I REALLY MUST WASH MY MOUTH WITH SOAP – I swear

Swearing, using what are deemed bad words, expressions and phrases, is unfortunately a universal part of communicating and is used in most languages. We all do it, more or less. I know I do and I am not proud of it, so I’m desperately trying to stop. I’m not going to diminish my use of swearing by telling you that in my estimation I don’t swear a lot, since any use of bad words, expressions and phrases is too much, any time – I swear it is (see, I can’t stop).

So why are some words, expressions and phrases bad? Aren’t they all just a row of individual letters that by themselves are as innocent as new-fallen snow? When these same letters are assembled in other ways they easily make accepted, lovely and even kind words? Why is it that calling a female dog a “bitch” is acceptable, but calling an ex-wife a “bitch” is nasty and perhaps rude? And more importantly, how can we be sure the dog is not offended? No, gentle reader, I’m not going to get hardcore and create a handy dictionary of bad words for you, I’m simply trying to help myself stop doing this swearing thing – really. I’m sure you know what many of those words are anyway.

A common and logic reason attached to the use of swearing is the deficiency some of us have expressing ourselves better, making what we are trying to communicate stand out with the use of accepted language. The lack of using correct words also stems from simple laziness in trying to retrieve what we really know we should say.

Swearing is for the most based on frustration, anger, stress and emotions like that, but not limited to. I find that I lean on the effect (for the most met by untold disgust) that using unacceptable words help underline specific description’s severity or importance – but that use is as wrong as can possibly be. I’m reminded of it every time that stuff flies out of my mouth. A weird thing is that I am offended and puzzled when other people use profanity as I think it sounds stupid and pathetic (welcome in the club, Peter).

When we look at bad words individually or phrases and start picking them apart, find out from where they originated and why they actually got such bad reputation, for the most it all seems rather innocent. We soon acknowledge that for the most it comes down to our interpretation of what has been passed to us from earlier generations (Dad, how could you?) Not particularly very scientific, huh? And have you noticed how elegantly I have avoided any use of those words outright? I know it’s not fair as I would really like to give examples, but I don’t want to as it’s part of my eager attempt to stop swearing (long pause and a sigh)… Okay, I’ll give you one example, so here we go (sorry Mom).

Let’s work with the word that starts with an S and ends on HIT (I can’t even write it). The first use of this word dates back to around 1526 and is seriously catalogued as vulgar – duh! One of the many uses of this word is for nonsense and I’m sure you know some of the more common interpretations. So let’s clean up our language and use the accepted form of that same word by saying FECES. You tell me, but doesn’t that actually sound even more vulgar? I knew you would agree. So can we find a fine line between vulgar language and accepted speech? No such luck. Bad language is just that, bad language; it has been established as such for hundreds of years. Yes I know, not the tough and juicy treatment of a sensitive subject.

Not to justify being somewhat potty-mouthed, but I have personally accepted the use of CRAP and I’ll tell you why. Thomas Crapper was a plumber in London back in the latter part of 1800-whatever. Rumors are random that he invented the flush toilet, but that is not true. He did a lot of installations of this new invention through his plumbing business and the term CRAP became popular (but not by Mr. Crapper himself, I’m sure). Just a note of understanding: my use of crap is solely covering nonsense and silliness, not that feces-thing; so is that okay with you? If not, I’ll stop right away, but watch out, I could get crappy in the process…

I do not find any form of justification for me to swear; it’s ignorant and rather pathetic. Does anger or frustration get the best of me – or the worst, actually? Yes, and I find that to be a very weak link in my attempts to communicate, so I should stop; no, I must stop this crap (read: nonsense or silliness), really. I’m 65 and it’s about time I wash my mouth with soap – I swear it is.

See you next Monday

WE ALL MEAN SOMETHING TO EACH OTHER – we really should!

In Danish we have a term: “vi kommer hinanden ved”. To me, loosely translated, it means that we all connect, we all rely on each other and we all care about each other. What I hope is that we do ALL mean something to each other; us average folks. When I look at the big picture I see all of us, side-by-side, together on this globe thing and just that should be enough to underline the us part, and that’s a pretty cool start, don’t you think? Well, enough fantasizing; back to life as it really is...

