Continue reading »]]> … but in the case of the 2013 Eurovision Song Contest,I think it’s a pretty clear-cut case.

Malmö's Central Station "all dressed up" for Eurovision 2013. via shazzersnaps

The kitschy annual European music-fest was hosted by my Swedish hometown of Malmö this year, hence myself and many of my friends were much more engaged in the spectacle than we normally would have been.

Russia’s entry was easily my favorite performance the night of the final competition. Unlike years past, I actually watched portions of the semifinals since it was “local” and a surprising number of people I know had scored tickets. The song, titled “What If”, was good enough on the first listen to actually pull my attention away from my hyper-active Eurovision streaming twitter feed.

So when my new friend Matilda (who appears to have recovered from her recent dinner party to which Dr. Darling and I accidentally brought a collection of broken glass as a host gift) posted a video of her favorite Eurovision entry on Facebook (the Ukrainian number, which I had also noted as very good the night of the final), I had to dig up a link to the Russian song in reply.

Naturally I had to listen to it again before posting it to Matilda’s timeline, and I liked it even more upon hearing it a second time, and a third time, and a fourth time. The song starts with strings (always a good choice) and a simple melody, but it’s the lyrics that really grab you … in part because they actually make sense. This is by no means a given for Eurovision songs sung in English because in most cases, the lyrics have been written by a non-native speaker of the language.

There are so many reasons they got this performance right. The young Russian singer (21-years-old) has a rich alto voice and a ton of control. And when the four background vocalists come in (I’m a total slut for tight harmony), the energy starts to build toward a terrific bridge, and then all five of them hit the climactic key-change perfectly, and proceeded to basically BLOW THE ROOF OFF of Malmö Arena. Had I been there to hear it live, I’m sure I would have dissolved into a puddle of tears by the time they had finished.

Unfortunately, our house-guest for the weekend was adamant that I could not possibly vote for Russia … I presume for political reasons … and wanting to be a considerate host, I cast my vote for Estonia instead. (For the Americans reading this, I could not vote for Sweden’s song because participating countries are not allowed to vote for their own entry.) Russia ended up finishing 5th, which was quite respectable given how poorly my other favorites performed (Estonia, 20th and Sweden, 14th), but I felt kind of guilty for not sticking to my musical guns.

 As you can see/hear in the video below, it’s basically the perfectly constructed pop power ballad, eller hur?

If Disney doesn’t option this song for its next animated film, they’re idiots.

**UPDATE: I’ve since learned that the song’s composers and all four backing vocalists are Swedes, which doesn’t surprise me at all and makes me feel even more justified for loving it so much. Heja Sverige!

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Continue reading »]]> My adopted hometown of Malmö, Sweden, hosted the kitsch-fest that is the Eurovision Song Contest this year.

Karl X Gustav all dressed up for Eurovision! via shazzersnaps

Sweden earned this honor by virtue of our song winning the contest in 2012. The surprise was that Sweden then chose Malmö as the host city over Stockholm. (I’m pretty sure the residents of the country’s capital are still getting over the shock.)

I have been providing a virtual play-by-play (and by that, I mean snarky running commentary) of the annual spectacle for my followers on Twitter for practically as long as I’ve had my Twitter account. I actually have enough of a reputation for it now that some of my tweeps actually look forward to it and cheer me on.

This year, because the event has pretty much been unavoidable for all of my friends in Sweden, I decided to cross-post my #esc2013 tweets to my Facebook timeline for the first time … starting with the following apology to my U.S. family and friends, who I knew would have no idea what I was talking about:

“Dear American FaceBook Friends … the Eurovision Song Contest, being hosted by my adopted home city of Malmö, Sweden, is about to get underway. Apologies in advance if my feed does not make sense to you for the next two hours. Nu kör vi, Malmö!!!”

I have since heard from a number of FB friends that my observations managed to be entertaining even with near-zero context … quite possibly the finest literary achievement of my microblogging career so far. Enjoy!

Björn & Benny (ABBA fame) co-wrote opening number for the international choir composed of new immigrants to Sweden. Very classy. #esc2013

— Shazzer (@Shazzer) May 18, 2013

Thank gawd Petra Mede seems to have gotten the stick dislodged from her @$$ for tonight’s telecast. Seems a bit more relaxed. #esc2013

— Shazzer (@Shazzer) May 18, 2013

France is going for a 90′s rocker-chick crossed with 60′s love child dancer… who bears a striking resemblance to Courtney Love. #esc2013 — Shazzer (@Shazzer) May 18, 2013

Lithuania’s song is so boring. How did this even get in the show)#esc2013 ….zzzzzzz

— Shazzer (@Shazzer) May 18, 2013

Moldova’s entry looks like the Barbie Doll that was on top of my 3-year-old goddaughter’s birthday cake. She wasn’t edible either. #esc2013

— Shazzer (@Shazzer) May 18, 2013

Here comes Finland … will the “controversial” girl-on-girl smooch make the telecast? Naturligtvis … this is Sweden, ding-dongs! #esc2013 — Shazzer (@Shazzer) May 18, 2013

Spain’s song started so strong, and then the singing began. #esc2013

— Shazzer (@Shazzer) May 18, 2013

Belgium brings a powerful refrain, but the singer looks justifiably scared shitless of his back-up dancers. #esc2013

— Shazzer (@Shazzer) May 18, 2013

So many tweets at me that my iPhone is in a near-constant state of vibration, which means it’s going directly in my front pocket!!! #esc2013

— Shazzer (@Shazzer) May 18, 2013

Estonian singer is lovely, nice voice, bun-in-the-oven. That kid’s off to a great start. #esc2013 — Shazzer (@Shazzer) May 18, 2013

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Continue reading »]]> This story begins several years ago when the Swede and I, while on the traditional Nordic country residents’ quest for lower-priced alcohol, came across an interesting Australian chardonnay at the Border Shop in Puttgarden, Germany. Interesting primarily because of its name: Bushwhacker.

Immediately recognizing how much fun it would be for us, a female couple, to present a bottle of Bushwhacker as a host’s gift, we bought a case of it on the spot. And it was, indeed, a big hit/great ice-breaker/interesting conversation-starter at every dinner party we ever brought it to … so much so that we searched high and low for it at Sweden’s state-run liquor stores when our limited supply ran out. Unfortunately, Systemet does not carry it, so we made a point of getting a case of it whenever we (or someone we knew) made a booze run to Puttgarden … at least until the Border Shop stopped carrying it, DAMMIT.

Fast-forward to last week, when following a particularly rollicking “after-work” meet-up/reunion with my friend Sophie and her partner Matilda (whom we met formally for the first time that evening), we ended up with an invitation to their place for a casual dinner party a few nights later. This was so sweet and spontaneous and, in my experience, at least, so very UN-Swedish, that we were beyond delighted to accept.

Despite being informed that we needed only bring our appetites, I made plans to swing by Systemet for a bottle of Prosecco. They had both ordered a glass of it when we had been out together so I knew it would be especially appreciated. But when I mentioned it to Dr. Darling, she said she thought we still had a bottle of Bushwhacker left in the liquor cabinet.

OMG COULD THERE POSSIBLY BE ANYTHING MORE PERFECT?!?!?! Because for all the wonderful reactions we’ve received as a female couple turning up at someone’s home with a bottle of wine called “Bushwhacker”, this would be our FIRST-EVER opportunity to present a bottle of it to another female couple. I was practically giddy at the prospect! (Though the fact that I was going to be able to avoid a trip to Systembolaget was probably a factor as well.)

So the date of the dinner party rolled around, and while the weather earlier in the day had been perfect for a walk or bike ride out to their place in the Western Harbor, it was cool and threatening rain by the time we needed to start heading that way. After some discussion, we decided to take the bus instead. I had managed to remember to put the now-extra-precious bottle of Bushwhacker in the fridge the night before, so I slipped it into an insulated flask-holder before placing it in a backpack and off we went.

Turning Torso and the Western Harbour area i Malmö. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Now the Western Harbor is one of the city’s most prestigious residential districts. We have a number of friends who live out there and we regularly fantasize about owning an upper-floor condo with a sea view ourselves. Because there has been a lot of new construction out there over the past year, the bus routes had changed a bit since the last time we’d taken one out that way. But since we had plenty of time, we chose a route that was new to us just to see where we’d end up, which turned out to be not quite as close to our destination as we thought it would be. Still, it wasn’t raining (yet) and we were happy for the chance to explore a new area of the ever-expanding neighborhood.

We had just started out in the general direction of Sophie and Matilda’s place when I made the ill-fated decision to switch the backpack from one shoulder to the other. But I had not accounted for the slippery texture of my rain jacket or how quickly the shoulder strap would slide off my arm because of it … and the backpack got away from me and hit the pavement with a pretty good thump.

Initially I thought the Bushwhacker was okay. It was tucked inside a padded, insulated bottle-holder, after all, and I’m not exactly tall. But a quick check proved me completely wrong. The Swedish scientist noted that the bottle must have hit the ground at precisely the right angle, because the bottom of it had completely shattered. Dr. Darling was like, “How the hell did you drop the backpack?” and I was like, “This never would have happened if I’d just bought a bottle of Prosecco!” I was devastated.

