The final

There are lots of things which determine where you end up doing what you end up doing in this life. One of these lives in my building. He has some... issues.

To put this in perspective, let me inform you of my previous places of being. Starting out life on my own (first with one, and then two friends, kind of negating the whole "on my own" bit, but still), I lived in an apartment. Much like you, odds are. It was a fine apartment. 92 square meters , which if you include the attic and the balchony becomes over 1000 square feet! But that is not the point. The point is this: If you're going to live somewhere, you might decide to check out the place ahead of time, see that there are no bullet-holes in the windows, that there is a toilet, that sort of thing. But regardless of the result of this, most people neglect one important aspect.

The neighbors. If the laws of statistics say that you're likely to end up being surrounded by "normal" people, some of them are bound to end up being not-so-normal. This is not by definition a bad thing. There are different kinds of not-so-normal. But then there's what happened to us. First of all, we had a downstairs neighbor who was very... shall we say "noise-sensitive"? Complaints about the volume during parties I can cope with and even understand, but this guy really went above and beyond.

One peaceful Sunday afternoon, at around four o'clock, there was a knock on the door. Needless to say, I answered it. I was always the one who got yelled at, fitting perfectly with the principle of "I'm always the one you should feel sorry for". But what I heard was comical, in a very sad way. We got two major complaints:
1) We vacuumed too much. Think this through. We're three 23 year-old guys sharing an apartment. Vacuum? Really?
2) We laugh too much, and too loudly. The only way to take this attempted criticism is as a compliment. And then feel a little bad for the person who goes around telling other people off for basically being a little too happy most of the time.

And no, this guy was not living in the neighboring building, where they were attempting to "readjust people with psychological problems to a life in normal society". We never had any problem with any of those fine individuals.

Also in our area, there was a kid who came out during finals week. At LiU, this comes but four times a year, but you can bet your ass, or a prized possesion that he'd be there. With a great big whistle, able to distract even the most studious of, well, students. We named him "the whistle kid" and hated him fervently.

So now, living in the far closer-to-school and far filled-with-more-students area of Ryd, you'd think I'd be safe to study for my final final (a-HA!) in peace. Not so. There is no Whistle-kid. There is no Mojk, as laughs-a-lot guy was lovingly called. However, to compensate, I have two new acquaintances. One is "Screaming jackass", the other is "Idiot". Now as most of you know, I am a pretty peaceful person, but I am also prone to dramatic overstatements of fact, so bear with me.

"Screaming jackass" is the new Whistle-kid. Regular as clockwork and twice on Mondays, he opens his window and just screams. Maybe it's anxiety over finals, or whatever. I really don't care.

"Idiot" is the guy goes ape on the ads we have delivered some weekdays. If you don't want them, you can sign your name on a little list right there by the mailboxes, but this guy (I'm assuming it's a guy, I've never actually seen the process in action) avoids that like sin, and instead throws his - and all the other ads he can find - with complete reckless abandon on the floor. Creating lots and lots of work for the people who are nice enough to get paid to clean up, and making me feel bad that I think I'm important enough not to help out and clean it up myself on my way to school in the morning.

So yeah.

Finally (uhm), back by popular demand, is this:

This is due to actual popular demand by the strapping young man in the picture. He is currently as far away from Japan as I am, but the other way around. Sort of. Oh, and remember what I said before: I will not be held responsible for breaking the Internet by laughter. Loud though it may be.

The miracle

This thing is going to be about sports. If you only have three minutes before you have to leave for work, you might want to spend them elsewhere, perhaps with some professional sports-blogger-journalist-type-person. If you for some reason swing that way. I don't know. Hell, maybe you just don't care about sports at all. Although that would be shocking news, to say the least.

Yeah, I know I promised I'd be back on form this time, but that's just going to have to wait. Next time. I promise. Then again, you probably know what my promises are worth by now, huh?

---

Sweden hasn't been in a war (officially) since a "short, dead dude" named Napoleon roamed the continent. Sure, people where he was born called him Nabullione, but that's not really relevant to my point. So yeah, a couple of hundred years without anything to get all hot and bothered about. Add to that the fact that the couple of hundred years before that had been spent gradually constructing a smaller and smaller nation, giving parts to the Russians and so on...

It all adds up to a lot of pent up adrenaline. Now we could all go beserk and rage out on the streets, but that wouldn't be very... Swedish, you know? We're all so civilized. Very nearly enough to make you sick, unless you consider things like daycare for the kids and auto insurance the stuff of dreams.

