HEATWAVE: 9 DROWNED.
... Wait, what?
In other news, Michael Jackson's still dead, which is messing up my theory of him being a zombie.
Saturday: wake up, chill out and go to school for lunch since the student restaurants are only closed on Sundays.
WRONG.
Turns out that ( for some unexplained reason) the restaurants are closed off like North Korea today, so I had to feed myself for once - which isn't too bad, I actually like cooking.
Only thing is I'd decided to have another go at some tomato soup after "last time".
"Last time" being a few weeks back when I nearly torched the whole kitchen because, apparently, soup is flammable. Y'know, just like rocks and dirt. Flammable.
But I wanted tomato soup and damn it, I was gonna make me some!
Apart from getting the kettle cleaned ( you wouldn't believe how hard stuff can burn stuck) from the last time, it was pleasantly simple to make; OK, so the cream I'd kept in store had gone from dairy product to primordial soup and me chopping onions with a gas mask and apron on ( trust me, it works!) might've freaked a few people out, but other than that, no big problems - and I got soup!
Oh, and croutons!
I know I got back from the Woods a week ago already, and there is a lot to tell you all about how much conscription sucks ass and is a big waste of state budget ( " But we live next to Russia, man!"), but since pictures say more than a thousand excuses and right now I'm sitting at school learning to code Python ( Yes, I know it's a blistering heatwave in the making, fuck you) because summer courses rule, I ain't really got a chance to upload jack - but they're on the way, kids!
So I could've uploaded them somewhere last week, but I'm lazy.
Oh wait, No, Wrong Excuse: I actually got something done last week!
See, there was actually something more important to tell y'all about: I got my first mural done.
It's huge, like literally half a wall; it's currently a relatively "simple" 2-layer job; it took 14h of non-stop* painting to get done and I fcuk-ing free-handed the whole second layer. It may not sound like such a big deal, but with the wall being grainier than the god-damned Sahara, Chinese water torture would be a more humane way to die.
*OK, it wasn't completely non-stop; every now and then I had to get myself another drink to steady the hands again. I kinda get why painters are usually raging drunks and junkies.
But now it's there, it's beautiful and it's over. OK, there are still a few corrections I need to do, but since I don't have the right shade of white ( You're kidding me, right: who the hell invented different shades of white???), it'll have to wait a week or two.
I know this is the part of the post where I should have a huge picture of the wall, and, honestly, I really want to show it to you guys - but I promised I wouldn't show any of them ( yes, plural) before they were all finished and I'd held a grand, ceremonious open-doors kinda thing where we'd slaughter a cow and three chickens for posterity.
Because that's how we roll up in Scandinavia.
Edit: Actually posted on the 22nd, but since I messed up the viewable-options, I changed the date as well. 'scuse me.
In a surprising twist of fate, Vox is actually working at home, so I thought I'd post some pics from a few weeks back, just so you know what fearsome warriors are bred up in good ol' Hyperborea.
But seriously people, this is conscription:
There'd be a whole lot more pics to show ( 'bout 400), but I'm not turning my blog into one big bushwhacker-gallery, so there ya go.
And in case you're wondering, that's me in the upper-left pic in the hammock. Best thing I ever bought.
Summer is finally here! What are your plans?
._.
... God, I hate Python.
So, tomorrow's the 'big day'.
Tomorrow I head out for refresher training ( and as stupid as it sounds, it's called that, I checked!) to recheck if I still have what it takes to be cannon fodder a useful part of the Finnish Defence Forces.
Most of my friends are happy to see me going, though. Either because of a sadistic pleasure to see someone ship off again, because it's me shipping off or because they think I'll finally stop whining about having to go there ( I'm not exactly pro peace, but I'm anti wasting-my-time).
And hey, people who know me too well will agree that eight days of complete radio silence on my part can be bliss beyond imagining. I'm enough of a man to admit that.
But still, having to pull on a pair of fatigues again and go running around in the woods has me a little less than thrilled. Oh well, at least I've pretty much got everything necessary packed already: a good book, some chocolate, a bottle of vodka, a hammock, pen and paper etc. - y'know, stuff every soldier needs.
