Me and the rest of the world

Arriving back in LA – Encoire une fois

locomotion — Fri, 10 Sep 2010 23:46:01 +0000

It kind of reminded me of that day in August so many years ago, when I saw the Manhattan skyline emerge from the backseat of a yellow cab for the first time and knew it was gonna be my home. I had texted my mother saying that I had landed in foreign New York and was all by myself with my whole life in the trunk with no clue where I was going and that I thought it was supercool. I know this is exactly what I wrote because my mother still has the text and still ponders over the fact that I found such an uncertain situation so enthralling.

Fast forward six years and I am yet again alone in a cab with my luggage behind me and the city in front. However this time the city isn’t foreign and my life is not in the trunk (I’m not really sure where my life is actually, but it’s definitely not in the trunk, in there is mostly just brown cheese). In fact this time around it’s easy – I know exactly where I am going and what things are going to be like, and as opposed to the emotions felt that first time now it’s kind of terrifying. It’s a fresh start – just like that taxiride into New York – but back then, while driving over the Queensborough bridge, all I knew of was possibilities, and now, when turning onto a jammed La Cienega, most of what comes to mind are the limitations. The bubble has burst, the genie is out, Santa Clause doesn’t exist and Hollywood has proven it to me the hard way.

But ah, what deep thoughts to have after 20 hours of travel through 9 time zones and the insufferable US immigration. Sleep first, think later. Good idea. Tip the driver, press the pause button, lock the door and crawl into that wonderfullyy soft, well-longed for own bed that is.. full of trash?

It was disgusting. My beautiful beloved Hollywood apartment was in the most filthy condition I have ever seen. (Coming from someone who has taken the 10-second rule to a new level that says a lot). The first thing that struck me, literally speaking, were the lights. With the exception of the one inside the baking oven, and that’s probably because it doesn’t work, every lamp with a bulb in it was left on. In the bathroom the fan was bustling away above a dried up floater in the toilet and in the living room the ceiling fan blades were flapping around magazines, tourist guides, receipts, prize tags, you name it at full throttle.

My first instinct was to lie down and cry, but I didn’t. In part because lying down and crying is what I’ve done most of the year and I’m done with it, but mostly because there was really no clean space left for me to lie down on. I considered just ignoring what was around me and just march to bed, but that wasn’t an option as the sheets and towels were not only dirty, but also wet and either hanging out with their new friend the sofa, or hiding underneath their other new friend, the entrance cabinet, or even draped over their latest acquaintance, the guitar.

The kitchen sink had a stack of dishes so revolting that not even the cockroaches had wanted to hang out there. They had probably given it a try but surrendered however, because there were a few of them spread out dead across the floor. In the fridge above them there was a rotten piece of chicken that appeared to have tried its best to fly out of there but failed and started growing a new pair of fluffy wings for a second attempt.

Renting out your L.A. apartment while going on vacation for the summer is apparently good for two reasons: 1.) You get money to help you pay the rent while you spend your own money on umbrella drinks. 2.) You get to make all sorts of fun observations when you return:

- Coke can actually get fungus. A gallon of diet gets white, cotton-like balls in it if you leave the cap off for some time.

- If you let it sit long enough, you can lift my whole living room table with a sticky cereal bowl.

- About an inch of coffee left in a mug to dry over time gets the consistency of refrigerated chocolate.

- As this coffee dries up, it can get more than twenty flies stuck in it.

- If you count all the receipts left on the floor from shopping, you can calculate how much your renters can afford to spend on shopping and decide how much more you should charge for rent next year. If you decide to ever rent out again, that is.

As amusing these facts are when typing them now, they were not so funny at the time. So I did the only thing there was to do. I called a maid.

Just kidding. I put on a black plastic trash bag, made holes for two hands and a head, held my breath and turned on the kitchen sink. It took about five seconds before I realized that the drain was clogged and the trash dispenser broken. The water filled the edges of the basin and stuff started floating up and around the greasy dishes that had textures I’m pretty sure the dictionary doesn’t have names for.

It was like a Jeopardy episode where you don’t know what to do so you either ask the audience or you call a friend. Now there was nobody around me to ask so I decided to call my better half, even though it would be six o’clock in the morning there and he wouldn’t be able to do anything to help. This I was aware of, but sometimes it’s nice to just spew out all of your frustration to someone else, and then it sort of transfers to that person so that they feel bad but you feel better. It actually works for me a lot, just ask my mother.

