I stuen åbnede min mor en skuffe fyldt til bristepunktet med fotoalbums. Fra dengang billedet var på film og Danmark var ny. Det var en interessant form for ransagelse at gense sig selv som barn efter et årti. Der var jeg, i mine fars arme, i Damaskus i 1982. Der var jeg i tweed i 1985 i et pasfoto fra Damaskus. Fra dengang verden var ung. Siderne passerede. Straks var vi i 1987. I en ny verden. I Danmark. Hvert billede sprang måneder eller år frem. Og den unge, fremmede dreng på billedet — den dreng jeg engang var — blev ældre og mere introvert. Verden lå ikke udenfor men på et stykke papir for enden af en kuglepen.

“Unless it comes unasked out of your heart and your mind and your mouth and your gut, / don’t do it.” — Bukowski

Chances are you’re writing your “next big thing” in some up-scale coffee-shop (while “instagramming” about it), and you want to write something that hits a nerve. That kind of nerve that attracts readers. Chances are, also, if you live somewhere in cosmopolitan Copenhagen you’ve sent me a message asking for advice. No need to write. Here are 14 lessons I adhere to – let’s get drunk and get inspired. Now.

”København var vores fristed. Der hvor vi cyklisk trak hverdagen til ende fri fra ekstremisme og geværskud.”

Et år siden blev København et brændpunkt for terror. Om angrebet var en konsekvens af hard-core islamisk ekstremisme eller en ensom mands forsømte historie, diskuteres stadig. Jeg udgav denne skrivelse for et år siden: hvad jeg oplevede i København, var et uhyggeligt ekko af mine oplevelser i Baghdad og Tel Aviv.

In this featured series we examine case stories that reflect the masculine identity of today. Follow these fictional case stories if you want to get wiser on the behavior of the modern man.
All cases will end with a question, concerning the dilemma, that you can comment on. The solution for that dilemma will be revealed in the following week.

This week we follow Michael’s dilemma concerning his father who’s terminally ill. Michael can’t figure out why he’s angry with his father rather than feeling pity for him under these dire circumstances. 

The world is boiling. With its dicks and cunts and assholes. And then there are the flowers. They’re struggling to grow through the pavement. Grasping for air and pearls of rain. Then there are the gods … Kurt Cobain was killed by silence. John Lennon was killed by a loner. The free birds were killed in a plane crash. Our daughters are looking for fathers in the darkest corners. The mothers are binging Chardonnay in the suburbs. The fathers have gone mad. And here I am. A drunkard in a torched world.