But then we go and do something like this:

On top of something like this:

No points for matching which photo to which triumph. However, points to the first and last one who can tell me the given names of the three identifiable players in the top one. Master class difficulty: No Googling!

Sweden is the first nation in the history of the world to win a World Championship and the Olympic Games in the same year!

No, I'm not talking U21 bobsleigh running for people over six feet tall. I'm talking hockey. As if anything else matters. The Czechs may have robbed us of another "dream final" agains the Finns, but I'm ok with it. Lets call it a different revenge, and leave it at that.

It's like the little guy in elementary school who sucks at all the cool things like running track (was that ever cool?) or smoking behind the bleachers (not that we had any where I went to school) but is great at geography. People may think that's a pretty useless skill to have (especially compared to the smoking), but to that little kid... So what if I could name the capital of Botswana before we got to multiplication, never mind, ok! Get off my back! Geez! Anyway, the point is, we all need something to be proud of, and if you live in a small country who can't be proud about a history of parents going out of their way to make babies or guns to take over other people's babies, you take what you get. Be it safe cars, crumbling social welfare, mobile communications systems (since we lost the edge in the much sexier "mobile phones" race), or an event that's probably going to be called "people chasing a tiny black rubber thing on ice because they don't have anything better to do" by future generations.

Right now, there's a man sitting naked from the waist up, two front teeth missing, and a tatoo of something unreadble on his chest, answering inane questions on TV. And I couldn't be prouder to know he's a Swede.

The glass is there

Lately, I find myself wondering. Do you remember too little, or actually too much?

As some of you know, my girlfriend (who's name shall remain hidden for reasons of intrigue and mystery. I will refer to her as "Toyomi") has been living with me for the past three months. She is not, anymore. Thankfully, this did not come about due to my inability to put down the seat, or how I never did anything but watch sports all day. Except for the Olympics, that was some fine hockey action. Ooh, and the curling. But that's neither here nor there.

The point is, that due to visa regulations and my upcoming trip to Japan to cap a career of 17 years in school with some sort of thesis right there at the end, she went home. And it got me thinking. It feels like time just flew by. This happens quite a lot, for example when you haven't studied enough for an exam which is about to start, or maybe when you spend time lying on the grass in the sunshine. But in this case, we're talking about a quarter of a year that somebody apparently just lived up, and now it's gone. This is feeling is not because "all I did was study". I have, on occasion, bemoned the fact that I had to go to school since I had a lecture that day. We've also been able to visit three Nordic capitals (points for all guesses that include Helsinki!), as well as the center of the universe, currently located in Älmhult, Småland. Population 8592. And a fair bit of more local places as well. Which means that things obviously happened. Somehow they just ended up doing it a great deal quicker than one might have thought.

I mean, if we've done all this stuff, shouldn't it feel like it's been a really long while? Thinking about it logically, this is the only conclusion. Doing stuff takes time. Ergo, doing lots of stuff takes lots of time. Right? But still, that feeling eludes me much like any deeper understanding of Laotian cinema.

Here I am, left to my own devices to come up with an answer. And it is this: It doesn't feel like "a long time" because we don't remember what happened on that Thursday afternoon eleven weeks ago, but rather because we do remember it, as well as what happened the next week, and the one after that. If we didn't, there would be nothing to compare it to. Everything would be happening "now", because we wouldn't remember what happened before. Somewhat akin to describing the distance to Cuba in nautical miles to somebody who measures stuff in "cats". Or something.

Completely nonsensical intermission time! (And no, sadly, it's not that kind of place, just a regular bar):


(If Da Pete is watching, I was looking through old... stuff, and found this, along with perennial favorite "Thanks, 40th Anniversary! Dynamic Performance of Mission!" But exposing that to the world? I doubt we as a society are ready just yet)

So yeah, in conclusion, I cannot tell you if the glass is half-empty. Or, indeed, if it is half-full. Only that you remember that it is there, and it's up to you to fill it up with stuff. Prefereably big, bulky home electronics. I like that. Better get me one of them thar American-size glasses, then.

---

If you found this post a little stranger than average (even for me), you're probably right, so I'll give you this to think about: Going home from the airport yesterday, I had apparently booked my return ticket in the wrong direction. 17 years of Swedish education: 1 - Rest of World: 0. Just to show you that I'll be back on form next time; you can take that to the bank. (Which would probably result in a lot of strange stares and awkward conversations, but that does not detract from the fact that you could take it to the bank.)

