3 November 2002, entry 1

Well, in a previous posting, I had promised that I was going to provide you more details about the new fragrance that I am wearing, CK Crave. It is a very nice fragrance indeed, however, once I began wearing it in earnest, I noticed that the skin was literally rotting off my hands. I was so scared that I went to the emergency room. They laughed at me and asked if I had traveled. The nurse blamed it on the UK, with the crazy explanation that it was probably because of the difference in the hardness of the water, and that I was also probably mixing some chemicals amongst the different beauty aids — er, beauty enhancement products — that I use. So after I was convinced I didn’t have mad cow disease, I left the hospital. Those Swedish nurses — they look nothing like they do on porn videos (did I say that?).

For those who have ever seen my bathroom, you instantly know that I like to smell good and use various fragrances. It kicked off one of my most expensive habits — the buying of various colognes, hair and body shampoos, and moisturizers. And I have to blame my sister Roxanne for this. It all started on December 25, 1999. Either I smelled really bad, or she just thought it was time I wear something other than that bottle of polo sport I stole from my older brother. She gave a gift set of CK Obsession. It smelled so good that I still use it (I’m obsessed with it I suppose). From there, I added Tommy cologne and body products (I still use those too). Then because of Steve, I learned of a wonderful store called Sephora, and then added various daily maintenance products. Of course, because of Maha, I learned that one had to “re-scent” at some point during the day after the fragrance had worn off from the morning, so that introduced the Vercase Blue Jeans, as well as the Dolci & Gabana Homme fragrance into the collection. Finally, I added CK Crave in the beginning of October, on the advice of the Fragrance Consultant when I was at Sephora Headquarters in Paris. Actually, the consultant was quite nice. I wanted to buy CK Crave and another fragrance and the told me not to buy the second fragrance because it probably would smell too strong for the winter. And I felt I could trust her when she didn’t recommend a replacement, but encouraged me to try Crave and that if I didn’t like it, come back and she’d recommend something else. Anyway, the moral of the story is that I often smell very pretty. So you (yes YOU reading this) simply must compliment me on how good I smell, like mommy does, or else I’ll never talk to you again.

Belive it or not, all of this talk of fragrance is connected to the feature thought of the day, which is I believe that the peruvian pipe players are stalking me. You know who they are. You see them wearing their ponchos, trying to shake you down for your loose change. After seeing them all of the world (strangely enough, they are not in China), I have determined two things:

* The Peruvian pipe players are sponsored by the government of peru in some way. I just can’t prove it right now.

* The Peruvian pipe players are perennial favourites all around the world, rivaled only by the long-running production of Cats worldwide.

While they are a site to behold, it is funnier to watch the Swedish watch them. Some actually get up the nerve to gently sway back and forth. But most just stare — intensely. It’s as if they are waiting for them to explode like a pinata (of course, no hitting or violence would be required, as the combustion would be spontaneous). Or maybe the Swedish think about their lives against the backdrop of peruvian music, reminding them of sunny summer lazy days. My money is on the spontaneous combusting pinata thing. Because wouldn’t it be neat if all peruvian’s were filled with candy?

Ciao, Rodney

31 October 2002, Entry 1

So yeah, I’ve been doing a bad job of updating at least 3 times a week like I had said I would. So shoot me. Actually, don’t shoot me, I am too pretty to be hurt. Actually, it is good to know that you guys actually read this from time to time, if only to laugh at my expense. Which is fine with me.

So besides Steve’s visit, I also got a visit from other members of the Scooby Gang, known as IT audit. The gang consisted of Artie the One Man Party, Timmy the New Hire, Pammy Pam Pam, and Momma Palmer (Pam’s mommy-in-law). They were fun to hang out with during the week were be both in Stockholm (see my previous entry on the UK because I had to leave the Scooby Gang during their second week in Stockholm). I went out to dinner with them a couple of times and did some touristy things with them, and then Tim and I went out for drinks, including at the ultra-cool Ice Bar. It was a pretty good time and a welcome visit.

