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"

California Institute for women

Shall I begin like David Copperfield? I was born, I grew up.

 I am slowly adapting to life in Los Angeles. This manifests in that I now more often than not take the car whenever I´m going for a cup of coffee or when I am taking out the trash, that I prefer soy milk to that of cow and that I am gradually mixing spanish with my english ("Muchos gracias man, appreciate it"). A few days have gone since I last posted and a lot has gone down since then - the most significant being our visit to the California Institute for Women in Chino. I also have a great urge to tell y´all about what I have cooking down on the stove at this very moment: the mother of all chilis. Then there is the biker after party, the Disneyland encounter with delightful jailbird Robin Keeble and so on and so forth. But first things first. I will try to tell the story chronologically and you all stop me if I´m going too fast or if there is something you don´t understand.
        At about the hour when the first rays of California sun burst through the Los Angeles smog on wednesday, we all loaded up in the Dodge and headed out for Chino. I fell asleep in the backseat and awoke an hour later to the smell of cow dung and fresh brewn coffee. Arrival Chino. The California Institute for women was the first prison built exclusively for women in California and has been around for a good 60 years. It looks more like a college campus than a prison with a number of low standing barrack like housing units encircling a large yard. Until about 20 years ago, it was the only place of its kind in California, but there is now a sister facility up north in Chowchilla. Most of the long timers are however held at CIW. We were greeted at the front gate and cordially strip-searched by one lt Felix Figueroa, a man of tall stature, oakleyshaped white markings around his eyes and a most terrific mustache. I immediately initiated my icebreaking routine and asked if he ate a lot of donuts. Lt Figueroa chuckled and said that he tried to "stay away from the stuff. It´s deadly that shit is". I was naturally disappointed but also glad that the tension surrounding us was somewhat broken.

 A number of locked steel doors later, we were standing in the small yard, or the "circle" as it is commonly referred to. The southern california sun reflected off the aging steel structures around us, meandering with the smell of country side, california spring and incarceration. I was not scared but brave. We were shown around a number of buildings that were currently empty as the inmates were at work or going about some other of the daily routines. We got to see "Deep six", the former death row unit were Annika spent a good year and a half back in 1983; a structure originally constructed to house the three Mansonwomen when they awaited conviction in 1970. The walls did not exactly speak but scribblings of various length and grammatical accuracy told the stories clear enough. The only places Lt Figueroa could not take us was SHU - the security housing unit where the most violent and dangerous inmates were held - and PTU, the psychiatric unit. Security concerns apparently. At about an hour in to our visit, Lt Figueroa took us to see four inmates we had requested to speak to, all good friends of Annikas when she was here. The first person to greet us was a handsome woman of around 60; tanned, extremely fit and with a warm, comforting smile. Should I have met her out in the open, I would have guessed retired model/new age mom/yoga teacher rather than the most infamous woman in America. Since Susan Atkins death from a brain tumor a few years ago, Leslie van Houten has become the poster child for evil in America, the very embodiment of murder. Next to her stood a stout lady with Donna Karen sunglasses and silky white hair, one Patricia Krenwinkle. (If you need brushing up click here)

We sat down with the women at a steel table in a room with barred windows that transited a hallway where other inmates passed by and sometimes lingered. A tv in the background showed talk show Jerry Springer. Lt Figueroa told the woman that they were all there to talk about Annika and that they needn´t talk about their own cases or anything they did not want to.

To be continued.

CIW

In two days time, we will step through the Gates of California Institute for Women in Chino, where Annika Östberg spent 28 years of her life. We are not allowed to wear denim, anything blue or orange. I feel excited and frightened at the prospect of laying eyes on the place I´ve read so much about, thought so much about, but in all honesty know very little about. Prison, especially the kinds that they have over here, remains a very abstract concept to me; perhaps in the same way that the outside world to someone for a long time on the inside remains just as otherworldly, intriguing and scary at the same time. I know not how I will react. Later today, we drive to Anaheim to meet Robin, a friend of Annikas who is now much engaged in the work of AKA Angels, an woman's civic group supporting women newly released from incarceration. It´s her birthday and we plan to take her to dinner.

Venice

We nearly made it all the way to Venice last night. But the hearts of men are easily corrupted.

After a sunset drink round the campfire of our Mullholand hillside home, we stopped by a director friends producers daughters friends parents house. The idea was to stop for a quick drink and then move on to Venice where the real Cinco de mayo party was to take place. We were greeted by two young women who offered us a drink from the bottle of ready made margarita we brought with us. We were all (yours truly with friends Bonnie, Lottie, Christian and Andreas) weary from the night before and needed a "pick-me-upper" badly. 

The house belonged to british set designer chief Nigel and his wife who were away in "Europe" on business. Every single one of the labyrinth of sitting areas and bedrooms we walked through on our way to the terrace was decorated with tastefully patinated Eames chairs and PH lamps alongside framed pencil sketches of Gotham city like urban exteriors and pictures of north african supermodels with chicken feet. We ended up on a terrace overlooking the city where we smoked menthol cigarettes and sipped "nice brand" tequila with our delightful new friends. Venice was forgotten and the only homage to Cinco de Mayo was a plastic jar of spicy Guacamole from Whole Foods on the chromed bar. As the lights of la Cienega Boulevard far below blended gradually into a cloud of yellow light, we discussed british television drama Downton Abbey ("the costumes are  hands down - kick ass - fantastic"), the proper use of the phrase "going to town on something" and how a piñata on the show "Busted on the job" was used for other than its intended purposes. We ordered take out and I fell a sleep on the couch after a dead end debate on Murphys law. At eleven, we headed back home. I slept the sleep of the dead. I didn´t dream.

a night at the Roxbury

Once more the sun rises on the steep, grassy hills of Los Angeles. Once more in to the breach of its heathen belly I climb. It´s Cinco de Mayo motherfuckers.

