Taking The Tour

Friday evening was what you might call "debauched."

Since I'm in the mood for wordplay, let's go the distance and suggest that Friday evening was "D-Botched." Earlier on in the previous week, the kitchen sat down and we discussed a theme for Friday's whichever-annual "Tour de Chambres," a highly-formalized (at least when it starts) excuse for nearly everyone in the residence hall to get suuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuper sauced. The initial discussion bore as much fruit as a cow pie in the desert: all sorts of ideas were tossed about (sports, hippies, old people, Duncan (seriously), orgy/Greek), but we were unable to settle on a single favorite (it's interesting how much we complain about the world not being able to sort out its problems when an international kitchen can't agree on how to dress before getting pissed). It took two more days to decide, and in the end it was a spur of the moment decision on the part of Jacob: "PIMPS AND BITCHES!" (It sounded better at the time: "PEEMPS AND BEETCHEZ!")

From there it was straight to business: food needed organized, drinks needed purchased, fashion needed massacred. It was decided that representatives of each Dominant Clan would produce their own delicious brand of sweetmeats: Simon and I were responsible for fried chicken (now one of our most reliably superb offerings) and apple pies; Jacob and Robert would prepare tortillas (though these were somewhat different from the tortillas that we are used to in America) and croquetas (truly scrumptious); the French would stack crepes high and with great resolve. Everyone else would be involved in clean-up.



Simon and I cooked for three hours. Looking back, I think we had the easy part.







While not the most original theme ever (YouTube returns 174 results for "pimps and hos party"), the very anticipation of a Pimps and Hos party sends all involved into a frenzy of frenetic action, carnal appetites, and consequently undesirable memories. Men immediately begin to "upgrade" their clothes, no matter how misguided the effort may be. Women immediately start taking theirs off ("misguided" being an understatement in this case). The music becomes awesomely degrading (unless you're dealing with people who think a Pimps & Hos party should be accompanied by house music; it shouldnt, guys), the beverages flow like uncontrollable rivers of sin and madness, etc. Most importantly, the memories return like horrifying recollections of previous battles won at great cost.







Thanks once again to Peter and his trusty SLR, these memories were captured and tamed for your viewing pleasure and entertainment. Thank God none of your future employers know about my blog.

"Tour de Chambres" is based around the idea that a group of people can make their way through the lower floor of a residence hall, taking a shot of powerful, illicit drink at the behest of each room's host...without dying. If this sounds ludicrous to you, then congratulations: you have more sense than my friends at Copenhagen North. Fortunately, there were no fatalities, though the prospect of someone losing their life wasn't particularly unrealistic.







Things started out in a relatively calm fashion; an orderly procession of pimps (many of whom had forgotten that pimps dress like pimps, not Biff from 'Back To the Future') and hos (many of whom seemed to have forgotten their clothes) made their way down the corridors, entering rooms, ingesting the spirits, and talking merrily about how terrible everything tasted (which leads to my next question: "IS THERE AN ALCOHOL IN THE WORLD WHICH DOES NOT TASTE LIKE THE DEVIL'S PISS?"). Things devolved at a steady rate; I would say that by the seventh or eighth room, many of my cohorts were teetering on the edge of incoherent madness, and by the time we made our way back to the kitchen, things had clearly taken a turn for the bonkers.







Things Of Note:

- I had two shots to calm the masses: one of whiskey (the White Man's fire-water burns brightly in my tummy; how anyone can drink that kind of bullshit wholesale is beyond me), to flex nuts all over Jacob; and one of some horrific melon-flavored something-or-other out of respect for the French. My mother will be pleased to know that I suffered no ill effects (though for a few minutes I had difficulty moderating the volume of my voice), though I can't say the same for everyone...







- The upstairs kitchen elected to pursue the hippie path, with great success. Big props to Sexy Peter, Arnie, and the Spanish Ladies (who unfortunately were not pictured, though they've got some presence on the Facebook; dig the wigs), who not only looked the part, but acted very much the part (nevermind the fact that Arnas may never walk again with that busted-up foot; at least he danced on the other one). Our heartfelt condolences go to Lina's beleaguered liver.







- My favorite part of the evening involved Simon and Mario.

"Daaaaaaaaaaaamn man you look like you might have reached the limit."
"Yeahhhhhhh..."
"You're the color of a flipping lobster!"
"I am."

*Mario comes out of nowhere, puts his arm around me.*

"LOOK AT SIMON."







Now, that was Friday night.

Saturday night was the real party: SENSATION WHITE.

I've participated in some craziness since I came to Denmark. I was at Christiania for the Birthday Celebrations. I got my groove on at "Who's Your Daddy?" I even initiated Hammer Time at the school's Halloween Party. Nevermind all that.

