01/12/2009

1st

If I was Eve, I would do the same thing all over again. And I’d offer God some, too. He seems like the kind of SuperEgoOverdeveloped guy who could benefit from indulging himself every now and then. I mean, for Him there wouldn’t even be any negative consequences! That’s behaviourism and learning theory and extinction for you right there.

—–

Blasphemy is probably not the best way to start an advent calendar. Though I’ve often wondered whether the offering of apples by students to teachers is in some way related to the original sin. In a kind of backwards way: in Eden we would take the forbidden fruit (potentially an apple) and also receive Knowledge, whereas in the classroom the apple seems to function as some sort of payment for knowledge.  Or maybe even just payment for the appearance of knowledge, if all you get is a good mark. Hm.

—–

Anyway, here is an apple joke for you: What’s worse than finding a worm in your apple?

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Finding half a worm! Hahahahahahahaha….

ps. The actual story behind the photo has actually been blogged here.

30/11/2009

0th

My disposable camera reminds me of Frederik. Not Frederik my cousin, but Frederik the Mouse. Which may actually be spelled Frederic; I can easily imagine that he was originally French. Unless that’s just because I’m confusing him with Patricque (sp? Ben?) – aaaaanyway, Frederic is in a kids’ book. And while all the other mice are preparing for winter by collecting straw, nuts, pieces of cheese and other food, Frederic sits on a rock and stores memories of summer. The other mice complain of his “laziness”, but when the first snow falls and they are confined and bored in their winter dwelling, they are grateful for the stories  he can tell. Stories of sunlight and colour and blue sky, warm smells and flowers and the feel of green grass under their little paws.

My disposable camera, like Frederic, has stored memories of summer. I’ve had it for 6 months, and the other day I got the photos developed. Though the snapshots were taken very sporadically and are often low quality, they serve their purpose as a reminder of (among other things) the weeks and months when the sun was out for more than a few minutes per week. A time when I wasn’t confined to my room, much like a mouse nibbling at the occasional piece of bread and feeling sorry for myself.

Admittedly it’s only 7 days until my imprisonment is over, and the weather is bound to improve eventually. Still, the 24 photos remain, and in combination with the 24 days until Christmas I figure I can make an Advent Calendar of them. Instead of a piece of chocolate every day (no wait what am I saying – as well as a piece of chocolate each day) I will give myself a 15-20 minute break with a randomly chosen photo, to let my thoughts wander as they please. Will be interesting to see what sort of blogposts become the result.

24/11/2009

Guinea Pig Hanne, part 1

I’m sitting in a room, or should I say closet, at the Psychology Institute, all on my lonesome, with a bunch of papers and a pen. I say “closet” because the room is so small and windowless, however it’s a bad choice of words because it leaves me no word for the actual closet that is also in here, and which takes up almost half the floor space. That closet is locked. I checked, because I’m bored.

The two ladies who left me here with the papers and the pen and the instructions to answer the questions (on the papers) as honestly as I could said they’d be back in 20 minutes. That was 10 minutes ago. I’ve completed the questionnaires – the usual stuff about how depressed I am/am not, whether my BIS or my BAS is more active, how I’m feeling right now, whether statements like “Even when I’m watching TV on my own I laugh out loud at the jokes” generally suit me 1)not at all, 2)not usually 3)neither/nor 4)usually 5)that is so totally me!

The unusual thing this time, was that before they left me to the closet and my own devices (but after the informed consent and voluntary participation form signing) they gave me a nasal spray. The nasal spray may or may not be a placebo – if it is not, it is oxytocin, a hormone. A hormone that makes you feel snuggly and huggly, in fact. So far I haven’t developed any warm feelings towards anything. Not that there is anything in here to develop warm feelings towards – except, as mentioned, the closet. Now if it would only open up to me, maybe we could develop our relationship…

—–

When the ladies come back, I will be taken to another room to do some tests. The tests will involve “pleasurable or neutral stimulation” of my arm while I watch some pictures flash by on a screen, and then some more questions. This time about the pictures and/or the stimulation. Sounds… kinky.

—–

They should be back by now. I will probably feel like hugging them when they come back, but it won’t be thanks to the oxytocin! Mere booooooredom can induce that kind of joy in me on the reunification with entertainment. I should probably let them know, it could be a confounding variable.