I was visiting my Mother some years back. She lived by herself and had this everyday routine going; very organized, doing the same things day in and day out. I walked with her to the supermarket Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings, leaving the apartment at 9:30 sharp. She walked the same route, passing the same people who were either walking as well or biking. My mother did not acknowledge any of them using any form of greeting – nothing; she didn’t even look at them. And then I remembered this kind of “you don’t exist” attitude I grew up with and something rather normal, not only Scandinavian, but also somewhat European. I brought it up with my mother when we returned home and her response was: “I don’t know them and if they want to greet me, why don’t they do that?”  They had passed each other three times a week for years; why couldn’t they at least nod or something to acknowledge and respect each other’s presence (on this globe-thing?) My Mother nearly had a heart-attack when I suggested the following.

The next supermarket day I would greet all the people we met on our way. I wanted to prove to my Mother that we do care, no matter how reserved or whatever we appear to be. At this point my Mother was very busy tearing up my part of her will; but I was stubborn and off to the store we went. A nice looking lady on a bike was the first test. I greeted her with a big smile and good morning (in Danish, of course). I thought she was going to fall off her bike, but instead she did one of those double takes to see if I was somebody she knew; she realized I wasn’t, but she turned around a second time, smiled big and greeted me back. My Mother stopped in her tracks, stunned, but in a nice way – I think. I greeted everybody as they came by that morning and received the same reaction: shock, curiosity and then those big smiles and loud good mornings. I had proved to my Mother that we do care, we do want to connect, and we do kommer hinanden ved. The funny bit is since that morning the passerby’s kept greeting my Mother, but it took her several weeks before she finally gave in and started to greet back; but only to those people Monday, Wednesday and Friday. She never expanded this greeting thing to anybody else.

After I arrived in the USA some many years ago, I was initially shocked concerning the friendliness and the greetings everybody seemed to communicate (California). In the beginning I took it a bit too literal when asked how are you. I would be in the beginning of my answer and they were already gone. So all they wanted to hear was fine and you? Then I bitched about the shallowness of these I’m gonna greet you but I don’t really care about your response bits. But I soon realized that my attitude was wrong. It had all to do with acknowledgement of each other by connecting, briefly or not. It’s the effort that counts – big time. Don’t you agree?

I pretty much talk with everybody I meet; in the streets, shops, elevators (remember?) planes, trains and wherever I travel (yes, especially in Denmark – the tougher challenge). 99.9% of the time I’m met with positive responses, smiles and comments. These moments are precious to me because they prove that we do want to connect, that we do care about each other and no matter the means of communication, we do acknowledge that we are all here together on this globe thing – and isn’t that nice? Yes I know, this is the BIGGER picture; but most of the time we forget what it looks like because we are so darn busy getting to the supermarket. Once in a while stop, take a deep breath, smile and communicate; we all do mean something to each other, if you agree or not. When we take the time to acknowledge that, we will always be rewarded accordingly – and for the most with big smiles.

Thanks for asking; I’m fine and you?

UPDATE

I’m visiting my mother at the moment. She’s 91 with dementia and has a very hard time walking if at all. I told her the above story; she can’t remember it, but she smiles and (still) shakes her head as in: how could you! She lives in a home in a very small town called Vammen in the middle of Denmark. Here everybody pretty much know everybody so there’s a lot of greetings and smiles as you move around – and that’s how it should be everywhere – don’t you think?  I only show up every 12 months for a week, so I’m not really on the Vammen’s “greeting list”. But the more I smile and say “go’dav” or “hej” the closer I get being added to the list. Most still wonder who I am and what I’m doing in their town (the curiosity factor) and that’s where the rumor-mill comes in handy – really. And yes, I really do wish you were all here – but there is not enough room in this little town in the middle of Denmark.

