When Batman first morphed from daytime burglar chaser (”holy smokes Batman, climbing up this rope makes me strangely erect”)   to dark leather legend sometime in the early nineties I remember feeling a tiny tingle of male attraction very different from the stolen  showerroom glances that  up until that point constituted my homoerotic fantasy arsenal. In retrospect, Michael Keaton did a good enough job of rectifying the most interesting and human of all superheroes; especially if you consider what constituted the sequels (George Clooney – very amazing man but clearly not Batman).

It wasn´t until Christan Bale starred a giant chinese prison thug in the eyes and scornfully declared: ”You´re not the devil. You´re practice” that I fully realized how much Batman meant to me. At that moment I uttered silently the words I had for so long barricated within my soul; Fuck you Spidey.

No more shannanignans. No more Balley-hoo. Just darkness, strong silent type whispers and violence. When I learned that London crack addict pretty boy Tom Hardy was going to star in the final movie as arch villan Bane (not to be confused with arch villain number two, presidential hopeful Mitt Romneys old company Bain Capital) alongside madmoiselle supreme Marion Coutillard I was thrilled.

Admittedly, the sceptical, analytical and diatribe gaze that I usually reserve for block buster films and greek cuisine, was purposely stored away at home when I ventured to my local Palais de cinema to indulge in the guilty pleasure of the ”Dark knight rises” , the third and final piece in director Christopher Nolans modern triptych.

Europe is burning

Europe is burning, they say. It will be every man for himself before long. In the ruins of Athens, on the streets of Berlin, by the shores of George Clooneys lakehouse in Como, we will smell the ashes.

The missing H

The first time I traversed the pond I was 12. Back then, going to the USA was a big deal. You could hear whispers in the school yard of kids that had gone and the trembling jealousy of the voices of the ones who hadn´t. Some that came back experienced something called "jet lag" and it apparently went on for months - like a curse of the entitled (not unlike Syphillis in the 18th century which indicated that you had the means to lay with prostitutes. True story) that explained bad performance on the football pitch or crying at the communal disco ("Must be the jet lag. You know I never cry. Right?").

Florida was the destination of choice and as proof that you had actually gone, you needed to bring home a baseball cap that had "Made in USA" printed on the label in the back. It just didn´t count otherwise. No hat, no glory. It was as simple as that. 

The news that I was going spread quickly. The Moells were going to Florida. Big time. I had long before departure cashed the social chips that the news of the trip endowed me and I believe I even felt some jet lag, or so I said. So when our father sat us down at the dinner table one night to tell me and my brother that there had been a change of plans I was horrified. The trip cancelled? If it were so I would gladly choose death over dishonor and end my life right there and then. Could our parents really do this to us?

The suspense was killing us. We were not going to Florida but to two places that both started with an H, daddy Christian said.

 Hungary? Helsinki? Surely, you couldn´t switch holiday destination to Finland and get away with it? I could picture myself with my friends casually explaining that Helsinki was in fact the place to travel to these days. But then my brother hopefully introduced another destination in the mix and guessed "Hollywood". Father nodded and smiled. "Yepp, boys we are going to Los Angeles." We were ecstatic. 

L.A.  I had to feel the letters on my lips and let them linger. 

It turned out that a danish travel agency Larsen Reiser (now an exclusive mattress company called Jysk Bäddlager) had a special on a two week charter trip; one week in Los Angeles followed by a week in Hawaii. Immortality loomed.

Me, shortly after my triumphant return to Hubertusgården Elementary School 

American Tabloid

Il Piccolino, West Hollywood
Thursday


"Did you meet Fernando? He´s from Brazil!" The elderly lady with the golden hair asked me and pointed at the Valet. This really was an old school joint, I could tell. But I was squeezed for time and didn´t have time to chitchat. The heat was closing in, I could smell it. I needed a break fast, or my days as an investigator would end before they´d even started. This broad was like something out of a Joan Collins novel only with a few rolls of flab and a receding hairline.
"Listen I said", with as much intimidation as I could muster. "I need to find Mickey Cohens missing H. And I need to do as of right freckin now". My heart was pounding.
     "My daughter never did heroin, you know" the lady answered, narrowing down the large field of suspects only slightly.
     "Thanks, I said". This interrogation was going nowhere.
      "My daughter is Paris Hilton, you know". I didn´t but wasn´t in the least surprised.
      "You need to run a tighter ship mam. That daughter of yours is a mess. She needs straightening out she does." I needed to retain authority.
      "No, Paris is a good girl. She works really hard you know." The lady, who introduced herself as Kathy took another long drag at her Marlboro Red.
      "She is out of control. You have to step in. You´re here mother for Petes sake." I figured if I´d lean on her long enough she´d give in.

Instead I was approached by an elderly man with a tanned handsome face and a glowing set of hair straight out of an episode of Loveboat.
 "I´m Rick, he said", his firm gaze suggesting that he meant it.
"Nice to meet you Rick."

I had already laid eyes on Janice Dickson, the train wreck ex model. By the look of her eyes and shaky posture, she most likely had a much better idea of where to find the sunset kingpins stolen goods. I prayed to god I could break her.