Especially the hammock.
"Your shoes stink. Don't you have any better shoes? You should get new shoes. Go buy new shoes, we'll pay."
And with that, off I went to go find meself a new pair of walkies.
I tell ya, there are a few good things with coming back home to the Bastille. For one, walking through the door looking even a bit more shaggy than expected and you're ordered to go get yourself "some new [ add piece of clothing]" ASAP - something which even I'll agree to do every now and then.
But actually finding a good pair of shoes is effin' hard! Books I can do, but just finding where they sell mens' sneakers and you've pretty much got me lost in the Sahara.
"Sir, those are stiletto's"
"I knew that, I'm just, um... checking it out for my, um... girl-friend!"
Good save,man.
SO, rambling through a whole lot of shoe stores, trying to look at least look the part of 'shoe extraordinaire' ( feeling the leather, sniffing the shoe laces, y'know, stuff that extraordinaires do!).
Since that didn't work out, I just tried to find myself a decent pair of shoes and look about as harmless as I could muster.
OK, either my 'harmless' looks a lot like most peoples' 'clueless' or then Finnish clerks have gotten a whole lot more thrilled at the prospect of actual customer-service ( HAH!), because as soon as I walked in to a shoe store, I was literally swarmed by people wanting to help me find a good pair.
"No, I'm good, I'm just looking around."
*Pffffft* Yeah, right.
Anyways, a few hours down and after I've gotten myself a new pair of linen pants ( clothes I can do), I decided to go check out a place I remembered my sis got a good pair of 'fuck me'-boots a few years back ( they were really nice). I walk in, head for the shoes that look like men could wear them, and go hoping for the best. Maybe I'll find a decent pair, pay for them and leave before I mess up.
"You really seem to need some help there."
Shit, found out!
"Um, well, yeah, I might; you have these in my size?"
She was pretty as hell, and with a one-hit emasculation like that I wasn't going anywhere until I had some new shoes.
"We don't have that one in your size, but I'm sure we can find something for you if we'll stop searching through the one-offs."
"Um, sure, think you're right, I just walked in and aimed for the shoes that looked the most man-wearable."
"Yeah, kinda noticed that; haven't seen someone walking in as wide-eyed as you for a while."
"Well, OK, if you think you can find me a good pair then go for it!"
"You looking for anything in particular?"
"Shoes. Preferably men's shoes."
"Though so - but you might look good in a pair of stilettos."
"Tried it once, not my thing."
" Thought you might've. How 'bout these ones then, bit more 'your thing'?"
"Nah, preferably not white."
"Mmmh, true, most guys have no idea how to take care of white shoes. How about a pair of Lacoste's, then?"
"Eech, no thanks. Never gonna own a pair of those!"
* turns to another clerk, quite fetchy herself, as well* " Damn, that one always works: point a guy towards the Lacoste's and tell 'em girls'll like 'em and that's it!"
" He can hear you."
" I can hear you."
" These, maybe? No wait, forget it, might be a bit too shoe-y for your style."
" Whazzat mean, that I couldn't wear them or something??"
" Naw, just that you'd look like someone's grandpa, and no-one wants to fuck date a guy who'd match close like that with shoes like this. You don't wanna ruin that look of yours, you've got a good thing going there."
I'm flattered.
" So why'd you come rushin' up to me and start insulting my shoe-adge?"
" You seemed good-hearted and harmless enough, and you seemed like you really needed help."
" Sounds like something my ex's would say."
" I'm not your ex."
"Not yet you're not."
And this goes on for a good while, looking for shoes and making good-hearted jokes and sny remarks, and we find a good pair of shoes! And she even tries to bump up the bill with a 100€ extra for good measure.
"You're really not the average shoe store. Customer walks in and you start insulting him, questioning his comprehension of shoes and you even try to cheat me outta my money! Why haven't I found you guys before?!?"
"Keeps you on your toes and makes sure you'll come back as well!"
My heart just went *bump*.
And in case you're wondering, no, I didn't ask her out; that'd be pushing it, especially since the next time I'm free would be somewhere in July. But I'll keep this one in mind.
