Today, I watched Ghostbusters 2.
I loved the original Ghostbusters movie when it came out. I loved the title song, and I thought Bill Murray was the funniest and coolest guy in the world.
Who are you gonna call?
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Through language and other barriers
Despite the fact that Wife and I shared an office space, and despite the fact that we were two of only about ten people in the office, we hardly exchanged a word during those first summer months. I would see her sit behind her desk, get up every once in a while to go for a cup of tea – tea is her cup of tea – and do whatever it was that she was doing.
Should I stay or should I go?
The commuter train that I take from downtown Stockholm to our idyllic Sollentuna is probably about 100 meters long. Maybe a little longer, maybe 150, even, because it takes me a good minute to walk from one end to the other.
It may not sound significant, but choosing where to get on is a big decision, because it practically also seals my decision to either walk home, or take the bus.
Front of the train: bus. End of the train: walk.
It’s an 11-minute walk in the winter, and a 9-minute-walk in the summer.
Column: The fear of fear
Phobophobia is a phobia which is defined as the fear of phobias, or the fear of fear, which includes intense anxiety and unrealistic and persistent fear of the somatic sensations and the feared phobia ensued. Phobophobia can also be defined as the fear of phobias or fear of developing a phobia. It differentiates itself from other kind of phobias by the fact that there is no environmental stimulus per se, but rather internal dreadful sensations similar to psychological symptoms of panic attacks.
Here’s a brain twister: The fear of fear. As if it’s not enough to be afraid of something, especially since there are a lot of phobias to be afraid of.
Summer nights in the middle of the winter
I probably could have jammed myself into the subway train, had I really been obnoxious and pushy. Literally pushy. But I’m so lazy that instead of doing that, and having to stand up all the way from the arena to the train station, I decided to take the next train. I understand that I still had to stand there, outside, for another three minutes waiting for the next train, but then I’d get to sit down, I figured.
The train arrived, and sure enough, it was almost empty. I got a window seat, and continued reading my book – Nocturnes: Five Stories of Music and Nightfall by Kazuo Ishiguro – as the doors closed.
Lovers, not fighters
I’ve never been in a fight. Not once in my life. Not as a five-year-old, not as a rowdy teenager, not even as a hockey player. I’m a lover, not a fighter – at least if those two are the only alternatives.
I can imagine that a couple of times I’ve been closer than I realized. Especially that one time when I happened to spit a guy, on other other team, of course, on his visor during a hockey game. At least he said he’d wait for me outside after the game, and that he’d beat me up.
Well, I didn’t see anybody as I ran to my car in the dark.
Tea for two
When I was three, and we were visiting family friends, I would make a point of asking the host/ess where my coffee cup was. Because, apparently, I drank coffee back then. One part coffee, 52 parts milk, I suppose. At 4, I quit drinking coffee, to the point where I wouldn’t even eat coffee-flavored ice cream.
Or couldn’t because I couldn’t handle the taste.
Two wrongs to make a left
Driving north on Sankt Eriksgatan in Stockholm, at the intersection between the said street and Rörstrandsgatan, there’s a no-left turn sign. I see it every day, when Son and Daughter and me are driving home from school. (It’s here.)
We’re always on the left lane because the right one is only for those turning right, and the traffic is always easier on the left lane anyway. I pick up the kids, on average, four times a week, but for argument’s sake, let’s just say I’m in my car, driving north at Sankt Eriksgatan and Rörstrandsgatan three times a week, sometime between 3 and 3.30. (Singing, talking, playing car games, refereeing a backseat argument, or, just quietly listening to a podcast while Son and Daughter listen to a CD).
Life on the balcony
With all the snow that we have in Stockholm now, the kids will never believe me if I tell them that when I was a kid I had to walk barefoot through more snow than they’ve ever seen. But, fortunately, I have other stories to make my own childhood seems fairly Dickensian.
Like the fact that I didn’t have a real bed when I was five years old and, instead, slept on a piece of cardboard between two chairs that faced each other.
99 balloons (for Gretzky)
The other day, a friend of mine laughed when he told me about a hockey player who wore number 99. He thought it was sacrilege. Since nobody can be Gretzky, nobody anywhere should wear that number, he said.