He didn’t pick up. Smart of him. At this point I was getting so tired I decided my best option was to get out, get quarters for the laundry facilities so I could at least get the bed linen clean enough to sleep in, and while I was at it I could always get some Drano for the drain.

As opposed to the reunion with my apartment a little earlier, it was good to see my car again. It was parked just where I had left it and it was clean from the inside out. At least there’s nothing wrong with you I thought as I got in. Ooops. Said too early. Because it wouldn’t start.

Triple A came half an hour later. I could see them from my sublevel parking garage, idling in front of the gate, the driver scratching his head curiously wondering how to get his fourteen feet tall truck through the eight and a half high gateway. 20 more minutes passed and a colleague arrived with a portable battery starter. As he attached it to my dead car battery he asked me about what I did to kill it. Did I leave the lights on? No. Did I leave the GPS plugged in? No. Did I go on vacation for over a month?! Whoooah girl you craazy, can’t let a car sit still for that long. We don’t go on no month-long vacations here in the states. Norway, where’s that, like in Finland or something??!

My Mustang started with no trouble and as the technician left, still baffled over the crazy European vacation habits he gave me instructions to drive around to let the battery jizz up. I regretted the decision to deal with the situation the moment I was northbound on the 101. If there were a law prohibiting drivers from sleepdriving – and there should be – I was guilty as charged. Parallel and oncoming traffic were just streaks of motion blur – five lanes each direction, trucks and sports cars and buses and 18 wheelers passing by in seventy miles an hour as I drifted around in comatose. Not surprisingly then did I miss my exit on the return back home and ended up halfway downtown before realizing. By the time I was getting close to Hollywood I ran out of gas and had to stop at a station to refill. It was cold out, I was exhausted, and all I could think of as I got back in the car was how great that bed would be. Especially if the car would have started so I could get to it.

When the Triple A guy came again and said the battery wasn’t charging I tried not to think about the last hour of potentially perfect sleep I’d just wasted on the freeway. The battery had to be replaced but that couldn’t be done until the morning when business hours were back on. He could jumpstart me again so I could drive home, but I couldn’t make any stops. No coins for the emergency laundry, no drain opener for my deluged sink, no food to repair that starving stomach hole the airplane food had left in me.

As I miserably drove the last miles home I passed the Hollywood sign and it made me roll my eyes. It was just sitting up there, all letters on a stupid hill, laughing at me for even thinking just a brief second that things were gonna get easier. In the background I could hear something vaguely familiar. A melody from a long, long time ago crackling on the radio. Encore une fois. Sash! was trying to tell me something. Just like I got into that taxi earlier like I had so times before, just like I would wake up fresh the next day and will so many others, it’s about doing things all over again. One more day, one more try, one more time.

Encoire une foise, I thought, as I stepped out of the car. It was only then I noticed I was still wearing that black plastic trash bag.

To Blog or Not to Blog: Back in Business

locomotion — Sun, 05 Sep 2010 20:11:42 +0000

Ahh the keyboard. The sweet, elevated quadrangled buttons of intangible communication. The foundation for shortcuts – both those that help people avoid reality and those that let you copy and paste stuff until you have the reality the way you want it. The latter which so eloquently started my career (if there was ever really such a thing) and yet so spitefully killed it – or was it me? Keyboard, have I missed you? Two years ago you gave me my first job in Hollywood. A year and a half later you made me throw up by just looking at you. Today you make me laugh when I read through posts from the last four years and remember what good times we can have.

Now I find myself here again, the squares readily quiescent under the cushiontips of my fingers, emotionally ambiguous like ever before in regards to this idea of pouring my heart out into cyberspace by the simplest strokes of them. Push – there is a thought – push again – there is another – a mere five seconds and a full sentence of my life is explicitly available to the rest of the world. Served on a platter, or paper if you will – no wait, that privilege is reserved those whose tax documents actually qualify as writers – my meticulously constructed expressions are simply swiftly reduced into of mere pattern of 1s and 0s. There’s hard cover, there’s paperback and now there’s binary.

But rewind to that keyboard. I wonder if I ever – pre sitting here today and gazing at it in a whole new way – thought about how much my life would (r)evolve around it. I wonder if my mother, the very instant she examined me after pushing me out that night so many years ago, in any way could have anticipated it. She always does make a great point out of how a wonderful moment it was when she counted my toes and my fingers and blissfully recognized there were 10 of each. Would she know of the future implications of let’s say, me missing my left hand pinkie? She would have loved me just as much, that I have no doubts about. But I can’t help but wonder what direction my life would have taken, had I only been able to do sdf on the keyboard.

