Agnes and John: A Christmas Romance

In the spirit of the holiday, here is a Christmas correspondence between two lovebirds that somehow went horribly, horribly wrong. This has been floating around the Net in several variants, without attribution, for a long time; I wish I knew who wrote it originally. Funny stuff.

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December 14th

Dearest John:

I went to the door today and the postman delivered a partridge in a pear tree. What a delightful gift. I couldn't have been more surprised.

With dearest love and affection, Agnes

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December 15th

Dearest John:

Today the postman brought your very sweet gift. Just imagine, two turtle doves... I'm just delighted at your very thoughtful gift. They are just adorable.

All my love, Agnes

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December 16th

Dear John:

Oh, aren't you the extravagant one! Now I must protest. I don't deserve such generosity. Three french hens. They are just darling but I must insist... you're just too kind.

Love Agnes

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December 17th

Today the postman delivered four calling birds. Now really! They are beautiful, but don't you think enough is enough? You're being too romantic.

Affectionately, Agnes

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December 18th

Dearest John:

What a surprise! Today the postman delivered five golden rings. One for each finger. You're just impossible, but I love it. Frankly, John, all those squawking birds were beginning to get on my nerves.

All my love, Agnes

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December 19th

Dear John:

When I opened the door there were actually six geese a-laying on my front steps. So you're back to the birds again, huh? Those geese are huge. Where will I ever keep them? The neighbors are complaining and I can't sleep through the racket. PLEASE STOP!

Cordially, Agnes

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December 20th

John:

What's with you and those fucking birds??? Seven swans a-swimming. What kind of goddamn joke is this? There's bird shit all over the house and they never stop the racket. I'm a nervous wreck and I can't sleep all night. IT'S NOT FUNNY... So stop with those fucking birds.

Sincerely, Agnes

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December 21st

OK Buster:

I think I prefer the birds. What the hell am I going to do with eight maids a-milking? It's not enough with all those birds and eight maids a-milking, but they had to bring their own goddamn cows. There is shit all over the lawn and I can't move into my own house. Just lay off me. SMART ASS.

Ag

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December 22nd

Hey Shithead:

What are you? Some kind of sadist? Now there's nine pipers playing. And Christ - do they play. They never stopped chasing those maids since they got here yesterday morning. The cows are upset and are stepping all over those screeching birds. No wonder they screech. What am I going to do? The neighbors have started a petetion to evict me. You'll get yours.

-From Ag

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December 23rd

You Rotten Prick:

Now there's ten ladies dancing - I don't know why I call those sluts ladies. They've been balling those nine pipers all night long. Now the cows can't sleep and they've got diarrhea. My living room is a river of shit. The commissioner of buildings has subpoenaed me to give cause why the building shouldn't be condemned. I'm sicking the police on you.

One who means it, Ag

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December 24th

Listen Fuckhead:

What's with the eleven lords a-leaping on those maids and aforementioned "ladies"? Some of those broads will never walk again. Those pipers ran through the maids and have been commiting sodomy with the cows. All 234 of the birds are dead. They have been trampled to death in the orgy. I hope you're satisfied, you rotten swine.

Your sworn enemy, Miss Agnes McCallister

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December 25th (From the law offices Taeker, Spredar, and Baegar)

Dear Sir:

This is to acknowledge your latest gift of tweleve fiddlers fiddling, which you have seen fit to inflict on our client, Miss Agnes McCallister. The destruction, of course, was total. All correspondence should come to our attention. If you should attempt to reach Miss McCallister at Happy Dale Sanitarium, the attendants have instructions to shoot you on sight. With this letter, please find attached a warrant for your arrest.

Back in the Saddle

To my loyal readers (all three of you):

Believe it or not, I have not evaporated or otherwise disappeared. I've actually been jotting down posts on scraps of paper and the like for the past few months, though I am only now getting around to typing them up. Updates will appear below shortly.

Life in the Oncoming Lane

One of the unusual things I noticed shortly after I arrived in Stockholm was the direction of travel in the Tunnelbana. Everywhere else I've ever been, the direction of travel in the subway matches what's done on the roads—drive on the right, trains on the right, and vice-versa. But Sweden is a right-side-drive country, while the subway goes forward on the left. (In other words, if you stand in a train facing forward, a train heading in the opposite direction will pass by your right shoulder.) This struck me as rather odd, and made me curious about why things are this way. So the other night I did some digging.

It turns out Sweden was a left-side-drive country (vänstertrafik) for a very long time–over two centuries, to be exact, from about 1735 (when one presumes most of the traffic was not motorized but equine) until 1967. In 1955, partly due to the fact that Norway, Finland, and Denmark all drove on the right, the government held a referendum to find out how the populace would feel about switching. It failed miserably, with nearly 83% voting against. In 1963, the Riksdag decided to make the switch to högertrafik anyway.

And so it was that on September 3, 1967—Dagen H, as it was called—the direction of traffic switched.

Overnight.

