Short Days, Long Nights... Struck By Ideas & A Dead Boss?

My sleep cycle is terribly unbalanced. I look tired, feel dirty and have very little sense of direction. But there have been changes, my time in Leonberg since I returned has not gone as expected. The plan was always to come back and get to working right away, but my boss seems to have vanished. When someone doesn't answer the phone, respond to SMS's or e-mails for a period of longer than ten days. Something must be wrong.

My mind is filled with possible scenarios, what happened to him? Is he being held against his will by some AIDS infected rapist cannibals? Did he have an unfortunate accident which put him in a coma? Did he actually die? All good possibilities, but none likely. I may have to face the possibility that he simply didn't like me and is purposely avoiding me. Perhaps I have to face the fact that I'm a douchebag, not liked, not loved and not sought out for.

That matter aside, I am now forced to seek employment elsewhere, anywhere. I need a fairly balanced income to sustain me as much as it can. My nationality is nothing to be proud of, any mention of it and people look at me like I'm Olaf Ragnars fuck buddy. My goal these days is to apply for a job anywhere within walking distance, until I get one or until my M.I.A boss makes a call back. Whenever that may be.

This is where Thor The Thundergod came in and struck me with an idea. This one idea opened a door of fading memories, it all came flooding back to me. I used to be a voice actor goddamn it! From 1999-2002 I voiced about one hundred cartoons. I voiced biblical figures, royalty, African-American school kids and even a small ape. These German studios in Stuttgart are always looking for people with good accents in the english language. I voiced an ape, that must count for something. I must explore this possibility.

My only set plan for the next two months is to finish a short film in time for the competition in Las Vegas next March. No easy plan to complete. If everything works out, I'll be moving into an apartment in two months. The situation today is not solid enough to make any half assed predictions, so I won't try to...

Bill Hicks Was Right... Things Are Sure Gettin' Christmasy... Computer Revived & That's Fucking Great...

After two months in Germany, being in Iceland feels very natural. Almost as if I never left, but the interesting part is... how I got back. There's no mystery behind it, only with simple public transportation systems and an Icelandair airplane. "Thank you for choosing Icelandair", what else is there to choose from? A few years back there wasn't an airline in the world that came near Iceland. It's the Icelandic way, complete monopoly in one way or another and no choices for the "free thinkers".

The short stay in Berlin was interesting, instead of drinking non-stop and acting like a douchebag I actually managed to behave. The Soviet side of Berlin was my home for three days, but the best thing about Berlin is... it's nothing like Reykjavík. There are no commonalities, or at least no obvious ones. It was a basic trip with sight seeing and pure old fun. The trip itself has limited writing material, who gives a shit how many beers I drank or many bars I visited?

My strongest memory of Berlin was at the Hauptbahnhof, I arrived at around 4:45 in the morning. The cab driver never said a word to me, just uttered "shit" every time he got a red light. It was a smooth drive however, no small talk and no problems at all. I walked into the cold and empty train station holding my computer, amongst other things and attempted to locate my train. The information panels were confusing, but eventually I figured it out. I had all the info I needed, but departure was still an hour away. What to do?

Better check where the tracks are, don't want any complications at the last moment. That was easy enough, the time was 04:55 and I still had about an hour left. My stomach started to boil, aching for sustenance. I had to feed it, but what could be open at this time? The search began, but only one minute later I discovered a McDonalds. Sure, why not? Of course I hate it, as we all do. Still, most of us end up there eventually. This reminded me of Bill Hicks and his opinion of McDonalds: "Why do I think McDonalds is the Anti-Christ?". Why, indeed?

The McDonalds wouldn't open until 05:00, fair enough. The time was 04:57, I was still alone. Nothing to do in this cold place but wait and snap a few pictures of this huge empty palace of a train station. Inside the McDonalds was a female worker, getting the place ready. Female may be a kind description, whatever it was it had red hair, a face like a pig and about 40kg of useless flab around itself. I couldn't help but to feel a little sorry for whatever it was, looking like this is bad enough, but looking like this and working at McDonalds is something else entirely.

It's 04:59, better get ready to enter. Suddenly, from all directions, people came. It was like The Invasion Of The Body Snatchers, people just appeared in a quiet zombie like manner just moments before the place opened. By the time it was 05:00, at least twelve people had hurdled themselves by the door in front of me. Is this normal? Does McDonalds have some sort of homing beacons to draw in customers? Where did these people come from? I had been there for ten minutes and hadn't seen more than three people and two cops. Were they hiding?

Fifty minutes and two cheeseburgers later I started on my way home, finally reaching it about twelve hours later. So here I sit with my fixed computer and a glass of coca cola and wondering what was the point with this story... McDonalds is a demonic corporate enterprise and Bill Hicks was a prophet, there it is, that was the point.

Strange Days... Vivid Dreams & The Events Surrounding A Blonde Jailbait...

Last week, I woke up one morning feeling slightly confused. The night before had been a series of intense beer drinking, but compared to the amount I drank, I felt pretty good. As any morning, I lay in my bed thinking for a few minutes, strange memories of vivid dreams began to resurface. Watching the planet destroy itself in nuclear wars while flying through outer space with cartoon characters, stuff like that. Finally I mustered the energy to stand up...

