26/05/2011
estamos sempre a aprender
Hoje comi um vegetal chamado salsify*. Tipo salsifica. Do verbo salsificar. Olha, salsifica-me isso aí um bocado se faz favor.
Estava altamente delicioso.
Também aprendi a diferença entre uma laguna e uma lagoa, qual é a referência para a definição de um metro, e ainda que o Haiti tem 3 línguas oficiais.
*Se alguém souber o nome disto em Português...
Estava altamente delicioso.
Também aprendi a diferença entre uma laguna e uma lagoa, qual é a referência para a definição de um metro, e ainda que o Haiti tem 3 línguas oficiais.
*Se alguém souber o nome disto em Português...
18/05/2011
11/05/2011
Love is strange
Fui ver este filme no outro dia e...
A música inicial, tenho a certeza de a ter ouvido num anúncio qualquer, algures na nossa TV. Alguém se lembra? A café?
A música inicial, tenho a certeza de a ter ouvido num anúncio qualquer, algures na nossa TV. Alguém se lembra? A café?
10/05/2011
In love with Copenhagen
Não sei se viram o filme A Última Hora do Spike Lee, se não deviam ter visto, mas de qualquer maneira há uma cena brutal em que o Edward Norton fala consigo próprio ao espelho sobre Nova Iorque.
Ora eu costumo ler este blog escrito por um dinamarquês que voltou a Copenhaga depois de muitos anos algures no estrangeiro, ao ponto de partilhar quase tudo o que ele escreve no google reader - felizmente ele não escreve assim tanto. Mas este post, inspirado na tal cena d'A Última Hora, merece, para o bem e para o mal, vir parar aqui:
Fuck me? Fuck you! Fuck you and this whole city and everyone in it.
Fuck the Hellerup housewives with their three-hour haircut appointment, their fur coats, their paid-for midnight-black gasoline-guzzzler that they take a half kilometer to pick up their perfectly fucked up and not very cute private school brats. Their underpaid Phillipino nannies, their tea parties, their absent husbands and their empty fucking lives. Do something useful with your useless self.
Fuck the students with their state-financed education and their monthly allowance that they blow on booze and designer clothes carefully chosen to make them look just-so poor and then moan about. “I can’t afford rent, I’m eating butter on toast. Mommy, help me!” Fuck you. Taking eight years to finish your degree, you dumb fuck. Living the good life 'cause you can’t bear the thought of actually working for a living. Give me a fucking break. Get your education, get a job and start contributing something other than tired, rehearsed bile. Get a hair cut, grow up.
Fuck the immigrants with their late-night supermarkets with the shitty fruit and their cheap ass barbershop with the shitty haircuts. How hard can it fucking be? Their illegal activities and sending money back home (if they don’t smuggle it back themselves). Wobbling down the bikepath on their too-small women’s bikes. Where d’you steal that one from, Hassan? Hanging on street corners, polluting my air with your endless fucking kebab shops. Your not Italian, your pizzas suck! Get a real job, raise your kids. Or go the fuck home!
And fuck your wives. Seriously, do. Your wives lining up at the benefits office cause they can’t be assed to learn Danish. Their veils, their shopping bags and their muslim ways. But not so religious when it doesn’t pay are you? Come the fuck on. Get it together, leave your absusive husbands, get a life. Or go home!
Fuck your sons. With their guns and their gangs. Their tinted-window BMWs and hiphop sweaters that went out of style ten years ago. Their ridiculous crewcuts and their drug deals and their hard looks like someone is taking a neverending piss on their kebab. Please, no one’s buying it. Get a fucking life, take some repsonsibilty, be a role model instead of a fuck up. Educate yourself, read, stop wasting your precious life on a street corner. Try being nice for a change.
Fuck the Christiania hippies. You're a sterotype. With your tie-dye shirts and your dreads and your filthy fucking medieval excuse for a freetown. Your illegal hash stands. “Hey, man, God made it, it comes from the earth, it must be good.” Peace, love and shut the fuck up, you good-for-nothing leech. I’m not paying jack to support your sorry ass. You’re pathetic. With your “I’m so free, the state is evil” bullshit. Think of a better excuse for not doing shit with your life. “Today, I think I’m gonna build me a house just from trees I’ll chop myself. But first I need to collect my benefits check.” Hey, loser, smoke on this: You’re not high, you’re a low-life.
Fuck the ad execs. With their bullshit jobs. Selling dreams and the non-existent better life. Playing on our fears. Fuck you. With your perfectly unoriginal attire and your trendy black eyeglasses, your 50-inch flatscreen and your shiny new piece of shit car. Your over-the-top, open-bar parties that say ‘We’re so fucking awesome and you’re not!” Get real. You’re shallow and you’re a loser.