The 放題

There is something which, were it spread to the rest of the world, would surely contribute to it becoming a better place. I am, of course, talking about the 放題 ("houdai"). For those of you who think that those squiggly lines are just a very complicated way of writing "houdai", well, you're right. Obviously, it is. But also, it's not. There's far more to it than meets the eye.

This is a Japanese concept, as you may have guessed, what with it being talked about by me. It means, basically "-as much as you want." Which is a pretty sweet deal, you must agree. The Houdai comes in abundant natural flavours. The original (and some would argue, the best) is the Nomihoudai, the drink-all-you-want. It's pretty straight forward, really. You pay the man or the woman at the place a flat fee, and then watch as your party desolves into drunken disorder. A process during which at one point, somebody will obviously find it a great idea to go yell at empty taxi cabs parked on the street below. At times, the not-at-all elusive Nomihoudai can be found at karaoke places, which make for a quite possibly lethal combination. Just ask your throat the next morning. You will get no reply. If you do, you'll have done something terribly wrong.

Of course, there are far more esoteric species in the Houdai family than the Nomihoudai, or even it's cousin, the Tabehoudai (all-you-can-eat. Hell, you can even find that in places which are not Japan!). Basically anything can be Houdai-ified, if you try hard enough. You might have met up with the Norihoudai ("ride", as on trains or giant coffee cups at some place of amusement), which can be very useful for going places (or indeed, around in circles). Then there's the general Yarihoudai, or -shihoudai, ("do") with the aid of which one can help even lowly nouns approach the sanctity of the Houdai. Here are two examples:


This would be the Cross-promotional-yarihoudai, for a Japanese mobile phone company, as well as a company making great big black capes and somewhat clunky armour to go with it. Then there's always the ol':


Which probably would be the Tall-building-houdai, or maybe the Cloudy-houdai. If you build something so high that it not only reaches the clouds but actually goes on to stab them right in the belly, that's probably your cue to stop, right there. Or just keep going, I don't really care. I like tall buildings, as long as I'm not the one building them. That would just be pathetic, trying to build a skyscraper on student loans using arms the girth of hotdogs.

Tripple word score to everybody who can guess what city that picture's from. Yes, even if you look at the comments after the first person got it right. Cheater. Hint: It's not the place I am from, and chances are, it's not the place you're from, either.

The reason for all this Houdai-ness? Man, do I always have to have a reason? (Hint #2: Uhm, no, just look at the rest of the posts, and you'll probably start to notice some sort of pattern forming). But yeah. The weather's good. I mean, great! I spent three hours outside today. In a row! Without my mom saying "You have to go out and play more". Not that she does, generally; that's just to make my point. Anyhoo, then I catch a glimpse of the weather on TV (yes, man has invented a thing which s/he can look at as opposed to look out the actual window), and see that Sweden had the highest temperature in all of Europe today. Feel free to make up a brand new Houdai to commemorate this day.

Think about it for a second, "The Highest in Europe". Taste it. This is big. Mainly because it's so unexpected. If you know something good's coming your way, its relative value depriciates accordingly. It follows that the opposite might also be true; if something great happens completely out of the blue, your joy is multiplied by a factor, lets call it Mike. The Mike Factor. Remember back in junior high when your teacher didn't show up for class that one time, and you suddenly had 45 minutes of free time? That's it. It was just so much more precious than the empty period you always had between math and English on Thursday afternoons, because you had no idea it was coming. It's like getting an album by a group you don't know, only to realise one of your new favorite tunes is on there. The one that's been going through your head all day; you just didn't know the name of the band.

That, my friends, is the magical power of the Houdai. The power which lets me go from Darth Vader via Swedish weather and junior highschool, all the way to a random analogy involving music. Fan-frikkin-tabulous.

Allow me to wax philosophical, for once

You can never go home again.

That's what they say. It's obviously a lie, but it's still what they say. As long as you have the will, the financial and temporal means, and are in good enough health to travel, you can go home. No problem. In fact, entire businesses have been built around the concept of people going home. Perhaps not even to their own homes, but to somebody else's home. Imagine the horror. What you can never do, however, is go back.

