Desperate times, desperate money

It’s been a week. It’s been a whole bloody week, and it just swept by without me ever noticing. German director Wim Wenders once had one of his characters say that time isn’t money, that time is the lack of money. I am all the evidence I need, and if this week was money, by [], I prefer time.

Apparently I’m not the only forgetting about life these days. As I trawl through the blogosphere this evening I find nothing but postings about the Lebanese-Israeli conflict. Everybody’s entitled to their own view, but bloggers shouldn’t let themselves be reduced to amateur journalists and political commentators.

I wanna hear the true behind-the-scenes stories, not the what-I-think-is-going-on-behind-the-scenes stories. What’s it like going to the marketplace in Beirut these days? How does it feel to be a travelling Jewish businessman in Syria? What do people talk about when they’re not talking about bombs and politics?

As usual, I haven’t got a whole lot to offer from up here in the Scandinavian Heights. That is my privilege and my curse. Let’s see …

Tomorrow I’m heading out of town again. This time I’m going to a kind of resort area by the sea. Well, it isn’t really, it’s just that nine out of ten houses up there are holiday homes. I guess winters can be quite grim and desolate if you live in the area all year round. Or perhaps you just enjoy the lack of tourists. Time isn’t tourism, time is the lack of tourism …

Anyway, I’m not in it for the souvenirs. A small underground music festival booked me to come and tell a few stories – between bands, so to speak. Storytelling is a pastime that’s been with me for quite a few years now. I don’t really know where it’s taking me, but I guess there’s always one more story to tell out there.

This time I’m gonna tell about an old aquaintance of mine. Tom was a nymphomaniacal sadomasoschistic self-made landlord and punk saxofonist that I once shared a room with in a run-down pizza place on the outskirts of Melbourne. His band stayed there too, but for now I’ll only relate how he got there in the first place.

Tom grew up in Christchurch, New Zealand. He was never up to any good, and when his best friend celebrated his twenty-first by sticking a grenade between his teeth and pulling out the split pin – he decided to leave. A local talent show offered $1000 to the one who could pull off the weirdest trick in ten minutes on a makeshift stage. Tom, of course, volunteered. The money was gonna be his ticket out of yet another lethargic Western society.

Once up there on the stage, he went crazy. He pulled off his pants, and stapled his dick to a wooden cross with eigtheen clips. The crowd went wild, but he was only three minutes into the show when he was done. He had to think of something more, something that would take the audience even further.

In the end he had a stagehand bring him a bottle of lighter fuel. Tom emptied it all over the cross, and let a glowing cigarette butt drop from his lip. He admitted that he hadn’t really been thinking, he just wanted the money no matter the price. And so he got them, and so he got away. But I saw the charred remains, and I tell you it was not a pretty sight.

Now, you might think this a cracked up story to tell at a festival where people are supposed to be happily drugged and listen to music. And you might be right. I’ll be sure to tell you about it if I get chased off the stage or something. But I don’t think I will. I think everybody around here can relate to Tom’s desperation in one way or another.

And like Jesus, Tom showed a way out. By crucifying his own dick he took our fears and impotencies in his crotch, and guaranteed us that there’s always one more option left, even for a wretched Dane like me.