23/11/2009

Meatloaf Music Monday

If my life was a movie, this album would be the soundtrack of my childhood. Or at least my childhood between the ages  of approximately 9 and 13. When we first got a cd player, Welcome to the Neighbourhood by Meatloaf was the first cd we got, and I listened to it over and over and over again. Then when I had my iPod on shuffle the other day one of the songs came on, and I decided to listen through the whole album while at the same time trying to remember what I first thought of each of the songs, if that can at all be separated from what I now think.

Where the Rubber Meets the Road
With lines like “You can call her a slut and you can call her a slave/just remember to call her Miss” and something about a cop, a lawyer and a shrink “swearing that we both got raped”, I thought listening to (and liking!) this song was a bit risque. Especially while everyone else was getting into Michael Jackson! I gradually understood that “you can slam on the brakes any time you got the stick, even if we’re in fourth gear” was a metaphor, but I still don’t quite understand the message of “when the rubber meets the road/welcome to protection mode”. Wear a condom? Basically this is a lovesong though: “somewhere some girl is crazy, and some boy’s half out of his head/somewhere there’s just the moment, where all remains unsaid/somewhere two hearts are pounding, and they don’t care what’s correct/somewhere somebody’s falling in love…” – a very general kind of love song, which is probably why it remained my favourite for so long.

I’d Lie for You (and That’s the Truth)
This song taught me that as well as having a heart that I could give to some lucky boy, I could also carve somebody’s name on my soul. Later  I also learned that my head and my body were valued commodities, and now I think of none of these (head/heart/body/soul) as possessable at all.
I remember at some party in primary school I danced the “slowdance” with one of the cute guys in my class to this song. The intensity of sentiment expressed in the song didn’t really match my feelings for the guy though, which made me a bit embarrassed.

Original Sin
This song doesn’t live up to its intro, which has always disappointed me. The restless edginess of the chorus I like, the bland verses I don’t.

45 Seconds of Ecstacy
My main fascination with this song was always that it doesn’t last for 45 seconds – no matter how you count it! I quickly worked out that the “ecstacy” had something to do with sex, but wasn’t particularly impressed with all the sighing and groaning.

Runnin’ for the Red Light
I think this might have been the first place I encountered Tequila. It now reminds me of pancakes, cactii and cowboys, and I’ve always found the line “She ain’t a teacher/she ain’t a preacher/just so close to holy that you’re running just to reach’er” slightly cringeworthy, in a redneck, Stan’s dad, kind of way.

Fiesta de Las Almas Perdidas
Never liked this one. It’s an instrumental, reminds me now of “dirty carnies”, though I know I can’t have thought of that until after I’d been to my first Wangaratta show.

Left in the Dark
This song is utterly, utterly heartwrenching. “You don’t have to sneak in the door/just come on into the room/I’ve been lying in my bed in the dark of the night/and I’ve been waiting I’ve been waiting for you/there’s been no reason to move/it’s been as still as a tomb/I needed you oh so badly tonight but I guess you had better things to do…”
When I first heard it I don’t think I understood the guy’s pain though, and figured the lines “There are no lies on your body/so take off your dress/I just want to get at the truth” were just a sneaky way to get her naked. Also, it’s always been associated in my mind with “you can leave your hat on”, which kinda detracts from the seriousness of the situation.

Not a Dry Eye in the House
The reason why I like this song so much, is that it mixes genres. And I don’t mean “rock n’roll” plus “electronica” – no, this is music plus theatre! In kinda the opposite way to the way a musical does it. “Act 1: the story’s just begun. Act 2: I fell in love with you. Act 3: It was meant to be. Act 4: You don’t love me noooo moooo-ore!”

Amnesty is Granted
This one has never been a favourite, except once again, the intro is cool. I think I object/ed to the picture in the cd cover more than the song itself – some guy in a prisoner’s stripy garb (but with suspiciously good hair) stands by a lady sitting at a desk, a hand on her shoulder. I just don’t get it, it doesn’t match the first line “love’s an hourglass/goes out wide and comes in closer” at all. To make it even worse “this is not about love/it’s about forgiveness”. Que?

If This is the Last Kiss (Let’s Make It Last All Night)
The title says it all. This one is EPIC; always has been, always will be.