You cannot, thus far, go back to your childhood home, the way it was. Sure, some things will be the same, some of the buildings, some of the people, some of the furniture in your old room. But the simple fact of the matter is that no matter how much you might like to go back, you just can't. Live with it.

All is not lost, however. Even if you have been fortunate enough to be allowed the opportunity to see what life is like across the county line, hell, even in THE BIG CITY, there is still a cornucopia of things to appreciate in your hometown. Yes, no matter how small, or how large the difference between it and the place you work/study/watch too much tv in. You just have to accept the fact that the things won't be the same as when you came home from junior high on a Friday afternoon to go out an play football in the glorious sunshine. You may think it will be too tiny, now that you've "seen the world", but if you have any positive memories at all from your childhood, it won't be. It'll be "quaint". It'll be "within walking distance", "close to nature", "near good neighbors", or even, shock, horror, "a good place to settle down to raise the kids".

This is human nature. For some yet undisclosed purpose, we have been given genes. They have been packed with, as far as I know, lots of stuff I don't know. But somewhere deep inside, included in every human package, is the desire to explore. It's different in all people, which is why some peolpe go to the next block while others drive buggies on the moon, but it's there. It's in your system, there's nothing you can do about it. For most people, however, this desire can be satisfied. Some people get there when they turn 17 and realise running away isn't all it's cracked up to be, some not until they hit 108. Though most reach it by then. I mean, getting there at 109 just seems silly, really.


Which doesn't make for a very good opportunity to segue, but still. The reason for the above rant is that I went home this past weekend, and everywhere I looked, it was just idyllic. Completely! Almost shockingly so. Maybe it was because I was showing it and somebody I care a great deal about to somebody I care a great deal about. Either way, it was just perfect, a shimmering pearl on the edge of toppling into the lake-with-a-name-that-doesn't-really-sound-very-poetic-in-English. Or Swedish, come to think of it.

Time to say goodbye for now. Personally, it feels like I'll hit that point where my exploratory desire no longer dictates my life at some point right in between 17 and 108. Then I'll go back again.

All killer, no filler

As some of you are already aware, I was hospitalised for a grand total of eight or so hours a couple of days ago, and since I'm apparently fine, and also have nothing interesting to write before going to Älmhult (oh yeah, baby!) and Copenhagen this weekend, this is what happens:

Timeline: The Hospital Adventure, 2K6

15:12 First examination, at local clinic, by med-student-Linn. EKG taken. Watch me work my way up the ladder!

15:41 Enter, stage left: Dr Lena Trell.

15:49 Blood test.

16:10 Results are in! Back to Dr Trell.

16:45 Callback from cardiologist at University Hospital, filling out transfer forms, calling taxi to take me there.

17:35 Arrival University Hospital ER. Am told to wait. Possibly forever.

ER-observation #1: Playing "Knocking on Heaven's Door" over the PA at a place of medical care? Seriously?

ER-observation #2: The ER has a queue system. Take a number, we'll get to your gushing legwound in due time. (Although in all fairness, a note proclaims proudly that people with brething or circulatory/fainting issues should contact the staff immediately.)

ER-observation #3: TV at hospitals sucks. Maybe because it's on SVT1, which is now showing kiddie-TV.

ER-observation #4: The mechanical arm that picks up food/drinks in the vending machine has a sticker on it, saying something which roughly translates into "Adding a sparkle to your day". Yeah, right.

ER-observation #5: My wristwatch stopped working 20 minutes ago, at 17:45. This is not completely without suckage.

ER-observation #7: Yes! News on TV!

ER-observation #7½: No! Kids manage to grab hold of the remote...

19:13 Second EKG of the day, new blood test. Wait for results. "It's a busy day", or so they tell me.

23:34 Meet Dr Tilman Weissmann, who wakes me up by telling me his name, repeatedly. In my recently awoken state, I am not quite able to parse this information at the time, thinking I've been transfered to Mars. Or possibly Germany.

00:00 Despite the above misunderstanding, I am pronounced healthy as a butterball (with some form of virus), or whatever, and am promptly sent home.

And that, as they say is that, except for a small midnight adventure to find an ATM to pay for the cab home. The Swedish Welfare System pays for everything. Except a 50 SEK basic charge. Where's the (free) reverse ambulance of the future, taking healthy patients home? Guess I shouldn't complain, the ride was fast, and would have cost me more than three times as much had I had to pay all of it myself. Eat that, Swedish Taxpayer! Hah!