Stop and think about that for a minute. It's not exactly like missing the semi-annual switchover between Daylight Saving and Standard time: if you missed that reminder on the evening news, or forgot to pick up a newspaper that day, you'd end up either an hour early or an hour late to your first appointment the next morning. Annoying, but nothing earth-shattering. Now imagine that you missed the Dagen H announcement: you wake up the next morning, get in the car, pull out of the driveway... and find yourself going head-on into oncoming traffic.

As the photograph by legendary Swedish photojournalist Leif Engberg shows, it was a treacherous morning for just about everyone.

To be fair, the Swedish government was very thorough in preparing its residents for the change. Booklets were sent to every household in Sweden months in advance; soldiers, police, and workers were deployed on the big morning (Morgon H?) to assist with signs, stoplights, and intersections; all traffic was stopped for several hours before and after 5:00am, the time designated for the switchover; and of course, commemorative underpants were manufactured to mark the occasion.

And that, my friends, is why the subway in Stockholm runs the way it does.

Further information is available here, here, and here. These three excellent writeups served as the sources for most of the information in this post.

A Lesson in Humility

One of the things I was dreading most about moving to Sweden was the fact that I would have to sell my beloved drum kit. I had no place to put it, and I realized that storing it would be prohibitively expensive. So when I got here, I was understandably jazzed ugh! to discover not one but two clubs within walking distance of my place that had weekly open jams.

Music has always been one of the few constants in my life, a creative outlet totally unlike any part of my day job and a great stress reliever. Percussion is such a visceral, kinetic thing that I've never really had a bad day at the drums, and it's probably as responsible as anything else for preserving what little sanity I had left toward the end of graduate school. When I found out about these open sessions, I resolved to give them a shot as soon as I could.

I went to the first place last Saturday afternoon, and it was great. The band leader was quite friendly and trusting (remarkably so, in fact, given that he didn't know me from a hole in the wall at that point), and after listening for an hour to get a sense of what the band was doing, I even got up and played a few songs. I certainly didn't light anyone's hair on fire, but I got through the pieces without any major screw-ups, kept decent time, and managed to avoid bringing the band to a grinding halt. The vibe onstage was friendly and laid-back, and I felt like I would be welcome if I came back the following week. So far, so good.

This past Tuesday I went to the other place. Right from the start it was a little unusual: I couldn't hear any music at all from the street, and as I made my way past the tangle of people at the tiny bar I began to wonder whether I'd walked into the wrong pub. Finally I found the spiral stairs in the back, which led to a warren of low, stone-walled rooms in the basement; the musicians were set up in the largest one, just at the bottom of the staircase.

As it happened, my timing appeared to be perfect: the house band had been playing for about an hour, and just as I arrived the band leader was asking if there were any people in the audience who wanted to sit and jam with the band.

So I wander over to the drum kit, squeeze past the amps and chairs and tables to the drum throne, and sit down to play a few songs. It feels a bit sloppy and disjointed, but I chug through a couple of numbers anyway, trying to underplay and stay the hell out of everyone's way. The whole time we're playing, I notice this heavyset guy sitting just across from the kit who keeps looking at me with an odd expression on his face. Certainly he's not admiring my playing—I'm not that good—but for the life of me I can't figure out why he would have any particular interest in what I'm doing.

It isn't until I finish that I realize this guy is apparently the house drummer. As I maneuver my way out from behind the kit and he gets up to take my place, I get a better look at him. He's rather less than svelte, unshaven, and wearing a ratty t-shirt that could charitably be described as "vintage"—but only if you're intoxicated. The phrase "UNIX sysadmin" comes to immediately to mind.

So the guy sits down... stretches a bit... picks up the sticks...

... and proceeds to unleash a blistering array of jazz pyrotechnics, the likes of which I couldn't touch even if I had a dozen years of one-on-one lessons from Tony Williams, several pounds of cocaine, and ten limbs.

Hrmph.

The visual effect of all this is rather difficult to describe; at the risk of being a bit unkind, from where I'm sitting it looks something like a cross between Durga and Jabba the Hutt.

+

Or maybe a hirsute combination of Animal and Buddy Rich.* [Warning: large Quicktime clip; broadband recommended.]

Now, normally I'm not all that self-conscious about my playing, but all of this just makes me want to disappear, or at least get far enough away from the drum set so that no one notices it was me playing earlier. Not wanting to fight my way across the room through the crowd—which is now about ten deep and understandably transfixed by this display—I find the only free seat in sight... which is right next to the drum kit.

At which point the band proceeds to go into an extended fifteen-minute jam.

When it's over, I ask him: "Wow, you sound great. How long have you been playing?"

"Since 1977."

"Oh."

I manage to refrain from saying "1977? Gee, aren't your arms tired by now?" or some such smartass remark—though it does cross my mind—and I'm still trying to figure out how to get out of there without any further embarrassment as the band launches into the next song.

Which is right about when I notice that I've left my jacket behind the drum set.

Some days, you get served a slice of humble pie. Other days, you get the whole pie in your face.

* The exasperated expression on Animal's face about two-thirds of the way through the clip sums up the situation nicely, except that Animal is a much better drummer than I am.