See you next Monday – really…

CRUISING IN A SCHOOL BUS - at 32,000 feet

It seems the Wright brothers Orville and Wilbur were not even born when I flew the first time. It was around 1963; my virgin flight was from Copenhagen to Aarhus (Denmark) to visit my mother. As far as I recall it was a DC 3 two-engine prop. Back then passengers dressed up to look the rich and mature part of: “I am flying and you are not – na na na na na na”. I was right there with them in my only suit, tie and spit-polished shoes. I showered more than once that morning and finished with a bottle of Old Spice (that’s an after-shave, not a 20-year old bourbon). I was as ready as could be and smelled pretty damn good – miles away. I considered the realistic possibility of crashing, but felt somewhat okay since I was at least dressed appropriately for that open casket thing. “So very young – but he sure smelled good…” I finished my pre-flight-check-up in the bathroom mirror, airplane ticket in hand. “You daredevil you…” I said, smiling that charming crooked smile of mine and finished by the not so charming scream: “OH MY GOD – I DON’T WANNA DIE…”

I have survived hundreds of take-offs and landings since then. I have experienced flying as one of only six passengers on a Boeing 747 from Copenhagen to London, a plane built for 350 to 400 travelers; the service was superb and we partied all the way in First Class (I even saw one of the stewardesses dancing with the automatic pilot - really).  I have never missed a departure and have never experienced cancelled flights – and no, I haven’t crashed either, as far as I remember. All in all Peter has done well in the air… Knock on wood, if you can find any at 32,000 feet.

It seems a long time ago that the glamour and privilege of flying was for the few. It was when flight attendants were stewardesses, the service topnotch, gourmet food and lots of fine wines and cocktails – and you could smoke if you wanted to; but that has all changed. The tickets are less now, but we pay for everything else: luggage, food, drinks, blankets and pillows. I hear we’ll soon be charged for visits to the lavatory (that's the bathroom on a plane - whatever...). Can you imagine running out of quarters with over six hours left before we reach Tokyo? That's where bladder-control comes in handy.

Today a lot more people travel by air and I like that – really; makes the world a lot smaller. Compared, I flew more luxuriously back then, but I’m fine with the progression (on most levels). Today I get the feeling that I'm flying on an old school bus with wings, but not as much leg-room. I normally stay busy reading, listening to my iPod or write. Unfortunately I can't sleep on planes, but that's okay too. For the most people chat a bit and then we settle in and eventually we reach our destination. By the way, did you know that sitting next to a crying baby makes the flying-time four times longer? It's a mathematical phenomena, but true. If you don't believe me, next time you check in, ask for a seat next to a colic baby. You’ll soon acknowledge the vast difference between scheduled flying-time and actual flying-time.

Here’s something you should try, just for fun and to pass time. You have just boarded a plane for Chicago. You smile at your row-mate and sit down. Just before the plane leaves the gate, you turn and ask her what she is going to do when she gets to New York. The reactions are priceless. That first: “but isn’t this plane going to Chicago?” is for the wallet. Unfortunately only very few get up and race towards the exit where the flight attendants have a hard time convincing the confused passenger that we are heading for Chicago… (Never happened, but it would be fun if it did; don’t you think?) Another fun thing: ask everybody around you if you can have their barf bags... That always put the fear in their eyes and quick looks for empty seats away from you - and that's not bad at all, is it? An easy and fun way to get more room for those elbows - true story.

Do I worry about that crashing thing? I do to some extent, but also realize it’s totally out of my control. I can only hope the pilot-person ain’t drunk, has suicidal tendencies or is in the middle of losing a nasty divorce. I have only been frightened once. We were in a tiny one engine four-seater plane. The rain, lightning and thunder was horrendous and we were supposed to land on a small island in the middle of a roaring ocean on a narrow landing strip with tall trees lining both sides, like gutter-bumpers at your local bowling alley; just in case? The pilot had at first refused to fly anywhere that day due to the weather, but we insisted and by communicating a bit more money we took off. The worst decision I have ever been part of. The 2 hour flight to reach the island was the very worst flying experience ever; death would have been a merciful ending, really. Trying to land this little piece of plane on a very wet and gust-windy stamp-like strip was horrific. It took three tries before we barely made it. I think the pilot is still pissed at us, though it is over 40 years ago. I can still hear him scream hysterically so many times during the flight: I'm no *&%^&^%$# Kamikaze bloody pilot (but in Danish…) Go figure.

Tomorrow I’ll be on a plane to Denmark. I'm visiting my sweet mother and then some good friends in Copenhagen. I kind of dread the flight, but as always it will eventually get me there; most of the time faster than dreaded. And yes I’ll be flying to Chicago first and just for you I will use that: “what are you going to do when you get to New York?” line. I’ll let you know how it goes. I'm also bringing my collection of barf bags, though I have never used one, really; but they might give me more elbow room - don't you think? 