Sensation was so very much off the chain that I don't know if it warrants comparison to anything I've experienced before. Until Saturday, I'd never seen 27,000 people get it cracking in a football stadium. They've got stuff like this in Miami (Orlando isn't considered cool enough; we pretend like we can't understand why), but Miami's 250 miles away. Parken is right down the road, and long before we got out of the car, we were feeling the bass. Lights in the distance, bouncing off of the inside of the stadium; droves of people dressed from head to toe in white. The first glimpse of the festivities had our hearts pounding in our chests.

Try to imagine what it's like to climb a flight of stairs into a darkened stadium, filled to capacity, with giant jellyfish hanging from the ceiling, lasers going every which way, and the best bass you've heard in a while. The floor seethes with the movement of 20,000 white outfits. The centerpiece of the show is flanked by fountains, fireworks, sparks, mirrors, and women without much on (they had my sympathies; the dance floor might have been hot as balls, but everywhere else was chilly). Then imagine that this lasts for seven hours.

There's even a crazy announcer, whose voice sounded like it was emanating from a crocodile that had mistakenly swallowed a jet engine.

The first D.J., Erick E., did his job perfectly; bass line in, bass line out, it didn't matter, we went crazy. Nearly perfect house music ("Because he's Dutch!," says Nadine; I cannot disagree), punctuated by, oh, twelve-foot rubber balls bouncing around the floor, propelled by a ravenous audience. These balls lit up when touched. Seriously. They lit UP. Up next was Kjeld Tolstrup; a bit of a softy, but he got respect because he knew what he was doing nonetheless. I guess it's difficult to decide what to give a crowd after they've just spent half an hour going totally wild to the last guy.

The third DJ, Rune R.K., knew where it was at: halfway through his set, we got the Aerodynamic guitar, along with a robot's voice: "O. B. A. M. A. SAY IT." A shout out? Followed by all-out Daft Punk? That about set my shoes on fire. You had to see it to understand just how completely crazy the building went. A lot of right-minded individuals in the house, it would seem.

Then they played the Megamix. Please believe.

The fourth DJ, Tiga, was terrible. We pray that he will not be invited back. Take your sound bite-infested clap-trap nonsense elsewhere. The last duo, Steve Angelo and Sebastian Ingrosso, did very well, though I'm not going to lie: I was too exhausted to properly appreciate their work. They were highly engaging, though, and they spoke. Which was cool; we didn't actually do much speaking while we were there. Too much crazy grooving. We were done at 3 in the morning, starving, freezing, craving a cigarette (no, mother, I'm not smoking cigarettes; it's poetic license), but totally buzzed on how great an evening it was.

All I'm saying is that some of you need to be here next year: Lise, Ruby, Case, all of you. Find a way here. FIND ONE.

Duncan out.

"Change Has Come To America."

I'm not going to go in depth with this. You already know where I stood, or, rather, where I stand. I stand by Barack Obama. I have seen what was long denounced as impossible come to pass. Obama hasn't just broken ground today, he has the chance to become the foundation for a new world. We cannot pretend for an instant that this is not the most memorable moment in American political history, and we cannot deny that this is a beautiful, glorious achievement to be recalled forever, not just in American hearts, but across the world. The entire planet is united now in celebration because of our decision to place our trust in the right person.



I'm so proud of all of you, and I'm so absolutely filled with joy for the possibilities that Obama's presidency brings. I'm proud of everyone. Tupac can rest easy, Martin Luther King Jr. can give thanks anew, and we can wake up every day filled with renewed pride in our country, and the knowledge that we finally have a President who cares about each and every one of us.

Yes, we can.

Free For A Day

So, erm...I've been gone for a little while...





First of all, let me apologize for my ridiculously lengthy absence whilst attempting to explain why I haven't updated in nearly three weeks, and why I won't be updating again for some time.

My camera is broken.





It seems that while Denmark's natural beauty and charm make it impossibly difficult not to photograph, my own natural affinity for having the camera out in damn near any situation will inevitably bring untold misery crashing down onto my head. Two Fridays ago, Borislava and her roommates hosted what I consider thus far to be the most ballerific party of the term, and, as one of the most prolific photographers on campus, I felt up to the challenge of capturing the moment. This feeling was a mistake. No sooner had I gotten comfortable with shooting the European College Student in its favorite environment than my camera, lens still extended, went slipping from my dry, obstacle-free, completely-steady hands to fall less than two feet onto the unforgiving wooden floor. I'm guessing it was as close as a camera can get to falling boner-first, and the effect was similar in that while it worked for the next thirty seconds, it hasn't worked again since.

I am devastated.