Like any morning, my first instinct is to look in the mirror and evaluate the damage I had done to myself. My hair, like every morning was in Dr. Frankenstein mode, as if I had been severly electrified all night. But something seemed different this time, I couldn't see exactly what it was but something was definately a little bit different. I raised my right hand and combed my hair using my fingers...

I looked at my right hand and in horror I saw that in my hand lay hair, my own hair. Could it be? Had the time come? Is this the beginning of the end? Jesus Bilbo Baggins Christ! It couldn't come on a worse time. The night before had been such a great time, the peak of it was when I met what seemed to be a good looking blonde. It was late, it was dark and loud, so any type of formal communication was difficult...

It was only a few minutes, I tried to speak in German but she was very understanding towards my "auslandisch" personality. It was a nice talk, but she had to go home, she had work early in the morning. How can I argue with that? Especially in this "Wirtschaftkriese" or whatever it's called. But it wasn't over, the impossible happened, she asked for my phone number. The first time in my twenty-two years of living that a girl actually asks for my phone number...

But I had reservations about it, mostly because this girl looked young, like me going to prison young. However, she couldn't get into this place without the minimal age of eighteen. It is common though, for younger people to sneak in so I couldn't be sure. How can I say no to her? I gave her my phone number and she mentioned that she would call me the next day. Sweet, I thought. All I can do is wait for her call and pray she's over fifteen...

Why would an attractive young girl want my phone number? She has to got be as crazy as I am, or she's too young and stupid to notice my psychotic tendencies. But how the hell can I meet her with my hair falling off? That's unacceptable. There's no chance I can meet this girl while the front top of my hair is falling out in all directions. I must be able to fix this, I thought. There must be some way I can make this work...

Yes, there is. The answer was obvious. My friend here in Stuttgart owns a realistic hair piece. I have to shave my hair off, get the hair piece and hope the girl doesn't notice the difference. It was dark, and only a few minutes, surely she wont notice. But how can I keep up this act? How long till she finds out that I'm in fact a balding freak? The only reasonable answer to this, was to charm her. Yes, use those Sindri charms on her and make the bitch attached to you. After that, I can remove the hair piece and she will unable to turn her back on me...

A solid plan. A bit unconventional, but fuck it. This was my last chance, who wants a bald freak? But after a closer inspection of the hair in my right hand I realized, this is not my hair. The relief I felt was incredible, but it raised questions. If this wasn't my hair, who's was it and how the fuck did it get it in my hair? There seemed to be no obvious answer to these questions...

No worries, I had my hair and a possible date that day. But the call never came, the jailbait chickened out on me. Either that or she simply doesn't remember talking to me. I didn't have her number, so I couldn't reach her, what a bummer. So there I was, still standing in front of the mirror, holding someone else's hair and thanking the Gods that I still have a reasonably strong hairline. What can be better for a man my age?

Sindri's Great Blog Resurrection... Personal Computer's Fucked Up... Waiting For Trains... Desiring Beer & Going To Berlin...

It's dinner time here in Leonberg as I write these first words of a brand new blog, and the first question the reader might ask is... why in English? The reason is purely "economical", to reach a so called "wider audience". Although I have nothing but respect for my native Icelandic language, only around 320.000 people speak it worldwide...

For the last two months I have been living (and drinking) in the great ex-Nazi state of Germany. Southern Germany to be exact, in the federal state of Baden-Wuerttemberg about 15 kilometers west of Stuttgart. Since my arrival however, I've had reasons to believe that the third reich never left but just changed shape. That's another topic to be hopefully discussed later...

To the left of me are concentrated phone booths, two or three together. There is a woman around fifty years old babbling in a weird Schwabish dialect about something I can not possibly comprehend. The smell of booze and cigarettes coming from her direction is so strong that I have to hold my breath every time a fresh wave of smells comes my way...

Next to this woman who looks like a victim of a Hell's Angels gang bang is what I believe to be a Turkish man. Since I was a child I have been raised, as many others to control the audio level of my own bullshit. Meaning, in public and silent places such as internet coffee houses, to not speak too loud. This Turkish man is speaking uncontrollably loud, almost screaming but no patron of this coffee place seems to mind. As if it were normal. What the man is saying, who the fuck knows, who the fuck speaks Turkish anyway?

The only reason I'm still in this place is because I wait for a potential beer rendevouz at Irish Pub for half the normal price. But none of the companions answer my phone calls, so I wait and try to endure this ordeal of bizzare happenings. My thoughts are on the next few days, which involve Berlin and more beer...

Tomorrow at midnight, I will take a train from Leonberg to Stuttgart carrying my malfunctioned computer and a few more carry-on items. At the hauptbahnhof in Stuttgart I will wait for nearly five hours till my train leaves for Hannover and then take another train heading for Berlin to meet Thorsteinn, an old friend. Subsequently, I shall compulsively consume as much beer as I can possibly handle and try to enjoy the wonders of Hitler's old playground...

Finally, next monday, I will be going back to the frozen island in the North Atlantic I call my home. Christmas has never been a very joyous time for me ever since I was a kid, but who knows, maybe that child molesting fat bastard they call Santa will give me something worth getting molested for.