Fuck the young urban chic girls. With their vapid, entry-level jobs in advertising or PR or publishing or whatever. In their tight fashion-conscious stretch pants and their name-brand layers, looking like all their friends. With their lattes and their mindless gossip. Fuck you, you bore me. Get an original idea, date an immigrant, go changing.
Fuck the out-of-towners with their country ways and their dumb accents. Their bleached hair and their white jeans. You’re gonna come to my city and drink and shout and throw pizza boxes on my streets?! Fuck you. Go home. To your shitty little town where that kind of bullshit behaviour passes for cool. Get it? You’re a hick, you don’t belong here and you never will.
Fuck the mobile phone users. Put. It. Away! I don’t wanna hear your he said-she said conversaton with your best friend loud and clear in my ear on the bus, I don’t want you checking your emails every five minutes when we meet cause Michael’s facebook update is somehow more interesting than real life. And I sure as fuck don’t wanna read another fucking word about when the new iPhone hits stores. "It has a built-in 3G, new-wave, self-cleaning coffee machine? No way! That’s insane! I’m definitely lining up all night for that 'cause, let’s face it, I’m a no-life techno geek." It’s a phone, get fucking over it. Here’s a novel idea, use the phone for what it’s for: making phone calls! Smartfuck, iFuck, you suck.
Fuck the Danish People’s Party voter. Yeah, you! With your Danish flag and your righteous ideas for Denmark. Fuck you, you’re a racist. With your working-class job or your beneftis that noone’s gonna take from you, don’t worry, your safe. Keep drinking, keep smoking, you’ll be fine. But deal with your own sorry shit before you go calling others dirty, less-evolved and unwelcome. You’re an idiot, your life is a pathetic waste of my time. Evolve, then we’ll talk.
Fuck the left-wing voters. With their self-righteous ideas for Denmark and the world. Oh, you’re so selfless. No, you’re not. The shits about to hit the fan and you won’t even know what hit you, you blind excuse for someone who cares. With your sandals and your printed t-shirts and your demonstrations for Egypt and immigrants and love-based marriages, give me a break. Your bleeding heart will stop beating one day too, just like everyone else’s. Wake up, smell the organic, fair-trade coffee.
Fuck the bikers with their endless bike lanes and their superior attitudes. Riding around like they own the city. No. You don’t! With your piece of shit bike that’s somehow trendy. No, it’s not, it’s a piece of shit. Get off your high steel horse – it’s a piece of steel on two wheels, get over it - , you’re not saving the environment, you’re not saving anything, you’re a person on a bike. Copenhagen Cycle Shit. Get to where you wanna go and shut the fuck up.
Fuck Visit Copenhagen. With their picture perfect fairy tale. Their pre-packaged, fully marketed, totally manufactured idea of Copenhagen. "Here's what we'll do: we'll use the 'Open' in Copenhagen to communicate to tourists that we're an open, friendly, welcoming city. Aren't we clever?" No. You’re a state-financed money machine. With your Little Mermaid, your Nyhavn and your Tivoli. Don’t tell me what’s so cool and great about Copenhagen like it’s your city and you built it. It’s not and you didn’t. I'll tell you what's cool and it's not the fairy tale fantasy you’re force-feeding me with your blogs and your Facebook page and your non-chalant twitter feeds. “Look, ma, I’m using this new thing called the internet to market Copenhagen.” Leave me the fuck alone, leave the tourists alone. Now and forever.
Fuck the expats. With their boring jobs in boring mulit-national, mulit-ripyouoff corporations. Coming here and whining about it. “The taxes are so high, the danes just aren’t friendly.” No? You don’t think so? Just cause we don’t fake-smile and say ‘Hello, how are you today?” like some underpaid clerk in an overstocked Gap store. You’re right, we’re not nice. Shut up. Just 'cause you miss home, miss your friends – boo-fucking-hoo -, miss driving everywhere, miss Oreo cookies, miss the shootings and the shitty TV. Don’t come here and shit on my parade. Lighten up, take a look around, you might see something. Or, better yet, go home.
Fuck the Danes. With their arrogance and their oh-so-brilliant humor that no one gets, their bleeding heart- bleeding coffers fucked up welfare system and their pathetic racist ways. Their barbecues and their beers – here’s a thought: stay sober! Their shorts and their sandals and their small, provincial minds. Their hygge - fuck off, it's not cosy, it's dark and no amount of candles will help and your family get-togethers are boring. You’re a tiny person in a tiny country, get it? Have an original thought, go a little nuts, step outside the box, if you dare, but you don’t, do you? You're a robot. Don’t be such a pathetic whiner. Travel.
