denmark was a blast!� the people were friendly, warm and generous, and
there was much fun to be had. i wanted to never come home.� looking down
from the comfort of a business class seat wide enough to fit lee iacocca and
dave thomas in side-by-side, i was awestruck into complete submission by the northern
coasts and the tiny vikings and fisheries that dotted them.� my seasickness
began to abate when i stepped off the plane.� but i made a terrible faux
pas as my new companions and i drove away from the airport!� the danes seem
to take great umbrage at hearing hans christian andersen, margrethe II, and
martin luther all blasphemed in a single breath.
we paused long enough to drop my things off at the hotel, and it was time to
go to my friends' townhouse for a grand party.� we all were emboldened by
the atmosphere of freely flowing spirits.� gliding between strange bodies
and finely crafted furniture, stella sang with the voice of
the rarest songbird and she danced with the gait of the most graceful unicorn.� while her words flew up to heaven, our thoughts remained
below.� it was shameful, how we were completely mesmerized by her feminine
charms.� the week melted into a whirl of soirees, shindigs, fests, revels,
the occasional klatsch, and endless offers from danish girls to
"spend the night.� you're welcome to, any time..."
i visited a bordello in the company of communists of various nationalities,
and tried to convince the locals that i was a russian who'd just recently
abandoned my post in the black sea fleet, and "did you know that ayer's
rock is now called uluru?� it's true, and i've seen it!� i was a
stowaway on a ship to the southern hemisphere when i was only ten years old...
ah, memories..."� and then to a large house owned by an american thin
as a reed, just south of a large street market in rosfkilde where the address
consists entirely of the numbers one and three.� an elegant young man
regaled us with songs and puns, finessing the most intoxicating sounds out of
just a guitar and a piano... belting out paraphrases of romantic poetry,
broadway plays and the bible as if wordsworth, noel coward and jesus were his
nightly drinking pals.
although i was a mad long way from home, i found that my reputation precedes
me even in denmark. so much that bluddy dagos (as limeys can often be heard to say)
lecturing at scandinavian universities continue to mention me in their remarkably dreary pugfaced essays
that fail to properly illustrate the use of words as simple as
"very."� fortunately, the left-footed academic lollygagging &
double-chinned plumberbuttific tomfoolery paled in comparison to the smashing
time spent with arthritic chinaman bartenders, drunken irishmen singing tributes
to their lovely mick horses... and former spies who'd traded their futuristic
gadgets & golden oddfingers in for a life of expatriate writer's block and late nights spent drinking chilled saki & haunting video cafes.� try as they may, the
constipated pen just leaves a trail of illegible inky bunnyturds across the
page, as nature may call but the pen can't reply.
i drove to the countryside.� drowsy, i listened to the rain falling hard
on the roof of the car... patter patter, tap tap tap.� my thoughts fell
short of heaven, not even lofty enough to jump over the severn, and my words
fell far below like rose petals drifting to the ground to prevent the king of
zamunda's feet from touching the earth: "who CARES?!?!...�bunch of bullshit... zzzzzzzzzzz..."� i crossed the
border between denmark and neverland.
maybe she is
neptune's daughter.