They also saw my new apartment, and liked it as much as I did. Mamma Palmer was impressed with the wood floors. Pammy Pam Pam quite enjoyed the warm and sunny feeling of the apartment. Art enjoyed the buttons on the kitchen stove. And Timmy the new Hire just liked the apartment. So with such rave reviews, the apartment is a keeper…

…however, there are somethings that I have yet to understand about the apartment. The washing machine is fantastic; however, the dryer really isn’t drying as much as “moistening” my clothes. And the washing machines sometimes scares me, especially in the spin cycle, because the cycle is so aggressive that it sounds like it is trying to create a vortex to suck me into the 7th layer of hell. Also, the freezer is keeping things warm, while the microwave is keeping things cool. And no, I don’t have them confused…I just don’t know how they work. So in the meantime, until I get the freezer working, I can’t do the kind of cooking that I want. Actually, I can, I just have to go to the market everyday, which is another story in and of itself…

…you see people, going to the market is the US is mostly like going to the market in Sweden, except not really. Things have the same general organisation, but the selection is different and I can’t quite understand the language yet. So basically, I stick to orange juice, fruits, diet coke, swedish meatballs, strawberry jam, a selection of cheeses and breads, pastas, and when I want something chocolately, Nutella. This is my diet, besides the sandwiches I have for lunch at work. And it didn’t help I was standing in the “7-items or less” checkout with 40 items. Contorted looks of judgement crossed everyone’s faces. By the way, did I mention that I am dropping weight? Some nights I stand outside my flat with a sign that reads “hungry. will feed you if you cook food.” So far, no takers. If I were in England and held that a sign that said “free dental care if you cook for me”, people would be lining up around the corner. Bloody right they would!

So in terms of work, it’s been busy. I am not too sure what I am doing, but everyone seems to think I am successful at it. “Oy vey!” an ancient Chinese philosopher once said. Yeah, oy vey! indeed…

Well, that enough pearls of wisdom for the moment. I think I’ll create one of those notification lists so that you know to come to visit me when I’ve updated my travelouge.

Hasta la pasta! (hey, it’s the only think I can make here until someone shows me how the oven works)

Ciao, Rodney

Hello journal. So it has been a whole week, hasn’t it? Oh well, you know that I was just saving up some good stories to share with you. I’ve just spent the last week in the UK, and it was a good trip, but now that I recently had an apartment, it felt a little wierd that I would have to go back to the road. I wanted to stay in my apartment and get used to living in Stockholm a bit more, but I know that I will have plenty of time for this later.

Anyway, I was traveling to Portsmouth, UK…a little place that I like to call “Chunky Acres”. Not because the peopel there are fat, but because of the fact that I usually work out a lit more when I am travellling by myself. Coming over to the UK, I thought that I had weighed in at 270 lbs (122 kg). Speaking of the trip over…that begins a whole other adventure….

So I arrive in Heathrow Airport. For once, the flight departs and arrives on time, or on time enough for Europe. So I am thinking that with things going so well, nothing that possibly go wrong. To understand something essential, you have to know that Heathrow Airport is in London, and I was supposed to drive town to Portsmouth. So after landing (and picking up soe more CK Crave — the new fragrance by Calvin Klein…more on this later), I get into my rental car and go go go!

Following the directions (partially as it would turn out) that I was given, I began driving on the M25 highway, known as the M25 Orbital. So I was driving on this road for an an hour, and all of the sudden, I begin to see signs showing directions to the Chunnel (the tunnel that England and France share). At the toll (this is another bad sign since tolls aren’t supposed to be introduced into the UK until February 2002), I ask the toll booth guy if I am in the direction of Portsmouth? Nope, he declared, and then proceeds to make me pull over to the side of the road so that he could give me directions to get back onto the right side of the M25 orbital (I was going North when I should have been going South). With a lot of thanks for setting me in the right direction, I set back out on my journey, knowing that I had just added 40 miles to my journey. So I am going on the M25 Orbital South, and after about 90 minutes, things begin to look awfully familiar. “Oh wow” I say to myself “they have the same gas stations and road set up on this side of the M25 orbital as well. Interesting. I finally arrive at another toll booth. This seem interesting, so when I pull up to the toll booth window, the guy looks very familiar. He gives me a look and I ask him “oh my goodness, are you a twin? There’s another toll booth worker who looks just like you.” “I AM THE SAME GUY” he responds back. Jesus Christos! This is more than I can bare, so he pulls me over to the side of the road again. The first thing he says is “DO YOU UNDERSTAND-O THAT ‘ORBITAL’ MEAN IT IS A CIRCLE-O?” “Oh, that’s makes sense, because everything looked the same after awhile” I responded. He was less than amused. So he told me to wait while he want to get me the map from his car (what a nice offer, eh?) so that I would have a map. Little did he know that I already had one. And when he came back his map, I showed him my map. At which point he responded “OH BLOODY HELL. YOU’RE ON YOUR OWN. FOLLOW THE BLOODY MAP!” And then he left. And low and behold, the map had the exact directions that I needed. Who knew? To make a longer story short, what should have been a 90 minute trip turned out to be a 4 hour and 30 minute trip. Sigh…why I am sooooo directionally challenged?