Martha
If “Left in the Dark” wasn’t bad enough, this one is sure to pluck at the heartstrings – and play the sweet sad music of bypassed chances and everlasting devotion. It’s got a permanent place on my top 5 list, but at first I was just confused by the fact that the guy on the phone (“calling long distance/don’t worry ’bout the cost”) was called Tom Frost. What, a snowman?

Where Angels Sing
I’m pretty sure this is some sort of euthanasia/suicide-themed song. It’s all about how wonderful things are “where angels sing”, as compared to on earth, and how he wants some woman to come with him there. However, I didn’t notice this until Lisa pointed it out to me, when we were quite grown up. So what I thought when I was little I have no idea…

————–

Looking back over the list – there’s a lot of miserable and desperate love there! So maybe not so appropriate for my “childhood soundtrack” after all, since I can’t really remember ever having a broken heart… mostly because I was too shy to ever give it to someone else to hold, I suppose. Shrug.

22/11/2009

Moose Cap Friday!

-was on Friday, and I completely forgot! Maybe I’ll write more about it later, but for now, see this written by one of the founders of this noble tradition (and scroll down a bit for my interview with her).

21/11/2009

Hey Hey It’s Saturday!

And this post has got nothing to do with the TVshow of the same name. Except, now that you mention it, I did hear about it not that long ago – something about them trying to be funny by reproducing the winning skit from the show’s first season, and completely FAILing because it involved white people painted black to resemble the Jackson 5. Or maybe I just dreamt that. If so, what an absurd dream.

Aaaaanyway. I’m sitting in my living room, procrastinating the dishes and my study, and Lisa is in the couch having a cuppa and some raisins and almonds, reading Nemi. Last night we went to a Kings of Convenience concert :D with Tonje and Henrik, and though we were both quite tired (after a day of doing almost nothing) it was AWESOME. The songs were wonderful (“well, of course”), and the Kings themselves were way funnier than I expected! There was even dancing and crowdsurfing. And out of tune whistling! Lovely.

Apart from study, coffee, grocery shopping and housework, we’ve found time to go for the odd walk – to the centre and along the river. And that’s actually why I’m writing: because I finally remembered to take this photo again!


Now with *bonus* Lisa! This was taken in the middle of the day by the way, and this is what it looked like when I turned the flash on:

Lisa demonstrates her disgust at such early darkness. The weather clearly took her criticism to heart, because today it was sunny! But I left my camera at home. And now it’s dark again anyway.

Meh. We’re having a quiet night in, making risotto when Andreas gets back from the gym. Meanwhile, there’s the dishes to do. Byebye for now! :)

19/11/2009

The Real Interview

After having been stood up by Johan Harstad and writing about it thus, I sent the article to my editor. She loved it, and figured we could publish it as long as I made a few changes so it would stick closer to the theme of icons. I also decided to send Harstad himself a copy, asking for a “facts-check”, and also because I was curious to know what had happened. Despite what I’d written I figured he had a good excuse, so I wasn’t actually too worried. I told him to let me know if he didn’t want the article published though.

And the reply I got… I won’t translate here. Suffice to say, he apologised profusely for having simply and completely forgotten (!!), asked me not to publish the article (though admitted I was perfectly entitled to do so if I wanted), and suggested that we could perhaps try again. He was so apologetic and perturbed that I started to feel bad for having written about it! So, with mutual assurances of starting afresh, we settled on a date and time for a new interview.

The interview took place a few weeks ago, incidentally at the same café where I had written him the initial letter. (There’s a nice circular narrative for you…) As I’ve mentioned, it was supposed to be about “icons”. I felt quite well prepared, at least in the sense that I have read all his books at least once, some several times, and I knew what kind of questions I could ask, what “iconic” figures show up in his work, etc. I should also mention that in Norwegian, the word “icon” has an even more positive connotations than in English – it is closer to “hero”, or “idol”, at least in the meanings that are not religious or regarding symbols on a computer screen. It’s a manyfaceted word, and I thought that in itself might contribute to making the interview interesting.