          Celebrations at 7825 Torreyson Drive started early - more specifically last night. A visiting dignitary from Hong Kong had us all dressed up nicely and wine poured in containers made of real glass. I initiated a joint performance of the swedish battle cry hymn "I natt jag drömde" at the onset of dinner and things more less went downhill from there. At the bottom of the hill lie Sunset Boulevard, the pumping, gin-perforated vein of West Hollywood and home to numerous chapters of modern folklore. In search of our own contemporary legend we ended up at Chateau Marmont, a place where many a stronger men and women of the entertainment industry have perished over the years. John Belushi speed balled his way into history here in 1982 and I think F Scott Fitzgerald called it quits here too back in the day. But then again, what Los Angeles hotel hash´t played host to a number of celebrity deaths? (Bobby Kennedy - the Roosevelt, Whitney Houston - the Beverly Hilton und so weiter). Nobody died last night (although I had to check several times this morning when I woke up) and we had the grandest of times.

         Brunch was enjoyed at the standard diner (see enclosed picture) and after I´ve finished posting I will take a shower and get myself ready to bash some Pinatas and wear myself a sombrero. Blog language is now back to english. Why? My girlfriend told me so. Also, if I do happen to end my days tonight, I prefer to go down speaking the kings. Death rather than dishonor. Happy Cinco.

Flickan och tefatet

Någon har hittat en gitarr i en garderob och och i skrivande stund lyssnar jag ofrivilligt till en helt spontan version av Mikael Wiehes "Flickan och Kråkan". Försöker distrahera mig själv genom att lägga upp lite bilder från promenaden jag tog för en stund sen uppför backen till den tyske demonförläggaren Benedikt Taschens tefatshus. Håll till godo.

"En dag kommer allt du ser att bli ditt min son"

Cinco de Mayo

Imorgon Lördag är det återigen dags för Cinco de Mayo, Mexikos frihetsdag. Ingenstans i världen firas den bättre (enligt flera oberoende källor) än just här i L.A. De mexikanska (presumed) byggarbetarna som ihärdigt blandar cement och hälsar på varandra med initierade handslag på grannens tomt (Inte Tom Cruise hus - det ligger längst ner på gatan - och inte Justin Timberlakes som ligger på andra sidan) är redan så upphetsade inför firandet att de har svårt att sitta stilla och om man lyssnar noga kan man höra att de även fnissar lite hela tiden av ren och skär upphetsning.

 Justin (inte Timberlake), en vän till Bonnie, som hälsade på i huset igår varnade oss för att överhuvudtaget vistas i trafiken under morgondagen då folk i allmänhet, och de med mexikanskt påbrå i synnerhet på denna dag har en tendens att "get fucked up and then drive their cars around." Det ryktas att jag imorgon kommer att få användning för hela min mexikanska turistvokabulär - med andra ord i helt gängse sammanhang använda ord som "Pinata", "Fiesta", "Mariachiband", "Hombres", "Viva Pancho Villa", "Miguel" och "Vatos Locos". Vi kommer att fira i Venice med en local vid namn Jajro. Det kommer bli svårt att sova ikväll då Cinco de Mayo verkar vara lite som julafton, nyår och födelsedag i ett. Mer nedtonade omdömen lyder "the stupidiest holiday ever. seriously".

 Vårt hus har redan börjat figurera lite som områdets fritidsgård, med folk som kommer och går som de vill. På altanen kan man allt som oftast stöta på kolibrifåglar som dricker av den solvarma hummingbirdjuicen - som husets ägarinna välvilligt ställt fram - i harmonisk interaktion med en aspirerande svenska skådespelare eller två. Allt inramat av en fantastisk utsikt över the valley som majestätiskt sträcker ut sig nedanför oss. Det bör noteras att "the valley" i den här staden är den diametrala motsatsen till allt som är rätt och riktigt. För er som minns den första karatekidfilmen så misshandlar Kobra Kay-gänget Karate Kid (efter att hotfullt gjort ringar i sanden med sina Yamaha DT-mopeder) och fulländar förnedringen med det kränkande tillmälet "go back to the valley". Bäst att inte avslöja för vitt och brett att jag nu faktiskt tekniskt sett också bor i the valley. Kobra Kay kanske fortfarande är aktiva. Å andra sidan tror jag att de har föga att sätta emot mina tequilarusiga latinokompisar från Venice. Dagens inredningsdetalj:

Taktiskt språkbyte

Change of plans. Jag kommer inte längre att skriva på engelska. Det har nämligen uppdagats att kvinnan som vi hyr huset av spionerar på mig på internet. Hur kommer det sig att denna information kommit mig till känna? Följande utspelade sig igår tisdag: När vi efter husesyn och genomgång satte oss ner i soffan för att småprata och äta nötblandning ("the cashews are my favourite") och dricka öl ("do you want a beer perhaps?") tittade nämligen Vicky, 57 på mig med lustfylld blick och utbrast: "You are much cuter in person." Wtf? "You really need to change that facebook picture of yours" "Oh" svarade jag förnärmat och sträckte mig efter en nöt ("I really don´t mind the almonds. Seriously"). "It´s only like a half picture and you can´t really see your face. You also look younger." Om hon nu utan problem kan spåra min facebooksida slog det mig att hon nog utan större möda även skulle kunna klicka sig till min blogg. Dagens inredningsdetalj: