That’s what I should have said

There he was, sitting by the curb, with a little cup in front of him. Well, sitting is not the right word. He was on his knees, with his arms extended, palms pressed together. He was from Romania, said the cardboard sign in front of him.

I pulled him up and asked him to come with me. I was going to the coffee shop anyway. Here we are now, I’m blogging away, and he, Hristo, seems to like brownies. He’s already had three of them, and a huge caffe latte.

But, soon, we’ll have to go. I have to go to a hockey game, and he back to work.

International man of mystery

In the Wikipedia entry for Robin Williams, it says, “Robin McLaurim Williams (born July 21, 1951 or 1952).” I find that fascinating. How does that work? Does anybody know his year of birth? Does he know?

Today, I also listened to WNYC’s Soundcheck podcast about stage names. How did Gordon Sumner become Sting? David Jones David Bowie? Apparently, even Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was a stage name.

I guess it’s all about the image. It’s like that episode of Seinfeld where George is trying to make his colleague to call him “T-bone.” Doesn’t stick because he’s no T-bone even though he’d would give anything to be one.

Risto Pakarinen. Hmmm… Maybe it’s time to pick a new one.

T-bone? Or maybe just a variation of Risto, like on the ticket stub with Heart’s Nancy Wilson’s autograph: “Reestow, lots of love, Nancy Wilson”. Or, Kris Top. You know, with a little “risto” in the middle.

And let’s just say that Kris Top was born on April 1, 1978.

Whoah, it’s his birthday soon! Mine, I mean.

It’s in the jeans

I love jeans. I remember taking the bus down to downtown Helsinki with one of my best friends – a.k.a. The Coolest Guy in the Class – to go to that Mic Mac store to get our first Levi’s 501s.

Only, they didn’t have them in my size, so I had to buy another kind. No idea what the type was, but I do know that the label on the butt was not red, but orange. And if you had asked me in school the day after, it was a flaming orange label that could be seen blocks away.

It was supposed to be red.

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Stranger than fiction

There she was, sitting at the office in the middle of the day. The boss was in one of his moods again, don’t even get her started on that. She was hiding behind her computer, waiting for him to just go away.

When the boss finally – finally – turned around and locked himself in his office, she lifted her keyboard to see the clipping again. There it was, the short story of the Boston Bruins’ hot new goalie.

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Polar bears in Finland

I thought this was interesting.

National Geographic's story

Simply because it’s something I have suspected for a long time. I mean, when I was a kid and walked the ten miles to school, barefooted, in the snow, uphill both ways, those polar bears were always waiting for me somewhere, wanting to take my lunch, but I haven’t seen them for years.

In fact, not since our igloo melted back in the 1980s.

Master of my domain

Here’s a special post for a special occasion. It’s my wife’s birthday, and I wanted to do something special. So, here’s the first ever RPodcast. It’s a short short story about a man, his job and a baby, with some autobiographical elements in it.

If you don’t want to listen to my reading of the piece, the entire text can be found after the jump. (But you’ll miss photos, some sound effects, and my lulling voice.)

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