In some ways, it did. In other ways, it completely stuffed things up. Turns out that somewhere along the line, he had twigged on to me calling him an icon, or quite possibly my icon; when I said it in the letter I was exaggerating and at the argument meeting I was joking, but he can’t have noticed the hyperbole or the joke; or either way it was clearly not an “honour” he was very comfortable with. His reaction when I brought up “icons” was one of horror and mild disgust, some embarrasment and a fair dose of modesty. I felt mortified. I had meant to ask him about icons in general, not what he thought of himself as an (/my) icon! But since he took it that way (which I guess in some ways was fair enough; the interview was to be about him too), and we thus clearly hadn’t started as completely “afresh” as I was thinking we had, I had a lot of trouble bringing the topic up again. I did ask (again, later) what he thought about icons in general, and also (even later, when I’d regained my mental balance enough to joke) whether he had any personal icons/idols/heros/favourite authors. But mainly, I let him talk.

Which, thankfully, he happily did. And this is the positive side to the story – I really really enjoyed listening to him. He had lots to say: about literature in general – its obligations to the public, what he thinks an author can and can’t do as far as moralising goes – and about his books specifically; about how authors and musicians and anyone creative steal and borrow ideas from eachother (and that is a good thing); about what his parents and other people have thought about his books (the world keeps going under, which must be a bit disturbing for a parent); about global warming (just a few sentences) and people who disappear; about theatre; about knowing (or not knowing) the stories about your characters that do not end up being told; about writing; about psychology/psychiatry; about music (he despises The Cardigans); about Buzz Aldrin, snails, oranges… the list goes on. Admittedly I was expecting it to develop into more of a conversation, but for some reason I was quite tonguetied through the whole hour.

Initial embarrasment at his bringing up the Letter might explain some of my muteness, but not all. Neither was I starstruck dumb, he seemed too normal and friendly for that, and it wasn’t as if I didn’t have anything to reply – so many of the topics he touched on are ones that I could discuss for hours!  I think it must have just been a combination of his own willingness to talk, and my role as interviewer, ie listener. A role that is not that unusual for me, but generally I also butt in with my opinion far more often than might be ideal.

Anyway. I was listening so intently that I completely forgot to take notes, and when the interview (which should be called “the Harstad talking and Hanne occasionally offering a comment or (even more occasionally) a question -hour”) was over I sat there, head spinning, and tried to write down as much as I could remember. Which was actually almost all of it, I think. Don’t I wish I could have such excellent recall for lectures as well! :-p

Despite the fairly extensive notes, and my overall happiness with how it all turned out (he also gave me signed copies of all his books! *thrilled*), the writing up of this real interview has been an utter pain. I so badly want it to turn out good, but nothing seems sufficient, every sentence is wrung out of me like blood from a stone, and every time I decide on yet another part that I’ll have to leave out, it hurts. To make matters worse, I’m writing in Norwegian. And it’s exam time. Don’t get me wrong, I’m the only one who’s making myself spend so many hours on it – argument is run almost completely by unpaid writers and editors, so no one can force me to do this – but I just can’t seem to leave the article alone until I’m perfectly happy with it. (Or until deadline, which may be sooner. :-p)

As a result of this perfectionism (I seriously didn’t think I was that badly inflicted; usually writing articles is a joy, and done in 4 hours (including proofreading) max), I also can not get Harstad and “icons” out of my system. Which is, perhaps in sort of backwards logic, why I am blogging about it. Part of what bugs me is the way the article can only show a small sliver of the story; the most annoying sliver, like a splinter in my toe; the tiny little chip of the whole that was about icons. There was so much more to it, there are so many more fascinating things I could talk about!

But those things will probably only be told to “de spesielt interesserte” – I realise most of you couldn’t care less, and have no idea who or what I am talking about. Oooh wwwweeell.

THE END.

(Well, almost. Once this article is done! Argh.)

18/11/2009

The Interview

So step 3 (after step 1 and step 2), was to arrange an interview. Easy peasy. Step 4: do the interview, step 5: write about it. Both step 4 and 5 should be pretty straight forward too, but… here is what I ended up writing. It’s been translated from Norwegian (by me), except I’ve left off the first paragraph because it was just a condensed version of step 2, and a summary of how we arranged to meet, when and where.

