Pär Räv

Don't ask me why I was in a mood to hear this little ditty again. Someone posted it linguaphiles some weeks back, but I couldn't remember the artist and searching by tags proved completely useless (nothing for "swedish", "song", "lyrics", "translation", etc.). Finally, I went directly to YouTube and typed "Swedish rap"; it was the #1 hit.

I like to think of it as an answer to the question, "What if Peter Fox were Scandinavian?" Not a question I remember ever asking, of course, but I'm bemused that at least part of the answer is, "He'd have a banjo."

An evening with filthmongers

"It's a shame to have to pay the price when it's not even that good," said monshu, speaking of the mediocre pizza I had in a joint on Randolph last night. He knows as well as I do that tomato sauce a dinner means four hours before I can lie down--minimum--and that's without any alcohol added to it. But it was well worth it, not for the pizza but for the company.

The friend buying me dinner was celebrating the opening of his solo exhibition. He must've thanked me for coming at least three times. "You asked, so I came," I told him, and it really was as simple as that. It doesn't matter that Friday was a long day at work--a four-hour "mini-retreat" in the morning (including working lunch), two hours on the front desk immediately after that, finally hiring someone for my summer position, etc. Just the thought of seeing them and their bear posse had me swelling with joy all afternoon.

It's been forever since I've been to an art opening, but I at least should've expected a sweaty press of bodies even on such a cool day. After an icy Grolsch in a thick-necked bottle, this hardly mattered to me any more, despite the obvious discomfort it was causing a massive OWGA who I still think of as "the Hawkman" even though time has dimmed his extraordinary resemblance to Brian Blessed's King Vultan. Turns out his lover, a soft-spoken mining engineer from Ontario, is just as sweet as he is; hope I see those boys again.

By the time we finally left for dinner, it was down to me, the artist and his better half, another bear couple, and the gallery owner and his s.o., whose anomalous sobriety caused her to question why everyone was "shouting". They were discussing what horrible punishments they had in mind for a critic who had humiliated her and I was continuing to rebond with one half of the couple, an ex-skater boy from Dayton, over music.

Part of me really wanted to follow them on to the Secret Squirrel and continue the party, but the price was high enough as it was. (I eventually fell asleep sitting up half an hour after monshu was already out of bed.) Besides, I couldn't pass up a ride to my front door with two men I longed to invite in for, well, basically anything they wanted. More encouragement--if any were needed--to plan that big bear party I've been dreaming of every since we began looking at places.