Nobel Day in Stockholm

Every year in Stockholm on December 10th, the Nobel Prizes are awarded in Chemistry, Economics, Literature, Medicine, and Physics. (The Peace Prize is awarded on the same day in Oslo, Norway.) After the ceremony, which traditionally takes place at the Stockholms Konserthuset, there is a big banquet at Stadshuset (City Hall) celebrating their accomplishments.

This afternoon I decided to take a long walk without any particular route in mind, and I happened to walk past Stadshuset as the guests were arriving for the banquet. (Cue totally non-obvious joke about this being the closest yours truly will ever get to a Nobel Prize in 3... 2... 1....) Interestingly, the total police presence at the entryway amounted to half a dozen officers milling around, chatting amiably with each other and with the guests passing by, and trying to stay warm. It was quite a striking contrast to any random entertainment award show in the States, which, as is typically evident from the pre-show broadcast, seems to involve more hulking, threatening-looking security guys in dark suits, shades, and earpieces than an international political summit.

While the Nobel Banquet itself is the hottest (read: impossible) ticket in town, and would probably require my dessing up in something other than jeans and a sweater (not to mention first discovering something, you know, really useful), the works of the Nobelists are fortunately accessible to all. In honor of all the great accomplishments being celebrated tonight, here are links to the Nobel Foundation and a list of all past winners, including their speeches, lectures, photos, and other interesting information. (Here, for example, is the explanation of why Mohatmas Gandhi never received the Peace Prize.) It is a remarkable trove of science, history, philosophy—of human achievement. It takes some patience to do anything more than skim over the list, but a bit of time spent browsing and reading will surely be worthwhile.

For those optimists who are planning on someday attending the big shindig, you will be happy to know that there is even a handy description of the dress code. For those who are optimistic epicures, there is also an archive of every dinner menu ever served at the Banquet.

Two Bits

If you're anything like me (and for your sake, I hope you're not), you probably have certain things in your life that you've grown accustomed to. We are all creatures of habit to some extent. And so it is that one of the things I had to give up as a result of my relocation to Stockholm was my favorite (read: only) barbershop.

I am now getting a vivid reminder that I really shouldn't take such things for granted.

You see, I'd been getting haircuts in one place—and only one place—throughout all of graduate school. This is a true old-time barber shop: red-and-white candy-striped barber pole out front (but no leeches, thank goodness), four chairs, a mirror along the opposite wall, stack of Playboys next to the cash register. In fact, I always got my hair cut by the same person, a jocular guy named Carlos who has a steady supply of dirty jokes and amazing ability to remember his customers' names. The first time I went in there—on the enthusiastic recommendation of a friend from high school who'd been there as an undergrad—I tried to tell him what I wanted, but he shushed me up and refused to listen... and then proceeded to give me exactly the haircut I'd wanted anyway. It was one of about two places in town where I could walk in the door, get greeted by first name, ask for "the usual," and get exactly what I wanted. At one point, I started to wonder if maybe Carlos just gave the same haircut to everyone, but no: I watched carefully the next time I was there, and he really does remember exactly how I like mine cut, which was clearly different from the haircut he gave to the guy who was in his chair right before me.

Well, I've been here in Stockholm long enough that my hair is becoming pretty unruly, and I'm going to have to do something about it soon; I don't do the rockstar thing very well.. Looking around my neighborhood, however, I'm starting to think maybe I might want to learn. Most of the frisör salons here in Söder seem to cater to a somewhat... uh... different crowd than my old place. There is, for instance, a hair salon a few blocks away from here that I could try. Inexplicably, it is named "Cut the Crap."

(Why they chose that particular phrase from the American lexicon, I have no idea. For some reason, there seems to be quite a bit of such arbitrary, nonsensical importation of random phrases from American English into Swedish, at least around Stockholm. This attraction is a complete mystery to me.) I get the feeling that if I walk into CTC, or any of a dozen others around here just like it, and I ask for "the usual," I might end up looking like some German avant-garde television personality. I'm not even sure there is a usual at these places, but if there is, I'm pretty sure it isn't my idea of "usual."

Still, I can only go without a haircut for so long, so I suppose I'll have to go through with this some time soon. If you're reading this, I implore you: think kind, stylish thoughts. Please. And if you happen to be walking around Söder, and you see a somewhat American-looking guy with a bandana inexplicably tied around his head, so that he vaguely resembles either a pirate arrrrr! or a lobotomy patient, please go easy on him.

After all, he's just gotten the usual.

Flirt Ice

A friend of mine, who spent just enough time in Stockholm staying with a friend during college to have picked up a handful of saucy phrases in Swedish, occasionally delights in taunting me by signing her emails with some cryptic svenska zinger that she knows full well I won't understand. Since my progress in the local tongue has been somewhat underväldigande, I have come to depend on the Power Of Teh Intarweb to figure out, in such situations, what exactly the hell these things mean.

The other day, I get an email (addressed to snygg kille—that's me!) that closes, Han talar svenska och hon är en riktig flörtis. So I dutifully plug this in to my trusty web-based svengelska transmogrification service, and what do you suppose comes back?

He speaks Swedish and she is a correct flirt ice.

And that's from a dictionary. Sigh. It certainly doesn't give me much hope that I'm ever going to make any progress on my own, overwhelming snyggness notwithstanding.