As I sit here, my fingers resting over the backlit arrangement of the qwerty alphabet, a wave of gratefulness fills me. I look at them – my fingers – nails bitten down to the root from the long haul flight, half scraped leftover pink polish brought back from sunset strolls on the French Riviera, cuticles tinted from a newly airbrushed California tan. And I realize (probably to a manicurist dismay), that there is nothing wrong with them. There is absolutely nothing wrong with my fingers! To me, this year has been difficult, to say the least, in practically every way: a herniated lumbar disc with degenerative spinal subluxation, two knees with patellofemoral pain syndrome, a rotten tooth in endodontic therapy, a temporarily deaf ear, a thyroid problem, a latent major depression with consequent panic attacks – not to mention the stomach-turning, post traumatic stress-style all-inclusive burn out. But fingers? Perfectly well.

So what am I talking about here? What does the keyboard have to do with anything? My writing? Or my editing. Does it matter? I use the v and the b keys just as much in Avid as I do in the sentence “I love to write”. Ok, so there is no b in that sentence, but with a bad cold the w can sound a lot like a b when pronounced. I’ve sneezed myself through this whole summer, so trust me I know.

Now my reason for being in LA, or even worse – Hollywood – is not to type. Neither was it to end up in therapy, expensive spinal rehabilitation or other medical and financial debts. But if I can type it means I can face that keyboard, and if I can face that keyboard I can face what is supposedly my job and if I can face my job I might have a chance of a career and if I have a career I can buy that Mansion, drive that McLaren, walk those Manolos, win that Oscar.. Oh well, just a job will do for the time being. But for now, let’s go with the typing.

So ok, here we are. Take a deep breath and strike a key. B. Ba. Back.

Back in business.

Små barn, store gleder..

locomotion — Sat, 08 Nov 2008 17:43:12 +0000

It would be an understatement claiming there’s been a lot of excitement in my life since I found myself living it in Tinseltown. I was excited when I moved into my very own first 1 bedroom apartment and probably more so when I found out Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie live on my street (I always knew I had good taste). Further I do admit I was excited when I got a private tour to the insides of the giant motion capture studio where Beowolf was shot, excited when I got an invite to a closed screening and following Q&A with Oscar winning editor Paedro Scalia, excited when allowed onto the lot of a closed millions of dollars charity event featuring Rihanna, Duffy, Mariah Carey, Lionel Richey and a bunch of other artists with names like Steve Jobs and Akon beside me in the audience, not to mention excited when watching Robin Anton’s Girlicious perform at Universal Records’ private venue, Gavin Rossdale on Jimmi Kimmel Live and the Pussycat Dolls feat. Missy Elliot on Dancing with the Stars – all with a backstage pass around my wrist. Yet I can’t help but admit that my most exciting moment in California so far was brought to me by nothing more than Six Flags Magic Mountain.

Six Flags

I couldn’t have picked a worse day for it. Yet it wasn’t I that picked it, really, I was being taken there by someone who had so generously gotten me drunk (no mom, of course I wasn’t, it’s just a figure of speech) the night before during a very nice (and probably way too expensive) dinner. 10 points to this person for picking up on me saying that I was bored and wanted to do something fun like going on roller coasters, and 10 points off to this person for deciding that the morning after would be a great day to go. Nevertheless, on a beautiful Saturday morning (ok, ok, maybe late afternoon) I found myself on 260 acres of world record-breaking roller coasters and a bottle of peptobismol (if you don’t know what it is, google it) in my pocket.

The X2

As we entered the park and started to walk underneath the million-something miles of twirling, entangled steel all I could think of was that my stomach was telling me this might not be such a good idea. Yet my adrenaline seeking mind was eagerly drawn to my surroundings and when I was asked, jokingly, whether we should start with the Viper, I looked up at the sign right next to it and threw back – my signature too quickly and unthinkingly – that we should start with the X2. The X2 was a gigantic mess of red and white tracks, ups and downs with drops and loops and corkscrews and looked pretty comprehensive. At least so I thought. But after an hour and a half in line, and I can’t believe we really waited that long, we turned a corner and realized that that wasn’t the X2 at all. The real X2 was behind the ‘first’ X2, which apparently turned out to be the Viper, and it made the latter look like a children’s ride. Now I’ve been to numerous theme parks around the world and let many a rollercoaster twirl my intestines around, but I’ve never seen anything like this.