And fuck you, Mikkel. With your righteous opinions, like anyone gives a fuck. You’re no better. Sitting on your high horse with your blog with its oh-so-perfect political views and your regurgitated personal opinions and what I love and…Fuck you. You’re a shitty writer and a coward. If you feel so strongly about it, do something. Instead of hiding behind a computer screen like a loser. And while you’re at it, how about you get a job, get a girlfriend and get a life. Instead of telling others how to live theirs. Please, I’m gonna be sick. Most of all: how about you Shut. The. Fuck. Up!
Ora eu costumo ler este blog escrito por um dinamarquês que voltou a Copenhaga depois de muitos anos algures no estrangeiro, ao ponto de partilhar quase tudo o que ele escreve no google reader - felizmente ele não escreve assim tanto. Mas este post, inspirado na tal cena d'A Última Hora, merece, para o bem e para o mal, vir parar aqui:
Fuck me? Fuck you! Fuck you and this whole city and everyone in it.
Fuck the Hellerup housewives with their three-hour haircut appointment, their fur coats, their paid-for midnight-black gasoline-guzzzler that they take a half kilometer to pick up their perfectly fucked up and not very cute private school brats. Their underpaid Phillipino nannies, their tea parties, their absent husbands and their empty fucking lives. Do something useful with your useless self.
Fuck the students with their state-financed education and their monthly allowance that they blow on booze and designer clothes carefully chosen to make them look just-so poor and then moan about. “I can’t afford rent, I’m eating butter on toast. Mommy, help me!” Fuck you. Taking eight years to finish your degree, you dumb fuck. Living the good life 'cause you can’t bear the thought of actually working for a living. Give me a fucking break. Get your education, get a job and start contributing something other than tired, rehearsed bile. Get a hair cut, grow up.
Fuck the immigrants with their late-night supermarkets with the shitty fruit and their cheap ass barbershop with the shitty haircuts. How hard can it fucking be? Their illegal activities and sending money back home (if they don’t smuggle it back themselves). Wobbling down the bikepath on their too-small women’s bikes. Where d’you steal that one from, Hassan? Hanging on street corners, polluting my air with your endless fucking kebab shops. Your not Italian, your pizzas suck! Get a real job, raise your kids. Or go the fuck home!
And fuck your wives. Seriously, do. Your wives lining up at the benefits office cause they can’t be assed to learn Danish. Their veils, their shopping bags and their muslim ways. But not so religious when it doesn’t pay are you? Come the fuck on. Get it together, leave your absusive husbands, get a life. Or go home!
Fuck your sons. With their guns and their gangs. Their tinted-window BMWs and hiphop sweaters that went out of style ten years ago. Their ridiculous crewcuts and their drug deals and their hard looks like someone is taking a neverending piss on their kebab. Please, no one’s buying it. Get a fucking life, take some repsonsibilty, be a role model instead of a fuck up. Educate yourself, read, stop wasting your precious life on a street corner. Try being nice for a change.
Fuck the Christiania hippies. You're a sterotype. With your tie-dye shirts and your dreads and your filthy fucking medieval excuse for a freetown. Your illegal hash stands. “Hey, man, God made it, it comes from the earth, it must be good.” Peace, love and shut the fuck up, you good-for-nothing leech. I’m not paying jack to support your sorry ass. You’re pathetic. With your “I’m so free, the state is evil” bullshit. Think of a better excuse for not doing shit with your life. “Today, I think I’m gonna build me a house just from trees I’ll chop myself. But first I need to collect my benefits check.” Hey, loser, smoke on this: You’re not high, you’re a low-life.
Fuck the ad execs. With their bullshit jobs. Selling dreams and the non-existent better life. Playing on our fears. Fuck you. With your perfectly unoriginal attire and your trendy black eyeglasses, your 50-inch flatscreen and your shiny new piece of shit car. Your over-the-top, open-bar parties that say ‘We’re so fucking awesome and you’re not!” Get real. You’re shallow and you’re a loser.
Fuck the young urban chic girls. With their vapid, entry-level jobs in advertising or PR or publishing or whatever. In their tight fashion-conscious stretch pants and their name-brand layers, looking like all their friends. With their lattes and their mindless gossip. Fuck you, you bore me. Get an original idea, date an immigrant, go changing.
Fuck the out-of-towners with their country ways and their dumb accents. Their bleached hair and their white jeans. You’re gonna come to my city and drink and shout and throw pizza boxes on my streets?! Fuck you. Go home. To your shitty little town where that kind of bullshit behaviour passes for cool. Get it? You’re a hick, you don’t belong here and you never will.
Fuck the mobile phone users. Put. It. Away! I don’t wanna hear your he said-she said conversaton with your best friend loud and clear in my ear on the bus, I don’t want you checking your emails every five minutes when we meet cause Michael’s facebook update is somehow more interesting than real life. And I sure as fuck don’t wanna read another fucking word about when the new iPhone hits stores. "It has a built-in 3G, new-wave, self-cleaning coffee machine? No way! That’s insane! I’m definitely lining up all night for that 'cause, let’s face it, I’m a no-life techno geek." It’s a phone, get fucking over it. Here’s a novel idea, use the phone for what it’s for: making phone calls! Smartfuck, iFuck, you suck.