To continue on with my week, it was a great learning experience, but not really eventful. I realised during the week that while the Brits and the Yanks might both speak English, I will be damned if I understand them half the time. Most of the questions that they’d ask I would respond to with a “oh wow…I’ll have to get back to you on that.” Even I understand the Swedish better than the English (even if the sentances are not always complete).

And true to my word, I was able to work out regularly at the hotel. And when I stepped on the scale, I found that I didn’t weigh 270 lbs (122 kgs) as I had feared. However, not all was well in hefty-ville, I still clocked in at a robust 240 lbs (109 kgs), which means that I put on 10 lbs (4.5 kgs). Sigh…I am going to ship myself off to a Swiss fat farm. Speaking of which, I had an emotional moment. I was at a display in a musem. During which there was a Dutch couple behind me pointing at the picture we were all staring at. However, I wasn’t really paying attention to them, except when they said something like “yadda yadda Prince of Wales” and pointed in my direction. I thought that they were calling me the Price of Whales and I got offended (I had realised that the exhibit had a small picture of the crown). There I was, imaging myself like Willy the Whale, jumping out of the water, doing tricks for fish. Sigh…but then I realised and I felt better.

Friday saw me make the trip back from Portsmouth to Heathrow airport, where I was dropping off the car because I was going to stay in London for the weekend (and London doesn’t require a car really). Driving back to the airport area was piece of cake. However, I couldn’t find the airport to save my life. Which gives me the opportunity to share what has become the bane of my existence…the British roundabout. It is terrible and tries to destroy my life. These roundabouts have a simple concept…it’s a circle and different exits in the circle point you in different directions, and people in the roundabout always have the right of way. However, the signage leading to the roundabout was not always as clear and robust as one would have liked it to be. As a result, got lost very easily, but always managed to find my way eventually. I am definately not a fan of the roundabout. So to make the a long story short, because I kept on getting off on the wrong exits in the roundabouts, what should have been a 90 minute trip to the airport took about 2 hours and 30 minutes. I really need a compass and to create a book called “Directions for Dummies”

Over the course of the weekend, I was as lazy as possible, which means that I went shopping. I bought hats, gloves, and shoes because you know darling, you can never have enough of any of these items. I also went to a few nightclubs and pubs. They were interesting, but certainly nothing spectacular.

Anyway, that’s all for now.

Ciao, Rodney

16 October 2002, Entry 2

So today I went to get a haircut. Oh fun, my first haircut in Sweden. Those who know me that I usually commit to one barber and stay with them until either I leave that city, or one of us dies…whichever comes first. Well, since it is just a tad bit too far away to make a jaunt across the states in order to get a haircut, I have decided that I would try to find a place here to get a haircut because I think that it would be the best thing to do. Besides, it was getting to the point where I was looking like a young Micheal Jackson. Perhaps a better example, for those of you who have seen Austin Powers: Goldmember, was the scene where Beyonce Knowles (of Destiny’s Child) hair is short and wet, and then with a couple of shakes, she has a huge afro! That was me. I am not suggesting that I am now Beyonce Knowles, but like Micheal Jackson and Diana Ross, you haven’t really seen us together in public have you? I’ll let you form your own conclusions.