I could be in jail right now

But of course I'm not. That would just be silly. What would I be doing there?

I was in Stockholm this weekend. In this, I was not alone. I was, for want of a more fitting description, giving a tour of the Royal Capital. In this, the houses of parliament have to be included, it kinda goes without saying. Yes, despite me spending the better part of that sentence saying just that. So we go there, check out the place, and on the way out, just the two of us, I open the door out on to the street, and am about three meters (or slightly less than ten feet, for my metrically challanged friends) away from slamming said door in the face of none other than Mr Göran Persson and Mr Pär Nuder. Prime Minister and Finance Minister of the Kingdom of Sweden.

Had I been in America, I would never have gotten so close. At least I imagine the Secret Service keeps things squared away to the extent that they don't let random tourists open the door and potentially cause G.W. to have a nose-bleed on camera. Ok, so Göran (as I know call him) isn't the head of state like G.W., but his nickname is "He who's in charge", so that pretty much settles that, as far as I'm concerned. But anyway, Sweden is... different. Had I been armed with nothing more than a cake, and ample resentment for the establishment, I could have been the one responsible for the past Finance Minister, Mr Bo "Bosse" Ringholm looking like, well, this (back in 2001, image credit Aftonbladet.se):


But then again, like I said up top, I'm not in jail, nor have I baked any cakes lately (other than a really delicious cheesecake a couple of weeks ago, you can have the recepie if you want). So I was out of ammo. But it was still an exercise in fine timing, timing our exit with that of his Göran-ness. It's just a shame I didn't vote for the guy, but you can't have it all, as they say.

Getting squarely back on track, there was also actual sights to be seen. Such as this, which is possibly the finest looking 7-11 in all the land. Of course, being positioned right next to the "Royal Dramatic Theatre" (note English spelling) probably boosts the class of the place, anyway. We never went in, but I can't imagine they sell anything other than the finest beluga caviar and Dom Perignon '58. Which is probably the worst year of them all, what do I know?


We covered a lot of ground during our time in the Royal Capital, but I'll try to leave out all the random walking/shopping/tower-climbing/museum-going (see, I'm being cultured!). Instead, I shall leave you with a picture of these guys:


...who are basically all that stand between me claiming the following as my own. Damn it!


If anybody knows when the current tentant's lease is up, let me know. I wouldn't mind living there myself. Sure, it's not a very central location, but the surroundings are fabulous, and it's only a bus-and-train-ride away from downtown Stockholm. Although apparently, living there does mean you have to pay the toll if you choose to drive downtown from home, at least according to this. A small price to pay, surely, but a nuisance none the less.

Curses! I only now realise I should have titled this "Let them eat cake" instead. If only there was some sort of tool to change things you've already written...

Consequences be damned

Generally speaking, I'm not the type to "dare", even less "win". I certainly don't scream "Consequences be damned!" at the top of my lungs near often enough. This is of course because in my own personal universe, doing something like that seems a little... foolish. It would seem that it is, more often than not, not the consequences who end up being damned, but I myself. And that's not really what you're attempting with all the screaming.

Yeah, so I went to the hair-dresser-stylist-whatever-the-kidz-call-it-nowadays. The result? A significant portion of my hair being removed, as well as a significant portion of the cash I had on hand. But that's not all, oh no. Other, stranger side-effects reared their ugly head. Since I usually don't ask consequences to damn themselves, I figured I'd go ahead and do it today. Just for the hell of it. An outright lie, to be sure, but what happened is that I ended up with a new hairstyle. Which is pretty big coming from a guy who switched once in the third grade, once in highschool, and then once in university. I walked in, a hairstyle was suggested to me, and I took the bait. I was powerless to resist. Worn down by the ratrace, or whatever folks get worn down by these days.

"You look like the singer in a band. A rock band. Only one that doesn't actually sell any albums" This is the reaction from the first person I met after what shall henceforth be known as "the incident". And with a bit of imagination, I can see the way to make that appear to be a compliment. Or not. Naturally, publishing a picture might seem to be in order. I, however, harbor no wish to be known as the one who destroyed the internet.

---

This past weekend, some people thought it might be nice to give egg-sales a shot in the arm. They came up with the quite frankly puzzling concept of Easter, which seems to be a holiday dedicated to eating lots and lots of eggs while looking at cute, overly fluffed-up chickens, without letting your subconsious connect the dots.

