Bits from the countryside

Saw a bit of a TV show about tattoos; one of the (cityname here) Ink shows. Was about a young couple, the male part of which wanted a tattoo of the smiling, innocent face of his dead 15-month-old daughter on his chest.

And all I could think was: people, please, I hope you’ve done all the conceiving activity you need already.

Because it’s going to be a tad difficult to engage in sex with the smiling innocent face of a baby or a terrifying distortion of such watching… from his upper chest.

Or maybe not; there are many kinds of people and this is at any rate better than involving a real live baby.

(And a tangent: what exactly happens if you get a scene of blatant immorality, indecency and pornographicity tattooed on your chest? What if you want to go swimming in the common pool? Do they evacuate, call the cops, give you a burqa, or what?)

* * *

Had a sauna-bath with my father — this explains the TV bit too, because I myself don’t have a TV in my place. I usually work up some high and noble reason, but really (a) I don’t want to pay the TV fee and am too easily bothered to ignore it, and (b) anyone who has Internet and free time is doing something wrong.

And DVDs are much easier on one’s soul than real TV ever was — no more than one iteration of “You wouldn’t invade Poland” per disc, a few commercials of upcoming hits with stomach-region-upcoming-like trailers, a menu system with 15-second in-between animations, and you can watch the thing with no interruptions whatsoever!

* * *

Anyway, a sauna-bath with my father, and the newest news on genealogical research.

Turns out there’s iron in my ancestry: an ironsmith and a smelter and an ironworks scribe back in the 18th century. The first two professional men that came across Finland to my ancestral haunts; the scribe was an actual real living Swede from Värmland.

An actual real living married Swede from Värmland who resulted in half a dozen unwedlocked children with his serving-girls, including this ancestor of mine, before he moved back to Kristinehamn with considerable quickness — but hey, foreign ancestry!

* * *

Also: happened to catch a preview of the Eurovision Song Contest entries for this year; a preview of 13 out of which 11 were tepid, worn, vague, malphonious, irritating, uninspired, contrived and phony.

To quote one of those, Tom Dice’s “Me and My Guitar”,

People always say, Tom, this has gone too far […] So maybe I should get a nine to five.

The first of the other two, the ones that did not call for a bucket, was Finland’s choice, which at the moment is “the best song ever”.

Before the final choice is made all of the Finnish candidates are always “horrible embarrassing mistakes”; after one is chosen it becomes “the best song ever”, and fluctuates from then on between that and “the final proof that we Finns suck”, ending with a high point just before Finland goes to the final and then scores zero points.

The other piece that I could listen to without wishing for a full sensory castration and a side dish of lobotomia was from Greece; OPA by George Alkaios. The “opa” is apparently an irritating nonsense magic word that is supposed to make you better; but the song is catchy.

Might have something to do with the song and the show; might have something to do with me preferring sweaty men in black leather over hollow plastic angels (tain’t homoerotic, but heavy-metallic); might have something to do with the fact I’ve been watching Donald Kagan lecture an introduction to Ancient Greek History over at Academic Earth.

“And here’s Leo Leonidas of Sparta to deliver the points from Greece. Leonidas, can we have the points from Greece?”

“Molon labe!”

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