This isn't the first time I've lost control of a camera and seen it crash to the ground. I dealt with a similarly nightmarish situation last year, in Copenhagen, when my errant sister decided it might be a good idea to smack me in face, mid-photograph. Remember that brick-sized Canon that I used to carry? It fell nearly six feet onto bumpy asphalt, also with the lens extended, and gave me the scare of my life when it wouldn't turn back on (I then gave Lise the talking-to of her life). The difference between that fuck-up and the most recent fuck-up was that fifteen minutes later, seemingly by the grace of the Divine Lord, it switched back on, and works perfectly to this day. I'm guessing my karma must have been floating somewhere between that of Hitler and George W. Bush, because all my Nikon wanted to do fifteen minutes later was spit a white-hot "LENS ERROR (!)" into my pleading eyes. Things aren't looking good.

I'm not sure about repairs, either. The impression I've been given from various inquiries into costs ("Is it expen-" "Yes.") leaves me with the feeling that camera shops can't wait for your camera to break. I'm willing to pay to have my baby back, but I hate to think of someone profitting from my suffering. That's not how I roll, and that isn't how I'd expect someone else to view my situation. Cameras are very special, powerful tools of storytelling, and being attached to mine as much as I am makes it difficult, almost unbearable to imagine a world without it. I can't break the bank for this, though. I'm going downtown to see what they want for repairs at a store recommended to me by Henrik and Benedicte. I'm honestly a bit scared.





But enough of the moping. I could go on and on about how difficult times have been since the Fall, or how frustrating it's been to sit up at night trying to figure out the ins and outs of CSS design, but instead all I want to do is tell you about Tuesday afternoon. This blog is about our joyous romp through the Frilandsmuseet, our zany adventures in Holte, and my time with Peter's glorious SLR.

The Frilandsmuseet is situated (I guess) north of Lyngby, just past the end of a relatively easy hill (erm...guys, I have actual thighs now. It's kinda odd.), and it is one of the chillest places on Earth. I'm rapidly coming to the conclusion that life would be a lot easier if people were simply required, by their governments or their parents or whoever wears the pants, to visit Denmark during the end of summer. It's simply one of the most beautiful, calming places you can find yourself in. Take the Frilands for example: it's just an "open-air" museum that exhibits farms from different centuries, lifted from their original locations and painstakingly preserved on gorgeous real estate that manages to remain beautiful while at the same time maintaining that marvelous sense of "oh, this must have been what it was like before lawncare." We didn't even get to see all of it, but what we did see was painted gold for us by a slowly sinking sun.





I felt the urge to take photographs. My index finger itched with longing. Peter obliged me with his hypersexual Nikon single-lens reflex, and the sensation was akin to having your Honda transform into a cruise missile. I really, really, really want one of these. So bad.

So bad.

Frilands was only scheduled to remain open for another forty-five minutes when we arrived, but we were operating at maximum efficiency, and a good hundred-something pictures were taken while the sheep went about their business (sheep, people), and I believe it to have been a fantastic run. Sophie even flexed nuts long enough to step into a field of various stinging plants and spiny thistles for the obligatory Ralph Lauren shot. Lise's famous pose now has a companion.





Then we went to Holte. Holte is beautiful.

I was already amazed by how the pleasant greens of Gentofte and quaint Lyngby could put me at ease, but this was really something else. You know the wallpaper that served as the default background for Windows XP? That hill didn't have anything on Holte. I was so overcome that I simply diverted from our bike path, parked my bike, and stared, in awe, at the way it stretched, far enough for the distance to haze a bit, to the shores of the lake beyond. I wanted to sit on the hill with the crew and just live. This would not do, though; we had a lake to visit.





Alas, it seems a trip to the lake, while free to visitors, is not without its price. The hill itself ends rather abruptly, and a small, narrow path meanders down its front, terminating at its base and giving way to trees, sand, and then the lake. We moved single-file down the path, each of us taking care not to become overconfident in our braking abilities...and then Simon decided to try turning right at what I'm guessing had to be twenty miles per hour. The pictures tell the rest of the story, I'm afraid. A good man done wrong by nature.





Oh, but the lake was worth the admission fee. We of Florida, with our Coke-brown brackish ponds, are not used to seeing water that looks like it had just poured forth from the Heavens, nor are we used to it being surrounded by glorious shades of green and red (Autumn is coming, and it's going to be surreal), with the sun glinting off of its surface and the breeze coaxing small waves from its depths. This is what we found at the end of Simon's Fall (that's what we're calling the path, guys). Damn.





My being able to write this blog solely as a result of someone else's generosity is a sober reminder of how carelessness can exact a heavy toll on one's livelihood. I don't know when I'll be able to write again, but rest assured that I haven't forgotten about my commitment. I will write again.

There's nothing else to say. I'll let the pictures talk from here.