Archive for the ‘Wayback machine’ Category

Another year

Tuesday, October 18th, 2016

So it’s me birthday. Again, as it seems. Funny how the time flies when you’re and so on.

Instead of eating cake so much I’ll puke, I’m at home sneezing what’s left of my brain (‘not a lot’ -you, ‘ye u right’ -me) out. I’ve also been watching a shitty film (i hate to say this but the sequel to Once Were Warriors is painful), drinking a lot of tea and orange juice and hitting up Wayback Machine.

I found a few blog entries from 2005 (jesus i’ve been a blogger for a good while, eh), from my fourth domain, I’m ranting on about how music is my life and how it’s the only place that lets me relax because I’m a fidgety bastard. And I’m shouting in caps to Johnnie how much I love him and calling him my knight in shiny armor. I’m having database troubles because of domain move and I’m being a bit of a fangirl.

So, in ten years nothing’s changed.

Except the domain name.

The bartending years

Thursday, October 6th, 2016

A friend of mine had her birthday today and one of her friends posted a birthday picture on her wall on Facebook and in the comments something was said and it brought to my mind some things that are basically Ancient History™ and therefore you’ll inevitably get to hear about them.

When I was sixteen-ish, I had a crush on this guy, who lived in an apartment building next to the building my best friend lived. Why I had a crush on such a random guy? Probably because he looked a bit like Bono. We used to call him Bono II up until the point when we got to know his name. Well, actually we called him Bono II even after that, because hello, codenames and secrecy and everything teen-aged-girl.

Well, turned out he owned a bar and after long and winding turns of events, I ended up bartending in that joint. I loved that wreck of a bar. It was the first bar I went the evening I turned 18 and was legally allowed to mainline beer and get publically plastered. It was also the first bar I got so plastered in I ended up arse over tits several times on my way home (i also took a little nap under a bush one time or another, because i was too drunk to crawl all the way home, ahh those more innocent times, hm). It was a bar suitable for geeks like me, who liked to dye their hair in colors unimaginable and wear makeup that could only be described as hhmhmmh… interesting. I’m so glad selfies didn’t exist back then.

I made a lot of friends there and I’m not ashamed to say I had a bit of a thing going on with one of the other bartenders in there. To be fair tho, half the town had had a bit of a thing going with him at some point or another, but hey, it takes one to know one, you know, so no name calling.

What I remember most about that bar and all of the gang there (including the owners) is that more often than not, we would be at ours until the closing time (at 2 am) and then work our way by some means or another (this sometimes included drunk driving by some (i swear it wasn’t me) and i’m not very proud of these moments, but shit happened and that’s that) to the other one, in our minds the better one, of the local nightclubs. We couldn’t go to the other one because one person in our group was engaged to a person working in that club and this person just couldn’t be there drunk, because of reasons (look, i’m trying to be polite and not say this guy went crazy over anything with a vagina and preferrebly a pulse when he got drunk but i see there’s no getting around it, sorry). And in that better nightclub we sometimes ended up doing the conga line (blame the dj) around the bar and drinking ourselves even more attractive than we already were.

I remember once, during one Migration of The Drunk™, my boss almost got into a fight with a bunch of farmers and we all had to leg it. And this one time, after a tattoo happening at the bar, there was an evening of boozing for the staff and someone threw a carrot that hit me right on the forehead (yes, one of those wtf moments) and after getting sufficiently drunk we all headed up to a fair where the boss man said he’d pay for us all and he was so motherfucking cute driving the bumper cars that I was sure I was gonna die. Ugh.

Oh mate, they were some good times, the short while they lasted.

Barista’s Dream

Sunday, February 14th, 2016

In 2012, just before the Olympic Games, me and the spousal unit took a trip to London. I was a six-day trip (of which I should’ve already made a photo journal at Travel) of basically running around the three museums we picked for seeing. And of course we roamed around the city for Tower Bridge and pub grub and beer.

It was on Friday when we ended up in Shad Thames with its posh flats and shops. Spousal unit, being an avid coffee drinker, suggested we head for coffee because he needed his caffeine fix. Off to Starbucks it was.

Now, we don’t have Starbucks here in rural Finland. Mostly because most of the people around here are like me when it comes to coffee: it better be black and served in a proper mug. So this was a first to me as well as the spousal unit.

There were like two people besides us, drinking their chattelattewhattefuckees and staring at their laptops or pads. I stepped in near the counter to basically drool over all the baked goodies on display. The barista, a young fella (aren’t they always really) looked at me with neutral expression, because surely he’d seen this before, a fattie looking at cakes, making wet swallowing noises. When I finally looked up and proceeded to the part of the counter where one makes the order, his expression had turned to attentive, ears basically perking up to take in the mile-long order of carameldootyditty-whippywhappy-with-this-but-not-that. And there was I, going in a sheepish tone

“Tea please.”