See you next Monday – from Denmark...

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LABOR DAY – a reason I came to America

Today is Labor Day in the USA. Labor Day was a big part of the reasoning I chose this country as my new home. I arrived in New York in May of 1975, 28 years old and went straight to California’s warmth and sunshine; I have never regretted this decision and not ever felt tempted to return to live in Denmark or anywhere else. You may ask: How did Labor Day become one of the reasons you moved here? Let me explain.

I was 9 or 10 years old when I got hold of some American magazines. There were pictures of big “American” cars, beautiful homes, large layer-cakes with lots of frosting and other goodies that we didn’t have in Denmark at the time. To me it soon became The land of milk and honey (big cakes and automobiles). My thoughts about America got stronger over the next many years.

My newly started career in Denmark involved a lot of traveling in Europe. I have always enjoyed traveling in Europe; the variety of countries, the people and the languages are so excitingly different on so many levels. Through all that I always felt a common European spirit; back then I think I was the only one who felt that. The thought of not living in Denmark started brewing stronger. Don’t get me wrong, Denmark is a wonderful country and I really like my fellow Danes (okay, most of them), but I was never too wild about the weather. I wanted a lot of sun and the opportunity to work on my skin-cancer on a daily basis…

I was doing well and was comfortable, but the plans for my future evolved every day. Several countries were considered, most of them in the sun; Italy, Germany, South of France and as the oddball, England (it’s a soccer-thing). But then I started to look much further west and into my childhood dreams. I considered the options and made my decision. The next day I submitted my emigration application to the country named Disneyland. Guess what, surprisingly my request was denied; the explanation was that they already had two rodents living there. Beaten by Mickey and Minnie; how cruel is that?

With this slight set-back I then looked at the USA as a possibility. It was when I found some American calendars that I noticed one day each year was marked Labor Day. The lights came on and I didn’t understand how I could have missed it before. So the people of this country only worked one day a year? And they even had it marked on their calendars (obviously so nobody would show up late, I guessed.) These were definitely my kind of people – I immediately started to pack and off to America I went. It was a few years later that I figured out the truth, but at that time I had a great tan and was often asked if I was a true Californian. (I just answered yeah man; otherwise my cute Danish accent would have marked me a fake).


The accent bit is actually funny. Today I don’t give a hooters if anybody notices – really, but in the beginning it embarrassed the heck out of me when somebody asked where I was from. I’d stutter Denmark and they would then go on a tirade about how they knew all about Denmark through an uncle's mother's daughter's dog's cousin who had seen a picture of the Queen of Denmark in a magazine. After listening to that a million times I came up with a brilliant idea. When somebody asked me: where are you from with that heavy accent, foreigner? I would calmly smile and say Connecticut and nobody has responded to that one other than maybe huh? and perhaps where is that? And my all-time favorite bless you – go figure.

I have never regretted this move. The fact that I visit Denmark (and Sweden) often makes it easier, though it has never been hard to live here. What I miss the most is my family, especially on my wife’s side (Sweden). To be able to just pop by and have a cup of coffee and a chat; I do miss that. Though I talk with my Mother 4-5 times every week, I miss our hugs and the face-to-face. But I have a small family here, wife and kids, and I think we have a tighter than normal relationship due to the lack of being geographically closer with the rest. But then we have some great friends here and that makes up for a lot. Do you enjoy your family as much as you should? Please do; it’s priceless, but for the most a privilege we take for granted.

Of course it took time to adjust. I promised myself that if I didn’t speak and write English close to fluently within 2 years after my arrival, I would return to Denmark. I think I manage okay, thank you. Also within 2 years of arrival, if I couldn’t express myself at times using humor, I would head back to Denmark (Okay, so I’m still working on it; please be patient and give it a chance – it could happen and it's only been 36-plus years).

The land of milk and honey, layer-cakes and automobiles? Yeah, considering nobody’s perfect, this land is my home. And I can thank Labor Day, Mickey and Minnie for that, no matter how wrong my assumptions were at the time – talking about nobody’s perfect!

HAPPY LABOR DAY – it's nice with a day off, huh?

See you next week.