Edit: He has a placeholder blog for now.

I was thinking to myself (in rhyme of course, the way I usually talk to myself) yesterday, and devised a simple plan to serve as something to expand my musical horizons and serve the Blogosphere (in which Richard M. Stallman hovers above the earth) some proper record reviews.

I’m sitting here in the lounge, trying to write a blog post. People come, see me listening to something and “concentrated” on doing something with my laptop and decide to just turn back and leave. By saying that I just unconsciously denied the possibility that they just don’t like me, which could very well be it.

All of a sudden I realize me mom seemed to have added me on Facebook. I’m not kidding, she actually opened a Facebook account.

It’s funny, she asked me during dinner two days ago what Facebook is exactly, to which I replied “a networking site.” Explaining what a networking site actually is is no easy task for someone above the Internet “proficiency” of a guru. “What’s the point?” - I really couldn’t answer, I just didn’t know how to tell her that it sort of… doesn’t have on one many levels, and still probably has one.

Maybe I’m underestimating her will to get into this whole thing. Who knows, maybe the next step would be to start posting things on del.icio.us or declaring war on my guild in World of Warcraft.

… Like I was starting to say before my mom jumped in. I’ll exchange a record with Moruku (who is currently blogless due to some issues) every two weeks, I’ll give him one, he’ll give me one, at which point we’ll have to write a review and give it a certain score based on a set of criteria.

It’s being developed as we speak, in my mind for the most part. It’s all coming together now, and I expect to exchange the first record between Friday and Sunday.

My mom, a little bit like my ex, has an unconscious mother-daughter complex. Basically, even though they would fail to recognize their mothers’ domination over them. They’re afraid of them.

Just the day before my grandma and her husband (which is technically not my grandpa), came over - mom of course, started cleaning up like I haven’t seen her before. She even told me to try to keep the house clean. When my dad did me a great favor by asking the question that I’ve been dying to make my mother face - whether she’s afraid that grandma might judge her.

“Judge me? No, she doesn’t care how the house looks, it’s not her house anyway; and I left home years ago anyway, she can’t give me orders anymore” she replied with absolute certainty.

The house was spotless, you could eat a cookie even if it fell on the toilet seat. You could lick the laundry room (which is more of a storage room) floor and not come down with a terrible disease for a change. It was clean to say the least.

Grandma doesn’t dominate you, I see.

I’ve had my share of this mother-daughter complex back a few months ago with my ex. Again, the same problem, “mom has no control over me whatsoever”, but when mom says “foreigner bad, foreigner problem” - mom must be right, no? It took her about a month, but she did it, she got rid of this terrible foreigner. But really, don’t parents just love nerds? We still talk, but when she came to town this weekend she refused to see me. It all fell into place when I realized she was with her mother. Her sick dominating mother.

So if you ever wonder why I’m not that full of regrets about that whole thing I had with her - yeah, it’s also because she reminds me of my mom.

Brings back when mother’s unwillingness to leave to move to a new house back a few years ago in Israel. It was because we were living only one block away from no other than grandma. Grandma, oh grandma. When my parents are coming back to Israel (I will be tagging along for a short period of time before getting the fuck out of there) they’re coming back to the same house. One block away from grandma.

There was a plan to come back to a different house - on the same street as to not get away from grandma almighty.

And now she’s here. For two weeks, leaving oily marks on various tupperware boxes in the fridge, making the house smell like old people and making everyone’s life miserable by giving orders.

My dad doesn’t get any orders though.

“Fine, you don’t have to eat it if you don’t want to”, “why does this house look like a dump?” and a wide variety of classic Jewish complaints. Since I became German she at least doesn’t express her (now ridiculous and redundant) hate for Germans.

When she’s around everything feels like you’re walking on a wire suspended between two really tall buildings with my brother shaking the wire every now and then. No matter how much you beg, he either won’t get it, or will try harder.

They’re not even getting letters from me once I’m gone.

When I got up this morning it was still sort of dark outside, or at least so I thought. I took a good look at my Tungsten T5, hardly used nowadays. I just use it for Audiobooks, and that’s about it. I felt hot, unusually hot. Yep, it made perfect sense, a fever.

I think it said something like 8:30. So I actually made it to breakfast. I went to the medicine cabinet, swallowed a Panodil, which is Paracetamol 500 or something like that. Funny how painkillers always come in those plastic bottles. I mean, there’s a reason why they usually put it in those little packages that you go click and the pill drops. That way it’s at least much harder to I don’t know, put poison in somebody’s medicine.

So then I got ready to go to the Finn Mickelborg exhibition at Møstings hus. Strangely, it took me more time to actually get there than to go through the whole exhibition. Awful, I would say.

The Peter Chr. Petersen works were not specifically interesting. Actually, they were mostly crap.

Møstings Hus is basically just a tiny little house, real tiny. Free entrance though, so it was worth it at any rate. Although, to be honest, I’d be more than willing to pay in order to see a Mickelborg exhibition.

Then at around 8pm, my brother slipped in the shower, hit the back of his head, and later complained about bad vision, “colors” and stuff. He could have been hallucinating, but I don’t know. So, is he going to need glasses for the rest of his life? Sounds awfully familiar.

It brought back a memory back from first grade. Me, and a group of other kids, I believe about five or six in total, sitting down eating our sandwiches. One kid decided to play a game, “spot the difference”. I was voted as being the most “different”, due to the fact that I had glasses. So if his sight was damaged, I can imagine how hard it would be for him. Trying to put on glasses and things like that, he won’t do it, no way.

So I tagged along as he was taken to the hospital. A huge bauhaus-style building, possibly one of my all-time favorites. Square and functional, oh yeah.

So they checked his pressure, and he’s probably fine, no hematoma, probably, so they said.

I still don’t understand why I never took the time to really do something creative with that building, the hospital that is. It’s so, beautiful in its own sick way.