Naturally, we both ended up with our hands drenched in Australian chardonnay while trying to extract the remains from the bottle-holder … which very conveniently kept most of the glass shards contained so they could be tipped back into the top half of the bottle. At this point there was no way to replace it with something else … and in fact we couldn’t even find a safe place to discard the broken glass. Which is part of the reason we decided to just take it with us to Sophie and Matilda’s place anyway, because it’s the thought that counts, right?

So this is how we ended up trudging through one of Malmö‘s swankiest neighborhoods smelling like a couple of winos and, in Dr. Darling‘s case at least, looking as though we were headed to a gang-land rumble. (Given that I’m the one who dropped the bottle and am also completely blind on my right side, we both thought it best that the Swede carry it for the rest of the journey.)

Despite all the drama, we actually arrived a few minutes early … which thankfully saved us the embarrassment of having to explain what had happened to the other two dinner guests, both of whom we had never met before. Though in hindsight, that probably would have resulted in a “1st impression” that neither one of them would ever forget.

Sophie and Matilda were completely wonderful about it, as I *knew* they would be, and laughed right along with us as we recounted the full “Bushwhacker Saga” for them. Sophie even made a point of telling me the wine smelled like it would have been really good as she gingerly made her way downstairs toward the recycling bins with the remains of the broken bottle. I freely admit to having a major soft-spot for this woman from the moment we met through a mutual friend almost 8 years ago, but I think I adore her even more now for that perfectly-timed touch of humor and kindness.

From then on, the rest of the evening was absolutely brilliant. The other two guests, both coincidentally named Lotta, were smart and funny and delightful company. The food was lovely (they had me at “home-baked bread”), our hosts were charming, and the conversation and laughter flowed fast and freely despite the regular and (for the Swedes, at least) seamless shifts from Swedish to English to Swenglish and back again.

By the time dessert was served (fresh strawberries, whipped cream and an extra dark chocolate bar shared around the table), we were actually telling the “Bushwhacker Saga” to Lotta #1 and Lotta #2, helpfully illustrated by the photo I had snapped of the destroyed bottle. Please note the artful positioning of the famous Turning Torso building in the background (Dr. Darling‘s contribution to its composition).

So now we happily owe Sophie and Matilda a home-cooked meal, and I’ve already decided that no matter what I end up serving for dinner, I’m going to play it safe and go with a bottle of Prosecco. In fact, I may even buy two.

Continue reading »]]> Malmö is in the final stages of a full-on festoon as the host city for the 2013 Eurovision Song Contest, so this afternoon I took Dr. Darling over to Gustav Adolf’s Torg to see the construction of the “Eurovision Village.”

I walk through this central square every day on my way to and from work, so I haven’t been able to avoid it’s transformation into a multi-media soundstage. But new to the mix today was the following free-standing display that I *think* is supposed to be advertising food that is both “ecological” and “delicious.”

But thanks to an unfortunately placed hyphen, it reads something completely different.

Dr. Darling, the under-cover biologist, assures me that this deadly bacteria has the same name in Swedish, so there’s really no excuse for this not being caught before the posters went to print. Because no matter how you spell E. coli, you definitely don’t want it anywhere near food!

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Continue reading »]]> I hardly ever have erotic dreams, and on the rare occasions when I do have them, they NEVER involve anyone I actually know or even recognize (including, unfortunately, Dr. Darling).

Which is what makes the dream I had early this morning about Angie Harmon so unusual.

I was definitely in bed with the stunning “Rizzoli and Isles” star, but it was much like a scene from the hit TV show in which Boston police detective Jane Rizzoli regularly appears quite innocently in the sack with her medical examiner colleague and BFF Maura Isles. How the writers manage to pull this off simultaneously confounds and delights the show’s understandably HUGE lesbian and bi-lady fan base.

The scene in my dream was innocent, too, which means it “technically” fit my usual pattern.

The only difference between what was going on during my REM cycle this morning and what typically happens on the show is that Angie Harmon was wrapped around me like I was a body-pillow with her head resting on my chest. And yes, her hair smelled wonderful.

Eat your heart our, Sasha Alexander.

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Continue reading »]]> Now that my gorgeous 15″ MacBook Pro with Retina Display is safely back in my custody, I can finally bring myself to tell the tale of its recent and unnecessarily lengthy stay in the local Mac Hospital.

It all began one Tuesday evening early last month. I am always very careful about NOT setting beverages down near my computer(s), but on this particular evening, I made the mistake of setting the laptop down near a beverage that, because it was in my rather significant blind spot, I did not realize was there.

Now I don’t know whether I had put the drink on that particular corner of our coffee table, or if Dr. Darling had done it, but regardless of how it ended up there, I proceeded to catch the lip of the glass with my right hand and tip half of the contents of it across the keyboard of my beloved MacBook Pro. I actually managed to catch the glass before it went all the way over, but the damage was already done.