“Times passes, and the morning of the interview arrives. After several days of sunshine and sparkly autumn colours, it is raining as I walk with my butterflies to the interview. A few clouds I won’t complain about -they match the atmosphere in the dim foyer of the National Theatre, where we arranged to meet. Harstad and I sit down there, at a small, round marble-topped table. It’s not ideal; the walls throw our voices back at us, the doors open and shut noisily and there are no drinks available (I’m thinking coffee); but it doesn’t matter, as soon as the conversation gets going we could have been anywhere.

The theme was supposed to be icons, and we start with the most obvious: Buzz Aldrin. Second mann on the moon is now in a Louis Vuitton ad, and Harstad talks about his own idolization of Buzz, the disappointment when it turned out he wasn’t the anonymous number two he had initially thought. The experience is similar to Mattias’, the main character of Harstad’s first novel, and I guess that’s no surprise. When I ask how much and how many of his stories are autobiographical Harstad gets shy or secretive, I can’t quite read his crooked smile, but he answers that that is something he would prefer not to be known. And anyway – couldn’t we argue that everything in his books is in some way autobiographical? The words and thoughts are his, after all? Well, that’s exactly it, I object: often the words are not. He cuts and pastes from here and there, and in those cases, I say, I get the feeling that he has applied the scissors to specific works/specific people precisely because this or that paragraph does mean something. To himself. What about that quote by Churchill, for example? “The era of procrastination, of half-measures, of soothing and baffling expedients, of delays, is coming to a close. In its place we are entering a period of consequences.” Yep, replies Harstad, that’s why he writes what he does. It’s like therapy, treatment of PTSD; I’m surprised it’s that serious, but understand when he explains: “I was born into the war between Iran and Iraq, I started school after Santa Ana and San Salvador fell, I had my first kiss to the sound of Milosevic speaking to the crowds in Kosovo, I finished primary school and Bush invaded Iraq.”

Or… no. That’s too serious for a Wednesday morning. Instead I arrive a bit early, the sun is shining and I sit on the steps of the theatre to wait. I’ve got music on the brain and in my ears, and when Harstad arrives I don’t see him until he asks “What are you listening to?” Thus he’s the one to ask the first question, the truth is The Cure but I answer The Cardigans, and the conversation is instantly underway. Harstad likes The Cardigans, for real, he often uses their songs when he’s dj LACKTR for his friends and at book launches, but his favourite band is The Police. And favourite author? Hm… Gunilla Bergström? He laughs, the books about Albert Åberg were not his favourite when he was little (strangely enough, since he’s used the main character in his own books later); he didn’t like the illustrations and thought the dad was scary. I wonder whether that’s why the dad is portrayed as such a loser in his own books, but instead ask why he made Albert’s mum be called Emma. There are so many things I want to know about the characters, about why and what and what they would have done in this and that situation – we gossip away as if they were all old friends; Albert, Mattias, Leni, Victor, Sarah, Milla. When I mention Milla there’s no reply. Harstad might, might not, have had a friend who committed suicide on the same day as her.

There are many different versions of this interview. What they have in common is that they only take place in my head. Harstad didn’t show up. First I figured there must have been some misunderstanding, maybe I was in the wrong place, at the wrong time, on the wrong day. But no. Then I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt – he had been to a booklaunch in France, and though he reckoned he’d be back in time something might have happened. I waited for two hours, in the end I was tired, pissed off, a bit sad and disappointed – and that’s when I felt the first inkling of paranoia. Was it something I said? Had I scared him off? Could he, heaven forbid, have read the Letter, and put two and two together? The Letter I wrote in March, after a night of no sleep caused by his book Hässelby, where I (a tad exaggeratedly) thanked him for a super book and somewhat unsubtly begged him to teach me to write? Perhaps it was interpreted as slightly more fanatical than I remembered it? Could he have changed his phonenumber and email address, moved houses, skipped the country, because of that? Don’t be silly, said rational-Hanne to herself – being called a hero, a literary god, a beacon of wordly light isn’t that bad. And anyway, I’m sure he would’ve been polite enough to let you know he would be taking out a restraining order against you.