The Los Angeles Lakers

The Los Angeles Lakers are in dire straits. After going seven rounds with the Denver Nuggets in the opening round of the NBA playoff they were as of yesterday two games down on Oklahoma City Thunder, a competing basketball team. Kobe Bryant, once the shining prodigy poster boy of everything basketball and sexual harassment, seemed to be aging by the minute and hopelessly trailing Oklahoma star Kevin Durant, another basketball player. Laker star number 2, that ever evolving force of nature that calls itself Metta World Peace, was doing a fine job of keeping the Thunder at bay in defense, but was missing three point shots by the bucket load (He legally changed his name to World Peace in september of 2011. Recent efforts to abide by the name include a six game suspension for elbowing another player in the face as well as posting death threats to a competitors family on twitter).

The Lakers thus returned from Oklahama City to the Staples Center on friday with a big furry tail between their legs. Tension was at a high. Even the Laker supporter supreme himself, Jack Nicholson seemed concerned, the shaded red specs and Lacoste under striped jacket oozing with more old world Hollywood panache than usual. Early in the game, he rose from his customary court side seat to address the referee with Jimmy Hoffa like conviction and eyes as wide open as ever in the Shining.

When the Lakers dropped a 14-point lead from the first quarter to be down by 8 in the beginning of the fourth Jack snapped and yelled something to Kobe which does not bare repeating. Did it work? Of course , Kobe pulled himself up by his million dollar Nike shoelaces and proceeded to win the game for the Lakers. It was sports magic.

Even Magic himself (a former Borås Magic M7 star turned ESPN commentator anchor) was impressed.

"You want the truth! You can´t handle the truth! You all suck."

AKA Angels

San Bernadino, California
Sunday


"So you are the one they call Big D? I heard a lot about you." We had just stepped back inside as the fumes from the barbecue was making it too hot even in the shade.
"Na. I´m just D. Big D is up at Chowchilla doing a three-strike-15-to-life for armed robbery." Pause.
"Hey Spinelli" she yelled across the room "Was there a big D at CIW when you left?"

Spinelli, a woman of short stature with a greying crewcut and a faded tattoo declaring something in old english captions across the front side of the neck walked up to us; an unlit cigarette dangling from the left side of her lower lip.
"Fuck if I know." Spinelli took the unfiltered camel cigarette, licked the back end and put it behind her ear. "She the one be snitchin´ when we was up gettin high over at what´s-her-names place?"
 The conversation was suddenly cut short when a third woman, dressed in a baggy t-shirt with "Operation  Enduring Freedom" printed on it, walked up to us.
"You guys know Atrea? She´s here. She´s the same man. The same. She looks good." The new arrival then turned to me: "You ok there, buddy? Seem a little lost, that´s all."
"Oh, I´m just great. Really enjoy hangin with you guys. For real" I countered, trying hard to bury my schoolboy accent in a fake Chicago-brawl sprinkled with bits and pieces of the lingo I´d picked up so for over the course of the afternoon.
"Cool, man. Just checkin´"

"Get the fuck out of the picture college boy." Spinelli low right next to D.

Yard recall

Lieutenant Figueroa stept away to play a game on his cellular phone and left us alone with the girls. Leslie immediately wanted to talk about swedish crime drama "Beck" of which she was an avid follower. She started to refer to specific episodes and characters ("the one with the kids in the subway", "the guy who looks like he is just about to loose it at any given time") of the show with most of us nodding encouragingly whilst trying to remember if we´d ever actually ourselves seen one of the sunday night episodes. She continued to relay to us that it in fact got so scary at times, she had cover the TV with a blanket, leaving only a small space at the bottom for the subtitles. I had to compose myself for a moment to take in the fact that I was sitting face to face with a person a great number of people consider the devil incarnated and protagonist to many a horror story herself, and that she was telling me that she found the inspector Beck mysteries at times too much to bear. Helter Skelter in blood apparently has nothing on Gunvald Larsson.

The conversation then turned to repentance; when a crime is paid for in full not only in terms of the debt to society but in regards to more abstract parameters of guilt and payback. To the question if she believed she had paid in full for her crimes Leslie answered: "I can never fully repent for what I did, but I believe that after 42 years behind these walls, I would now be able to serve society better on the outside." 

Leslie, along with Patricia Krenwinkle (aka "kreni") and two younger women that knew Annika well, then took us to see the native american grounds on the prison premises - a small fenced area with a tipi at the far end where services could be held. We strolled around in the afternoon sunshine chitchatting about life, Charles Manson and spending your entire life in prison. It was to quote Hugh Grants character from romcom hit Notting Hill: "surreal but nice".

Last on our agenda was a meet and greet with the prison warden, one Guillermo Garcia. We were escorted in to his office where he cordially greeted us and bade us to sit down at a cherrywood conference table across from his desk. Warden Garcia was short man with a greying mustache and the tired gaze of someone who has had two airport drinks and only nuts. He seemed to be as intrigued by us as we were of him and immediately started telling stories and asking questions. Another hour of candid discussions on crime and punishment followed, sprinkled with one or two battlefield stories ("Ike Turner used to mop my floors when I was social warden over at Quentin you know", "When Rick James was in my prison I had to stop the guards from taking autographs"). I told him that we would probably have Antonio Banderas play him in the movie and he said he did not mind that at all.  Not at all.

After five hours behind bars, we were all tired and went to down some Tacos at a small abandoned joint (pun not intended) across the road from the prison. When we tried to order the sleeping proprietor told us: "What do think this is? A restaurant? We only have Tacos". But boy did they have Tacos.

Mr Warden

"This is no restaurant. Postmodern dining"