More X2

For a moment I just looked at it. Then I looked at it again. Then I desperately looked around, both in my head and at the people neighboring me, in a frantic attempt to come up with some dignified reason to bail. Of all the 16 rollercoasters in this park I had to start with this one.
Suddenly it had nothing to do with hungoverness and everything to do about fear. The last half an hour (yes, it took that long) we just stared at the structure above us in silence. It was the world’s first fourth dimensional roller coaster I later learned. With 360 degrees rotating seats and head-first, face down drops that pitch you forwards and backwards in seats that lie on a separate axis from the track. I honestly don’t know how to accurately explain it. Six Flags describes it as a “3,600-foot maze of steel track aboard massive wing-shaped trains where the seats extend off of the track to the sides of the vehicle, allowing riders to independently rotate you head over heels, forward and backward creating a one-of-a-kind “don’t know what to expect next” sensation.

Loading Platform

By the time we stood on the platform my bladder was warning me it might not last too long. And when I was strapped into the big harnesses seconds later I had to pee so badly I wasn’t concerned about throwing up anymore, I was just seriously worried about actually peeing my pants or fainting or dying or all of the three at the same time. There was no floor underneath us, just tracks, and as I’d had to take off my shoes my bare toes were hovering in open space like vulnerable branches crawling together in hiding under the soles of my feet. A horn howled, warning it was time to go. Then someone screamed, and the machinery stopped. A boy was helped out of his harness. He was too scared. It didn’t help my bladder. The horn howled again and this time the chairs fell backwards flat until we looked up at the ceiling.

About to fly

Slowly, we were reversed out of the loading area. Floating above now was an open, bright blue sky. And all the 27 seated around me were troublingly quiet. Then Harry Connick’s calm “It Had To Be You” ironically blurted out of the integrated headrest speakers and we all broke into an intense, but transparently nervous, laughter. Seconds later the music changed into more dramatic tones as we were pulled up the tracks. Backwards. Lying on our backs. Yet eventually the elevation became so steep that we were nearly sitting again. The top of the Viper – which we initially thought we’d lined up for, passed on our left side. In front of us the convoluted chaos of the world’s wildest rollercoasters decreased in size. As we approached the top I quietly felt my hands closing in on my shoulder harness, turning my knuckles as white as the rest of my face. Then I felt the chair move me slowly forwards bringing my feet out in the open air and my head towards the track then further beyond it – and plunged into what physics refer to as 3G.

Not me - but same feeling

The guy next to me yelled ‘Oh my fucking God’ and it so accurately described what happened next I don’t know what else to say. It’s the closest I’ve ever come to flying. For what felt like too long yet way too short we were suspended in nothing but negative space; arms and feet spread out with the chair somehow attached to a 90 degree straight down track that was somewhere around yet couldn’t be seen or felt. It was an absolute moment of defied gravity- a moment that felt frozen yet with a speed that wrapped my lips so rigidly around my ears I never thought they’d fit over my teeth again. The rest of the ride I barely remember, it was an exhilarating blur of sound, smoke, fire effects and weightlessness and according to the photo taken somewhere along it (I absolutely did not notice the camera flash) I had a blast. But frankly, I don’t remember it that well. Somehow my memory of that entire day revolves around this one insanely intense 76 miles an hour drop from what felt like the sky.

The Viper - Boring!

Inevitably, when we proceeded to the Viper afterwards, the harm was done. A 188 foot drop, a giant seven inversion double corkscrew, and the world’s highest 360-degree loop didn’t help – I was bored. “Small children, great pleasures”, a Norwegian proverb says.

And it seems that to me, this is very true. I’ll live on that extreme moment of buoyant excitement for a long time. Though the public screening of my thesis short film in a few hours at a landmark Hollywood theatre measures pretty high up on that excitement scale.

All you wanna do is ride around Sally..

locomotion — Wed, 22 Oct 2008 07:26:39 +0000

It’s one of those things you know you eventually will have to do, but just can’t wrap your head around. I’d been watching Linn doing it for weeks and still I held my breath every time I watched her turn left on an orange light. I kept thinking about Manhattan, sighing at the look of every six lane street without a single cab in sight and swearing at every one I sporadically did happen to see but that drove around with their top lamp ignited yet with passengers in the backseat (seems to be something LA taxidrivers have misunderstood, your headlights are actually in front of your car, not on top, that’s supposed to let me know you are available).