And in case I made her come off as a douche-bag, that's just my poor writing.
If you're tempted to go watch the newest in line of something that should've been sterilized in '92 ( that is, Terminator Salvation), then let me spoil the movie for you.
Skynet doesn't die, the war goes on, and we're gonna have to fork out another movie ticket to go watch the sequel if we're not smart enough to rip it off piratebay.
That being said, I guess there goes some admitting about the movie: it didn't suck as much as Wolverine. There were explosions, there were the namesake Terminators ( which still look as awesome as they did in the 80's) and there was every single Terminator cliché this movie needs. Including "I'll be - " ... yeah, yeah, we all know that one...
Oh, and there was Christian 'Batman-voice' Bale. And though his acting might've suggested it, he's not a terminator. ( Personally, though, after having seen both Bat...men, 3:10 to Yuma and now this, I've pretty much OD'd on mr. Bale for the next 12 years.)
Ironically, the one who was the 'terminator' this time ( if you've seen the trailer, you know who) had more personality than the rest of the cast - unfortunately, though, he was bland and bipolar, so no luck saving the movie with that, 'Marcus'.
I'd like to mention the plot, but a see-through like that'd even make a Latvian prostitute go "Damn!".
Overall, the movie was your average, run-of-the-mill action movie - times two. You wouldn't believe how many times someone threw a gun 'just a bit too far', desperately stopped a sure-fire punch to the noggin' , had such a lucky break during a chase they should be professional lotto-players, saved someone just to be desperately impaled ( OK, that was just once, but it happens in every fucking movie!), almost, just barely almost killed the main bad guy that you thought he wouldn't get up for the 12th time or someone got a vital piece of information in the beginning of the movie that'd save their life just before the end ( like, " if your gun's not shooting, it might've jammed!" quality)!
OH!, and every fistfight was in a darkly lit, break-ey-falling-apart-ey-kind of industrial/tech-center like hall, naturally.
But look, McG ( I hate it when he directs movies!), if you're gonna make a movie about Terminators, and you're gonna name the fucker movie 'Terminator', make sure there are enough ( guess the word) TERMINATORS in the movie to give it enough Awesome.
If we wanted to see people-drama, we could've stayed home and watched 'Love, actually' instead!
Hell, at least that flick has some fucking.
You'd think that once you're unemployed you'd have to worry about work quite a lot, right?
Not for me!
I don't really know how people regard me, but two days after I'd told everyone I'd be happily unemployed for the whole duration of the summer holidays, job offers started pouring over me.
From my friends.
I got four offers within three days, two of which I actually took up the offer on, seeing as they were one day gigs that'd probably pay pretty well.
The first gig was last Sunday: some couple wanted to whack up a patio where they'd used to have a garage, but destroying the foundation had been too big of a problem for their first contractor, so they needed a real professional...
Well, since they couldn't find a real professional to do the job, I was called in by a friend of mine to go rip it apart, since concrete's my thing and I know the tools.
Ten hours, one broken sledge, a bent crowbar and a charred back later there was no trace of the old garage any longer, and I got a hefty few hundred €'s for it to boot. And most of all, it was fun as hell - c'mon, you gotta love demolition work!
The back got a pretty good sunburn, though, which I noticed in the shower while washing off all the dirt and grime. Word of advice: don't take a coarse brush to a scorched back, it hurts like the f**king Apocalypse. The tanline was awesome, though: picture a polar bear next to Red Square and you pretty much get the color difference.
The other job was working as a chauffeur for a bunch of salespeople: driving them to a golf course and getting their ( at least I'd expect) drunk behinds back home before work the next day.
I'd like to think that "escort service" would've been a more appropriate term for it.
Seriously, who plays a par-3 course with a bunch of semi-unknowns, has a fantastic dinner, socializes and barbecues on a "job"? Minus dropping the pants, I think I hit the term pretty damn close! AND I got paid for it!
I could seriously get to liking these gigs! A few days' work for a half month's pay sounds pretty effing A.
The next plan of action's gonna be a "tad" less glorious: going back to the parents to prepare for next week's military re-training.
But at least the state pays you for it.
... Not as good as the escort service, though...