Cursing like a longshoremen, I flipped the laptop over immediately and turned it off, which was in fact somewhat tricky to do when it was upside down. Dr. Darling, who had been crashed out on the couch at the time of the “liquid incident” (what I learned later is the “official terminology” used by Mac repair technicians), sprang into action to clean up the rest of the spill. I honestly had no idea she was capable of such speed and clear thinking upon being roused from a sound sleep

I was, as you can imagine, completely MORTIFIED by what I’d done. The machine wasn’t even six months old yet, and I’d likely destroyed it in a fraction of a second. My Swede, who could easily have scolded me for my clumsiness, instead went into pragmatic mode saying things like, “This is why we have insurance,” and “Given that you’ve been completely blind on your right side for over five years now, it’s kind of a miracle that this hasn’t happened before.” I could not possibly have loved her more at that moment.

I did not touch the computer for four days while I poured over websites and Mac user forums for the latest advice on what to do, as well as the likely outcome, when your computer gets wet. The news was not good. But  I was oddly comforted by the fact that LOTS of people were looking for similar info … and most had managed to soak their MacBooks by much more creative and careless means than I did.

Remarkably, the machine fired right up after its 4 day dry-out and appeared to be working normally, so I backed it up and packed it up for a trip to the local Mac hospital for an estimate on how much damage I’d done to her guts. The guys at the MStore in central Malmö were incredibly empathetic and promised me a quick estimate for my insurance company. 

And then I left for Italy on business for a week, and had no time or opportunity to discuss options or potentialities with Dr. Darling.

The verdict was that both the logic board and entire top case were damaged had to be replaced to the tune of about 11,000 Swedish kronor (about $1,650 USD), which is basically two-thirds of the cost of a brand new one. This marked the beginning fairly detailed Q&A with the repair manager stretching over several days, in which I tried every conceivable angle to get him to tell me which was the smarter way to go: repair or just coughing up the difference to replace it.

Eventually I had to resort to the old stand-by, “What would YOU do if it was your machine?” Johan (we were definitely on a first-name basis by this point) finally admitted that he would not spend the additional 8,000 SEK to get a brand new one.

So I told him to go ahead with the repair, and my beloved MBP, now christened “Splash” was ready to be picked up less that 48 hours later. It’s almost like it’s never been away … except for the new house rule: No liquids in the same room as the computer!

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Continue reading »]]> In the wake of the Boston Marathon bombings, I learned of the completely wonderful Fenway Park tradition in which the Neil Diamond classic “Sweet Caroline” is played during the 8th inning of every Boston Red Sox game. This got me thinking about all the other great Neil Diamond songs that were part of the soundtrack of my childhood.

My Mom had music playing in our home all the time when we were kids. She had a radio in the kitchen that was on every morning as we had breakfast, and she often had vinyl records (remember those?) playing on the “hi-fi” in the living room when we got home from school. My sibs and I grew up on Herb Alpert & the Tijuana Brass, Gary Puckett and the Union Gap and Tom Jones. Mom LOVED Neil Diamond, and consequently I LOVED Neil Diamond … to the point that I’m fairly sure I wore out her cherished copy of his 1972 album, Moods.

But even earlier than that, I can remember singing along to the radio whenever we went anywhere in the car with her. This was not usually the case when my Dad was with us … but I blame that on the fact that he was a country & western fan.

One summer there were a couple of popular songs that featured my younger sisters’ names (or something that *sounded* like their names, at least) in the lyrics. My given name is not as common or “rhyme-able” as theirs, and I must have been feeling left out, because my Mom decided that Neil Diamond’s hit “Cherry, Cherry” (which was already several years old at the time) featured MY name.

Now I know what you’re saying to yourself (maybe even out loud), “How could anyone possibly ever think the name Cherry sounded anything like Sharon?” Well, let’s just say that when listening to a tinny, dashboard AM radio from the backseat of a moving car with the windows rolled down, it’s not too tough to convince a little kid that she’s hearing her name in the refrain.

Naturally I was a bit disappointed a couple of years later when I finally figured out that Neil Diamond was not actually singing, “She’s got the way to move me, Sharon,” but by then the adjusted lyric was firmly embedded in my brain because that was the they way my Mom and siblings always sang it the song, which was clearly about ME.

And it wasn’t until I was a teenager that I realized “Cherry, Cherry” featured some very, shall we say, “adult themes” that are not necessarily appropriate for a six-year-old girl to be singing at the top of her lungs about.

“Ain’t got no right, no, no you don’t, awwww … to be so exciting!”

“Won’t need bright lights, no, no we won’t. Mmmmm … gonna make our own lightening!”

Obviously my musically attuned mother had a pretty good feeling very early on for the kind of adult I was going to be. Thanks, Mom!

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