Anyway, when I get to the styling salon (it was recommended), it turns out that the one person who cuts black hair only does so twice a week. So the stylist is very nervous to cut my hair, but he tries to show as much confidence as he can. I warned him that if my haircut came out wrong, that I would probably “over-react”. This made him even more nervous. He called a phone number and started speaking frantically into the phone. He put on his hands-free set and continued talking while cutting my hair. I could just imagine that he called some kind of “Black Hair Support Line”. I can just imagine the person on the other end of the line “remain calm…it’s just like we taught you in styling class…don’t get scared…you can do this”. I knew that this was going to be an interesting haircut because instead of using an electric razor, he used scissors and his imagine.

Well, to make a long story short. The good news is that I no longer look like Micheal Jackson during his afro years. I now look like a member of the rap group Kid and Play. The haircut I have now I only see on classic episodes of Yo MTV Raps! But hey, it’s a step up. Sigh…time to get back to the UK or Paris and have them work on my mop.

In the next issue…the IT audit gang’s in town and comes to visit my new apartment…stay tuned…

Ciao, Rodney

16 October 2002

So, I just moved into my new apartment yesterday. It is very nice and I like it a lot. I am planning on making a few changes to it, but for the moment, I’ve got no complaints. On one hand, it felt good to get the keys to the place because it cemented the fact that I now formally have a place to live. On the other hand, I started to cry because it meant that I was now no longer on expenses. And life feels different when IBM is not picking up the tab. Except that in many other ways, they are picking up the tab for me, so I can’t complain *too* loudly.

What the moves signifies the most is that I don’t have to spend another night in a lonely place called “Shantytown” otherwise known as Akalla Hotel Apartments. And this makes me happy. Man, I feel like breakdancing. Shantytown was the pitts. Now I live right outside the city, but close enough to get to where I need to go (and it’s a 30 second walk to the subway from my apartment). I’m moving on up. Just need to get me a tweed suit and wife named Weezie and I’ll be George Jefferson. I had the afro thing going already….

11 October 2002

Well, we have just concluded two weeks with Steven Needham making a visit to Stockholm. It was cool to see and hang out with Steve. During Steve’s time here, I was staying mostly at the Hilton Hotel. Steve was staying at the Sheraton Hotel. They were seperated by a river. During Steve’s time here, he and I made many observations about the Swedish. So we decided — in true “Lord of the Rings” fashion, that Steve and I each represented a tower…

…an unholy union came upon the Swedish, to wreak havoc in the land of the Nordics. Their decisions would impact the people of Nordic Earth. To the west you had fashionably cheeky Steve, in the tower of Sheraton. To the dark east you had suave Rodney, dark lord of the Hilton…

Anyway, I found an apartment today. It is HUGE! I loved it when I first walked around. It had 2 bedrooms (one of which will be turned into a guest room/office), a living room, and a kitchen large enough to place a table in (where the help can eat — anyone wanna come over and keep this place tidy for me?). Barring any surprises, I think that I will be moving in on Tuesday. It is fully furnished, but I do need to purchase a television as well as a stereo system. And some other house items. I like the furniture and stuff inside, so I am very OK with the apartment. I am so happy about the apartment. It’s beautiful. Now I just need to make internet reservations to accomodate all of you whom said that you promised to vist!

8 October 2002

Well, it has been quite some time since I have mad an entry in the journal. I am surprised that people are actually reading it in fact, as I have gotten a couple of notes letting me know that a journal entry was lacking.

Well, in the past week, Stockholm has been graced with a visit from Steven Needham. He’s someone I used to work with in audit, and now he works all throughout Europe, Middle East, and Africa (EMEA), continuing the jet-setting lifestyle. It’s been pretty good to have Steve here because it’s nice to speak with someone whose first language is English. Interestingly, Steve and I understand each other less than we understand the Swedish. But it’s been fun all of the same.