Fuck the Danish People’s Party voter. Yeah, you! With your Danish flag and your righteous ideas for Denmark. Fuck you, you’re a racist. With your working-class job or your beneftis that noone’s gonna take from you, don’t worry, your safe. Keep drinking, keep smoking, you’ll be fine. But deal with your own sorry shit before you go calling others dirty, less-evolved and unwelcome. You’re an idiot, your life is a pathetic waste of my time. Evolve, then we’ll talk.
Fuck the left-wing voters. With their self-righteous ideas for Denmark and the world. Oh, you’re so selfless. No, you’re not. The shits about to hit the fan and you won’t even know what hit you, you blind excuse for someone who cares. With your sandals and your printed t-shirts and your demonstrations for Egypt and immigrants and love-based marriages, give me a break. Your bleeding heart will stop beating one day too, just like everyone else’s. Wake up, smell the organic, fair-trade coffee.
Fuck the bikers with their endless bike lanes and their superior attitudes. Riding around like they own the city. No. You don’t! With your piece of shit bike that’s somehow trendy. No, it’s not, it’s a piece of shit. Get off your high steel horse – it’s a piece of steel on two wheels, get over it - , you’re not saving the environment, you’re not saving anything, you’re a person on a bike. Copenhagen Cycle Shit. Get to where you wanna go and shut the fuck up.
Fuck Visit Copenhagen. With their picture perfect fairy tale. Their pre-packaged, fully marketed, totally manufactured idea of Copenhagen. "Here's what we'll do: we'll use the 'Open' in Copenhagen to communicate to tourists that we're an open, friendly, welcoming city. Aren't we clever?" No. You’re a state-financed money machine. With your Little Mermaid, your Nyhavn and your Tivoli. Don’t tell me what’s so cool and great about Copenhagen like it’s your city and you built it. It’s not and you didn’t. I'll tell you what's cool and it's not the fairy tale fantasy you’re force-feeding me with your blogs and your Facebook page and your non-chalant twitter feeds. “Look, ma, I’m using this new thing called the internet to market Copenhagen.” Leave me the fuck alone, leave the tourists alone. Now and forever.
Fuck the expats. With their boring jobs in boring mulit-national, mulit-ripyouoff corporations. Coming here and whining about it. “The taxes are so high, the danes just aren’t friendly.” No? You don’t think so? Just cause we don’t fake-smile and say ‘Hello, how are you today?” like some underpaid clerk in an overstocked Gap store. You’re right, we’re not nice. Shut up. Just 'cause you miss home, miss your friends – boo-fucking-hoo -, miss driving everywhere, miss Oreo cookies, miss the shootings and the shitty TV. Don’t come here and shit on my parade. Lighten up, take a look around, you might see something. Or, better yet, go home.
Fuck the Danes. With their arrogance and their oh-so-brilliant humor that no one gets, their bleeding heart- bleeding coffers fucked up welfare system and their pathetic racist ways. Their barbecues and their beers – here’s a thought: stay sober! Their shorts and their sandals and their small, provincial minds. Their hygge - fuck off, it's not cosy, it's dark and no amount of candles will help and your family get-togethers are boring. You’re a tiny person in a tiny country, get it? Have an original thought, go a little nuts, step outside the box, if you dare, but you don’t, do you? You're a robot. Don’t be such a pathetic whiner. Travel.
And fuck you, Mikkel. With your righteous opinions, like anyone gives a fuck. You’re no better. Sitting on your high horse with your blog with its oh-so-perfect political views and your regurgitated personal opinions and what I love and…Fuck you. You’re a shitty writer and a coward. If you feel so strongly about it, do something. Instead of hiding behind a computer screen like a loser. And while you’re at it, how about you get a job, get a girlfriend and get a life. Instead of telling others how to live theirs. Please, I’m gonna be sick. Most of all: how about you Shut. The. Fuck. Up!
perfeição
Tirando a Chicago, sempre achei o Sufjan Stevens extremamente irritante. Isto até o álbum mais recente ter sido amor à primeira audição, e de o concerto do outro dia ter sido tudo aquilo que eu queria de um concerto, mesmo sem estar na primeira fila. Podia só ter falado um bocadinho menos - mais rock e menos conversa, citando o próprio.
Nada a ver, mas quando for grande quero ser cantora de suporte (vocal de apoio?????) nos concertos dele.
Nada a ver, mas quando for grande quero ser cantora de suporte (vocal de apoio?????) nos concertos dele.
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