I’m quite sure he was about to laugh with relief. So he asked what sort and of course in a paradise of twenty trillion options, I went

“Earl Grey please, no milk, no sugar, thank you.”

What about spousal unit then? Well, he ordered by basically gesturing all of himself: a tall, white americano. You see, he’s not one to remember the please, so everyone all around London was basically giving him shank eye and labelling him a septic*.

The barista was really very kind and I could tell he was very pleased to have two such easy customers. So we took our haul and went out to experience the only rain during the whole week of us being there.

But it was, by far, the most obscure summer weatherwise in that whole country in years. Even Jeremy Clarkson pointed it out on Top Gear.

*for those of you not familiar with rhyming slang, a septic means an american. yank – septic tank. pays to watch your QIs.


Friday, October 2nd, 2015

When me and my sister were kids, we used to do pretty much everything together, even tho she is four years my senior. We played a lot of games together, table tops and playing cards. Played with barbies and Ponies. Spent hours outside riding sleighs during the winter and building snow castles and snow horses. During summers there was a bunch of us kids playing all kinds of games like baseball.

And one time, late-ish in the evening on one frost-bitten August night, us two and a pair of equally geeky sisters from the neighbourhood, we came up with the idea of making a horror film.

It all came to us the first time when we were pretending that the potato field in our yard was a swamp, where disgusting things grew. It looked so creepy in the moonlight, with the mist floating over it. It wasn’t something we really thought much, it just came to us, since my dad had just bought a video camera, a luxury at that time, so we were kitted when it came to equipment.

The two sisters knew how to turn their eyelids inside out and they taught me to do that. We were supposed to be aliens that came from the mist on the potato field and killed everyone in some horrible alien way. Maybe turn them into likes of us, evil aliens with scary looking eyes, creeping across villages and towns as a slow moving army, wreacking havoc. We even made up a name for the film, Kuutamon 13 askelta, 13 Steps of the Moonlight. Doesn’t it sound ominous?

It never went any further than those one or two nights, we never even actually got the camera out to shoot anything. I think my sister may still have a bit of the script hidden somewhere, who knows. I guess it was just nice to scare ourselves thinking about evil aliens.

And sometimes even now, twenty-odd years later, when I see a potato field bathing in the moonlight, my mind plays tricks and I swear there’s someone. Eyelids turned. Slowly moving towards me.

Taking 13 steps.


Thursday, April 2nd, 2015

Easter is to some a religious holiday, about Jesus dying for our sins and then getting up and legging it up to heaven. I myself have never been a religious person, I honestly didn’t even know who the fuck Jesus was until I was told at school on the first grade (and after I was told, for a good amount of time I still thought he was just a dude who herded sheep a long time ago in some faraway land) so Easter to me is basically a long weekend with chocolate eggs involved. Those of you who want this post to be about me suddenly realizing the deeper meaning behind easter eggs, please hobble along, because this is not about that.

I want to tell you about the best easter egg hunt I’ve had.

My father is a pirate king. Well, not really, he’s a chief engineer and he’s always been at sea. When me and my sister were kids, he used to take us to his ship when we were on holidays from school. It wasn’t some massive cruise ship, no, it was a small-ish maintenace/oil spill response/tugboat type of thing, but it was a better playground than anyone else of our classmates had. And we could go everywhere in that ship, so it wasn’t like going on a cruise where you would promenade on the decks and eat at a restaurant. We ran around the bridge, sat on the captain’s chair, even got to steer the boat a bit and spent time between the massive diesel engines in the engine room. We spent, one at a time because we were exhausting kids, a week on board his ship during summertimes and we visited for a day here and there when we could. So this one easter we went there, as a family, and my dad and my mom hid some chocolate eggs all over the third deck so we could hunt them.

To a kid a ship is a magical place. You have all the furniture that look strange, like tables that have little barriers around them and cupboard doors that you need to open by pressing a button in the middle of the handle. Then you have the funny sofas that have a backrest that moves up and the beds above them that come down from the wall. It’s so functional and all because it just has to, but as a kid you don’t think about the reasons, you just think they’re funny as fuck, because you’re small enough to hide behind that movable backrest and if that’s not the best hiding place ever, I don’t know what is.

So there we were, me and my sister, searching for chocolate eggs behind friendship flags and calling eachother on the intercom to tell when ever one of us had some loot and meeting up at the bottom of the bridge staircase to compare the eggs. It took us well over an hour to find all the eggs (there were quite a few to be honest) and in the end the chocolates weren’t nearly as interesting as the search had been.

It was the best Easter ever.

And with that, I wish you all a pleasant Easter, a religious one or not. Be safe, drink responsibly and don’t drive like maniacs.