But then Lisbeth arrived and I realized that the only thing worse than one girl stuck in an apartment with no form of transportation is two girls stuck in the same apartment with no form of transportation. So I dispassionately sauntered myself into the DMV to apply for my California drivers license. Just like in Norway, it consists of a written and a practical part. But as far as I experienced, that is the only similarity. The written test took me about 15 minutes and had important questions on it like “How long can you be illegally parked at a blue curb before you’re towed away?”, “Should you change the channel on your stereo on a green or a red traffic light?” and “Is it legal to have a child in the front seat on a hot day without he or she wearing sunblock?”. Yet the most compelling question concerned whether a bridge, hilltop or asphalt is the most slippery surface when covered in snow, and coming from Norway I should have no trouble answering this. The Los Angelesers however, seem pretty clear about the fact that a bridge is worse than a hilltop. Evidently, they have less than 0.1 inches of snowfall a year and are therefore winter driving experts.

Next thing up was the actual drivers test. It posed two problems. 1) In LA you learn to drive on your own 2) You need to bring your own car. The first was solved by spending the entire of my very first ever Hollywood paycheck on an oversized minty green Toyota Camry rental and forcing Lisbeth along for a nerve wrecking ride around the city. Scared of the intersections still, I only did right turns and ended up going either just straight ahead or going around blocks, secretly hoping for roundabouts to magically appear and desperately asking Lisbeth for the traffic rules that she, obviously after only three days in the country, had absolutely no knowledge of. Then after a surprisingly short time, when I remembered to breathe, I reminded myself that I’d actually driven a car for more than six years and that just because every street here doesn’t end in a bottlecap-sized roundabout like the immeasurably trafficated city I grew up in, driving in LA really isn’t that different. And so when I parked the rental some seven days later and realized I once again was stuck in my apartment without transportation it didn’t take long before I’d decided it was time.

When I first moved I was prepared to get a wreck. My only real criterion was that it’d be an automatic wreck, after watching the hour long lines and traffic jam and blocked intersections and lane chaos and Linn struggling her way through them all in a perfectly working vintage car but with a not so perfectly working manual gearbox. And then I figured if I had one criterion I might as well get another, and decided that I wanted an automatic convertible. Two days later I found it. Sitting in the middle of the sales lot on Public Motors on Venice Boulevard, sparkling metallic silver with grey leather seats and its name engraved over the back of its sexy shiny ass it was just waiting for me to take it home. And I did.

They wanted about twice the budget I’d originally had for it. When I first sat in it, top down and the sun reflecting in the glass behind the screaming yellow sales poster with a way too high price printed on it, I never actually thought it was going to be mine. I don’t think the sales rep that stood next to me did either. But I always knew there had to be a hidden reason financial America was falling apart at the exact same time as I was about to buy my first car. And for the first time since moving to this ridiculously incongruous country four years ago having an international bank account finally worked to my advantage. So you know what they say, cash is king, and you know what my mother says, I won’t give in, and when they realized it was my way or the highway, it was pretty soon my way and the highway – more specifically the I-10 up to exit 8B and my awaiting garage below my Hollywood home.

Skip a week ahead and it was time to drive my silvery proudness on the road. Legally, that is, because technically speaking I’d been doing that since the day I bought it. You’d think that six years is a long time ago but when the DMV censor sat down next to me and pulled out his thick big red marker I felt no older than the little freckled eighteen year old I once was when I first took my license. I did the entire 8 minute (!) test without saying a word. In part because I’d heard it was a good idea to just shut the hell up, and in part because I was afraid if I’d open my mouth the censor would smell that it’d been way too late the night before.

A right turn. A lane change. Stopping at a curbside, reversing about five meters straight backwards. A left turn. What felt like twenty stop signs. Another lane change. A right turn again. And I officially had my California State driver’s license. I do admit I was sweating a little when I got out of the car. But in case you were wondering, that was just because we’d been driving with the top down under a sun shining at over 30 degrees.

So here it is.
My 2000 Ford Mustang Convertible.
Wanna go for a ride?

So Many Men, So Little Time (Or: How I didn’t make it to the Emmy’s)

locomotion — Tue, 23 Sep 2008 05:59:14 +0000

I knew what I was up for. Yet it’s all so stereotypical it’s hard to believe it’s real.