Journal, let me tell you, life has been all about being hectic and busy. I moved to an apartment-hotel (only for this month) which is located in Akalla. This is outside of Sweden. My residence is far away from everything essential (bars and clubs) and I hate it. I have several names for it including “shanty-town”, “cellblock ibm”, and “crackville”. If I leave the office after dark, I am all about a taxi. And during the weekend, I am all about living in Stockholm at a hotel. Because folks, being surrounded by shanty-people on the weekend — when you are not in a bar — is just not fun.

Well, it’s been busy the past week, but maybe I have a moment to share an experience with you…

Every Saturday that I am in Stockholm I have a routine. I go shopping and buy things in the town center and I end my exhausting experience at Ikki (pronounced E-chi), which is a sushi bar. Every time I go, I am served by Simon the waiter. I order japanese tea, a bowl of miso soup, chicken yakatori, and extra rice. It comes out to 168 Swedish monetary units. Simon gets 200 of these thingomonombers and can keep the change. It is my routine. Like Simon (played by Jack Nicholson in “As Good As It Gets). Well, this past saturday I was seated by someone else and waited on by someone else. The service was horrible. The waitress was horrible. The food tasteless. My waitress kept on ignoring me as she was clippety-clopping around the restaurant in her too-tight outfit, as the winne the pooh ankle bracelet she was wearing was struggling to stay connected around the hoofs that were her ankles. I was angry. Finally, I saw Simon, and I moved tables. Horse Girl got mad at me and she wanted Simon’s tip. So I made a big scene. There was more drama than an episode of West Wing. But everyone knows now that I like routines. Or maybe I am just crazy. Clippety-clop?

Ciao, Rodney

24 September 2002

Hello journal. I often refer to you like you are a person, and I am not quite sure why. If I start referring to myself in the third person, then I am in serious trouble.

So last night Ewa gave me a call out of the blue. That was awesome and it made me really happy because I hadn’t spoken with her for the longest time. She gave me a lot of good insights into how the Swedes work. And actually, I understand her so much better now that I am here. Not that she was some unsolvable mystery before I came to Sweden, but I better understand the cultural perspective she brought with her to the states. So I can’t wait for her to eventually come back to Sweden and she can show me how she experiences Sweden — it should be very different than the way I experience Sweden.

Today’s revelation is about music. Specifically, “Schlager” music or Swedish pop music. While you have probably never heard of it out of Sweden, within the country, once they play Schlager music, the crowd goes wild. They start dancing and singing like they just won the world cup. Except since it’s in Swedish, I still don’t understand it (although I will buy a Schlager CD because it does sound interesting). So anyway, at this one bar I went to, Schlager music came on and everyone was dancing and I thought “what the hell” and just started dancing too. And while everyone was singing what the real words were, I would just make up my own words and sing them in English. So to a techno-ish dancing beat, I made up a song that went something like:

“when i was a young boy, i had a pet fish, and i was happy;

and then i lost him, i was sad and felt really crappy,

i began to look around

my fish was lost but now he’s found

in my fish tank safe and sound

and now i’m happy — woo hoo

blah blah blah…something or other…i’ve found my fish and now i’m happy

yadda yadda yadda…i’ve found my fish and now i’m happy

break it down now…”

So, you can imagine that I am singing this over the Schlager song, and most of the people dancing near me were looking at me. Actually, most were genuinely frightened I believe. One couple looked at me and I just smiled and said “I have no clue what the singer is saying.” They laughed at me. I asked them to translate. Roughly, it was something about love and winds of change and other crap. I personally wish she was singing about my fish song.

I realize that you must think that my life is one big party, filled with clubs, expensive booze, and fancing meals. And you’d be correct, except not really. My goal is to go to every club once and get a feel for what it is like. And I like spending about 30 minutes in them during the weekday because on the weekend, everything just gets very crazy. And according to one of my new Swedish friends, this Friday should be the most interesting time of the month, because the vast majority of Swedes receive their monthly salaries or social payments (if they need such assistance) and of course will spend a portion of partying like it’s 1999. Unfortunately, I won’t be here for the partying on Friday, since I have to go to Paris on Thursday afternoon for an all-day meeting on Friday. However, I will be back on Saturday afternoon in time for evening festivities. However, whether I actually go out depends on how much fun I have in Paris since I have a couple of friends and some workmates I want to meet up with.

