The people at Galleri Elde Art Stockholm were friendly, helpful, and even managed to have what I had ordered ready and waiting for me when I came in just before closing. And the sad thing here is that, so much of this should be a normal part of good customer service, but I was damn near ready to give the old man and the girl at the cashier a hug because stuff like that seems so rare sometimes in Stockholm. But it happened. And I couldn’t have been happier.

And soon I will be heading off to get drunk and dance around a phallic green pole while singing about small frogs. Oh Swedish Midsommar, how I love you so.

Welcome to Sweden.