In less than one week, I’ve somehow managed to experience one of Donald Trump’s PR guys texting me “fuck you” after I refused to go on a date with him, some celebrity seventy year old hairdresser from Kuwait purposing to me in his million dollar Bel Air home with the words “I want to spoil you rotten, I don’t want you to work, just to look pretty”, another famous name personal trainer licking my face after I jokingly told him I was an editor for adult television (they clearly have no humor here), not to mention having to explain to the owner of a big-time California record label why 4th of July is not celebrated in Norway. After nearly one month in LA all I can conclude about the men here is that what they all seem to have in common (in addition to the fancy cars and the fake tan) is access to bring you to the red carpet and a common belief that this carpet actually rolls all the way to their beds.

ENTER Mr. Phillips. No exception. Yet he didn’t appear to be like all the others in the first run. With an intriguing Wikipedia entry, an Emmy Awards invitation and a dinner reservation pseudonym he is taking me to an upscale restaurant in West Hollywood. Starved of intellectual challenge in a place where men think Ferrari is a personality trait I enjoy having a linguistically striking conversation with an award winning writer that is not only a trustee from Stanford and founding director of a leading online corporation but chooses to spend his days picking wines for lifestyle publications. Any guy that wraps up a dozen bottles of his personal wine collection in towels to send as checked baggage for a weekend away, prefers going to bed reading a work of non-fiction and can sable a mini-bar bottle of champagne with a butter knife no sharper than a banana, is my kind of guy. And after witnessing him selecting an accompanying bottle of rosé to our foie gras with the competence of an internationally recognized wine personality, I am pretty fascinated. In fact, had he not been more than a head shorter than me, had his own initials engraved into the left sleeve of his every custom made shirt and a self esteem higher than my patent stilettos I might have been officially attracted.

Yet there was no time to become genuinely involved before his designer elbows were all squeezed in the mango pistachio dessert as he so inelegantly leant over the table, eyes half closed, in what could only be described as the human equivalence of a fish above water. I looked at his mouth, much like a toddler looks at a bug that has just landed on her nose, cross eyed and with a mix of repulsiveness and enthrallment, conscious that it’s not supposed to be there yet too surprised to know what to do. Aware of the public vicinity I quickly, but politely turned away as not to humiliate him. He seemed not to take the hint and went for another attempt. I remembered that in a dress two feet too short with a hair two shades too blond I might have sent off the wrong signal to begin with, but I was confident the preceding conversation had done nothing to trigger this reaction and so once again, I turned away.

He stared at me in utter surprise, his napkin more messy than I’ve ever seen my own (that should say it all), his voluptuous brown hair a little too long over a set of piercing blue eyes that made him look so young that when he’d earlier admitted to being a year less than 40, I had had to ID him.
Really? He blurted out, as if it had never occurred to him that a woman might not want to kiss him. In fact, in this city it probably never had. Really? He said again. And I couldn’t help but being a little amused. But I also found it rather peculiar that only minutes later he admitted to not wanting to invite me along to the Emmy’s because, as he so eloquently put it, he wasn’t sure of my intentions. Well, at least now I wasn’t unsure of his. And with that, the intellectually challenging conversation went emotionally sour and I paid for my own taxi ride home.

I’m not sure which I find the most distasteful; the man that cannot tolerate rejection or the man that so scarcely fails to hide it. But I know one thing: If kissing either one of them is what I’ll have to do to walk that red carpet, then my Louboutins will just have to stay in the closet.

Protected: My Beautiful Hollywood Home – Part 2

locomotion — Fri, 19 Sep 2008 03:00:11 +0000

This post is password protected. You must visit the website and enter the password to continue reading.

Protected: My Beautiful Hollywood Home – Part 1

locomotion — Tue, 16 Sep 2008 08:40:46 +0000

This post is password protected. You must visit the website and enter the password to continue reading.

Passord

locomotion — Sun, 14 Sep 2008 18:04:13 +0000

Ok, da har vi altså blitt så viktige her i Hollywood at folk har begynt å google oss. Derfor er det ikke særlig lurt å ha en haug sider med sarkasme og humor amerikanerne ikke skjønner. Alle der hjemme er selvsagt velkomne til å fortsette å lese – så send meg en epost eller legg igjen din i kommentarfeltet så skal du få

Protected: We’re going to Swaziland!

locomotion — Fri, 12 Sep 2008 21:39:24 +0000

This post is password protected. You must visit the website and enter the password to continue reading.

Protected: Oops I did it again

locomotion — Wed, 10 Sep 2008 18:56:00 +0000

This post is password protected. You must visit the website and enter the password to continue reading.