Anyway, have to go…time for an “instant meeting” ™, which means that someone has come to my desk and decided that we need to meet in 10 minutes to discuss topics I know nothing about while I create the appearance of being competent through nothing more than reflective listening and delegation. I mean…ummm….ciao.

Rodney

First things first. Some of you have noticed that my journal is in dire need of grammatical correction and spell check. I agree with you completely. So if you’d like to edit my work and send it back to me, send me an e-mail and we’ll make some arrangements. Otherwise, I am just too lazy to appear like I care about the spelling and grammar. So shoot me. Or just read on…

So today journal I got into work late…again. This time I came in at about 11am. I tell you, I am going to stop going out on Sunday nights…it’s just not good. The dreams due to drinking are bizzare (I can’t even go into it here), and I am usually so exhausted that I spend the rest of the week trying to make sure for the weekend, and then throw the schedule all off again beginning on Thursday.

So, I am in the process of making friends in Stockholm. The people I meet are very very nice, and I think that I am going to have a wonderful time here. But none of this has anything to do with what I wanted to tell you. And frankly, I get the feeling that you, dear reader, are tired of you telling me how I am doing and how much I like Stockholm and how much fun and yadda yadda yadda…so…moving on…

I was coming back home for the evening (it was 04.30am) and after gaining entrance into the hotel (they secure the doors at night, lest those non-existent vagrants enter the hotel…but I understand, the hotel is in the heart of downtown), I went to the elevator in order to go to my room and call it a night and get ready for the work day. Once I stepped off the elevator and turned the corner, there were these two women in the hallway talking. They were beautiful. And this is what all your pre-pubscent boys dream about in math class instead of studying trigonometry (except for Rich Bozzuto, he was actually studying). But they started talking Sweden and as you know, I can’t speak Swedish yet. So I just said “good night”, which must be a prostitute-speak for “me love you long time.” You know they are hookers because let’s face it girls, when was the last time you said to yourself “you know, it’s only 4am. How about going to expensive business hotels and troll for guys at least twice our age? You know, just for shits and giggles?” I would say you have a better chance finding the your dream date at www.fatchicksinpartyhats.com than ever having the scenario above come to pass. So, I tried to keep walking, but they asked me if I wanted to see them naked because they wanted to see me naked. So I looked at them and said “girls, as Shakira said ‘underneath these clothes, there’s and endless story’.” “What?” they replied. I responded “yeah, and the story was written by Steven King, you know it’s a horror story.” “What?” one of them said again. Well, being drunk and having my humor go unappreciated, I just told them that I wasn’t at all interested and went to me room. Which was all well and good, until they were outside my door (you know this hooker-recession is creating the need to make new business opportunities by any means necessary). Then I called security. And then I can’t remember anything else because I passed out.

Oh well….just another day in Stockholm…well, I have to back to work now…love you journal.

Ciao, Rodney

Hello all. I wish that I had something and fun to report to you today, but unfortunately I don’t. Yesterday was entirely uneventful. It was quite possibly the most boring night of my time here. Except for those delicious apple martinis I was scarfing down at the bar. Ah yeah, like manna from heaven, these martinis get me through the morning…

Right now the computer network is down. That means that I can get no work done. I would normally have felt good about this and would be the cabbage patch kid in the center of the floor. However, such expressions or emotion are bad in Sweden. I’d be drug off to the looney bin in no time flat. So I revel in my happy by dancing in my chair.

In staring out of my window, looking at the trees and the squirrel who just lost it’s footing and probably plunged to its death, I am starting to realize just how precious life it. Live every moment. Be like the squirrel. Take risks in life, because even though the price might be death, no one wants to live a sendentary lifestyle looking out of windows waiting for squirrels to die, eh? Oh wait…the squirrel has stumbled away. So like I was saying, I’m starting to realize just how rewarding it is to take a chance on something. Do something different. Be like the squirrel. Because even though the price might be death, no one wants to live a sedentary lifestyle looking out of windows watching squirrels stumble around after falling out of trees, eh?

Well, that’s enough wisdom for one day.

Ciao, Rodney