As a rule, I'm all in favour of holidays. The more, the merrier, I say. But I like the regular kind the best, for example The Weekend. Or, perennial crowd favorite, Spring Break, which is so much better than the weekend, because the time off can be spent pointing and laughing at people who actually have to work. Easter does not fit either category. It's worse, it's the True Holiday. During which you're expected to do stuff, carry on traditions so that your offspring will also get some sort of heart attack from running around trying to get that final gift for their cousins' kids at some point in the future. And watch TV. And be "in the holiday spirit", whatever that is defined to be. This, I'm actually ok with. However, I just cannot stand the fact that at least in this country, things grind to a standstill. Why does everybody has to be allowed time off at the same time? Society ceases to function just because a jolly guy in a red suit who struggled with a BMI-problem had to go around delivering murrh to random people in stables 2000+ years ago. Or something.

Well, yeah, my main problem is that not one of the three pizza-places we tried to get takeout from on Sunday night were open. On the same day, I had managed to get my bank to call me and discuss, uhm, things. Who the hell needs to do banking on what is actually known as a "bank holiday"?! It's right there in the name! For crying out loud... I say, move all the bank-people over to the pizza industry on holidays, and everybody would be just that little bit happier.

---

Three points to anybody who can guess where I took the picture. All-comers welcome.

Here comes nothin'

I went running today. It's a good a reason as any to start this thing, I guess. And I should know. Twice already, I've started things like this, the one involving a bathtub control panel and hot-sauce, the other Chubu Track and Mitsuya Cider. A fine combination on pretty much any day of the week. So yeah, that's the rationale behind starting this thing. With running.

You understand, I'm not generally the person to actually do that. Run. If the touch of highschool biology left me with anything, it's that man has been a long time in the makin'. Yes, there is a tired joke about women being longer/not as long in the making, but I wouldn't touch it with a ten-foot pole. Anyway. Man has been long in the making, and this period of general creation has left us an ample amount of spare moments here and there to invent things. Things like a bike, which can get you places faster than running can. Neanderthals didn't have the bikes. Cro magnon-man? You betcha. And we all know how that turned out. So why would you actually spend precious (a gross over-estimation in my own case) free time running?

And why in some deity's name would you spend even more time writing about it here?

No, you didn't ask, but since I am physically unable to take a hint, I shall give you my view of this whole blog thing. It's a save station. In the highly likely event of my demise, all the researchers of the land will obviously want to make a new me. It goes without saying. Now, sure, DNA tech is all well and good, but it won't really recreate me, you know? I'll be a lot like me for the first couple of days, but from then, it'll be all downhill. Of this, there can be little doubt. I'll turn into some kind of street hooligan. Not that that doesn't sound appealing, it's just not me. So, said boffins will need to fill my head with something, right? Granted, Encyclopedia Britannica would be a good candidate, but that might leave me with little room for social skills. And these are very much in demand in today's marketplace. Probably even moreso in tomorrow's marketplace, which is where new-me will be doing his job-hunting. Which leads to the conclusion that they'll need to have stuff, written by me, about, well, me, to fill the new me with.

A very long way of justifying something which is, at it's core, extremely self-serving. Some would argue it's a victimless crime, I'm not hurting anybody publishing this. Think again! 1) You just read it. Just imagine what you could have done with that amount of time! You could have cross-bred some new kind of melon into existance. Been the first to circle your block on a tricycle going backwards. Hell, you might even have been able to learn how to play that instrument. When lying on your deathbed, will you truly be able to say "I have no regrets"? Don't think so. 2) Just think of the thousands of bytes I'm wasting, bytes which very well could have been used to cure cancer. Or something. Thousands, I tell you!

This is not a positive direction for this thing to take. I feel. Therefore, I offer the following, shall we say, tidbit:

My girlfriend just got back from class, which she attends with none other than Mr Mikko Luoma. You may know him as the guy with jersey #5 from such hockey teams as the Edmonton Oilers, or Tappara. If you're Finnish. Otherwise, you might know him from Linköping HC, where he's currently something of a regular. Teams are built around this man. He is the essence which binds the glue that holds the fort down. Or whatever. Sure, there's the remote, and I can't stress this enough, remote chance you don't know him at all, but I won't get into that.

See, that got us right back on track. In order to make sure that doesn't last too long, I'll present you with the following, meaning roughly "to ignore completely". I made it a couple of days ago, and it just seems to fit here, somehow.