In fact, it is probably more likely that he’s had some sort of brain-attack and ended up at a psychiatric hospital on the Fareo Islands. Or that he was suddenly invited to go to Graceland, or given an offer he couldn’t refuse in Hong Kong. My speculations are based on the only source I have; his books. It is also from them in them that I come across the most chilling alternative: deconstruction. When I once again mail him, and this time get an “Undeliverable: return to sender” in reply, I almost call his agents. But I don’t. I’m afraid of their answer, what if they say that he’s vanished, that his apartment is empty as well, that there is almost nothing left there. The furniture as good as gone. Most of the clothes. Plates, glasses, pans. Everything on the sink in the bathroom, the books, everything packed into grey boxes on the floor. Even the wallpaper has been removed.

The only thing I’m left with then, is a pile of questions. And a packet of Lucky Strike.”

——–

So, um, yeah… you should read his books, when they’re translated into English! (It will also make this make more sense.)

16/11/2009

Arlam!

The first words I read every day are “Alarm! Stopp Slumre”. The Alarm is accompanied by a small stylized bell that apparently “rings” (though the sound coming from my mobile is more of a beep), and the words Stopp and Slumre are located above the left and the right buttons respectively. I usually hit the right one, and then the words “Alarm utsatt” come up on the screen.

Stopp and Alarm I don’t have any problems with. But Slumre and utsatt are very odd words – infrequent in my oral vocabulary, almost non-existant in my written. So when my alarm goes off and I peer blurrily at the little screen, what I usually see is Slmure and usttat, or Smrule and uutstat, or any other weird and wonderful transformation of the letters.  And every morning, the morphing reminds me of that well known paragraph:

Aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn’t mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoetnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteer be at the rghit pclae. The rset can be a toatl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe.

(Except my slmuer is kinda the opposite, obviously.)

In other words – I get to start the day with a science lesson! Oh yay!
I tried to find on the wordwidewebz what this effect is called, and failed. Instead I found this very useful site, and decided that this is so interesting I might in fact do my honours on it.

15/11/2009

Kindle

I’ve been meaning to blog about the Kindle for a while. But…

well, the problem isn’t that I haven’t got anything to say; it’s just that anything I do have to say has probably been said before! Those that are properly interested in the new technology know way more than me about the details, so I feel like all my comments are totally superfluous.

However. I am very excited about this new toy. To think, now I can carry all my favourite books around with me everywhere! Without breaking my back! Seriously, this is going to make a world of difference for all my travels. Apart from storage and weight and space, another (debatable) good thing is that I can I can buy books any time of day, from the comfort of my couch. Though apparently there are some limitations as to where I can buy from, and what kind of format the books can have, so far I’ve not encountered any problems. I’m a bit puzzled as to pricing though: Shakespeare’s collected works cost $2.99, whereas On Chesil Beach costs $11.99.

The Kindle is comfortable to read on, and I can adjust the textsize to my liking. I can turn pages with either hand with no awkwardness, and (a major bonus for the winter months) I can wear gloves while doing it! I can add bookmarks and highlights everywhere, and see these marks summarized on a separate page if I want. I can search, look up words and references instantly (the Kindle comes with a dictionary built in as well as free wikipedia!), and add notes in the text. The keyboard takes a little getting used to though. When you put the Kindle to sleep, the “screensavers” that come up are mostly pictures of famous authors, or famous first pages (I think I saw the silver bible there, for example).

All these fancy features are well and good, but the most important thing is that I can read on it, and quickly forget that it’s not an actual book! I’ve read only one whole book on it so far (guess which one?), and must say the experience was in no way diminished by the fact that I didn’t have paper between my hands.

Now for the negatives. They are very few, but worth mentioning for their annoyingness.

  • In the fontsize I prefer, the full stop is too small.
  • Because the fontsize is changable, it is hard to remember which page something is on – if you forget to put in a bookmark, you are way more lost on a Kindle than in a regular book.
  • The searchfunction sometimes decides not to work.
  • There are too few screensaver pictures, I’ve been around 2 or 3 times already.
  • I don’t understand the “clippings” page. (This might be something that is different if you subscribe to newspapers on it.)

And… I think that might be it. I’ll tell you more as soon as I discover more, but for now I have so many paper books (that I got for my birthday, just like I asked for – I had no idea I would also get a Kindle! Thank you Julie and Andreas. :) ) to read that I have to put the Kindle away for a bit! But, another bonus is that birthday/christmas presents are from now on very easy to buy for me: Amazon giftcards will stretch further than ever before.

Ps: Check out this funny.