The following is a conversation I had with Tyler Durden from Fight Club.

Tyler: Whoa! Whoa!

Me: What? I’m just putting in some eggs.

Tyler: You wanna make an omelet, you gotta break some eggs.

Me: Well, yeah, but you have to break some eggs to make a cake too, douche. Let’s see what else is next.

Tyler: Did you know that if you mix equal parts of gasoline and frozen orange juice concentrate you can make napalm?

Me: Well orange you special? How about you help me make this cake?

Tyler: One could make all kinds of explosives, using simple household items.

Me: But… we’re not trying to make a dry-ice bomb. We’re making a cake. And I’d prefer it not explode.

Tyler: Let the chips fall where they may.

Me: Are you implying we take this list of ingredients and just throw them in, and, “Wallah!”, a cake is made? If so, I think I need a new baking partner.

Tyler: Ok, I got it.

Me: Finally! Now let’s get moving.

Tyler: Shit, I lost it.

[Tyler making maniacal laugh.]

Me: You asshole! You mean, you were just messing with me?

Tyler: You got it.

Me: Phew. I thought I’d have to throw a spatula in your face or something.

Tyler: Three minutes.

Me: You’re right! The oven is almost pre-heated. Let’s get these ingredients mixed and into a pan!

[The ingredients have been mixed and we place the cake into the oven]

Tyler: Think of everything we’ve accomplished, man.

Me: I know. I never could really follow directions very well, but I think we’ve done a good job.

Tyler: I ask you for one thing, one simple thing.

Me: What’s that? Keep in mind we’re on a clock here.

Tyler: C’mon, do me this one favor.

Me: Fine, what?

Tyler: You have to know the answer to this question!

Me: But you haven’t even asked it yet!

Tyler: Not good enough.

Me: Goodness. You’re reminding me of my ex-girlfriend.

Tyler: We’re a generation of men raised by women. I’m wondering if another woman is really the answer we need.

Me: And now you’re giving relationship advice? What the hell?

Tyler Okay…

Me: Anyways, enough jibber-jabber. Let’s get this cake out of the oven.

[The cake has been sitting in the oven for way too long]

Tyler: What’s that smell?

Me: You’re right! Crap! We’ve burnt the darn thing.

Tyler: Shit man, now it’s all gone.

Me: Fuck you, Tyler. Next time, I’m getting someone else to help me bake.

Article originally published: A Conversation With Tyler Durden – Baking a Cake

New Year’s Eve at Aker Brygge, Oslo, Norway

Twenty twelve was a very tumultuous and emotional year for me. I moved to Norway about this time last year. I left my family, friends, my cat, and my awesome apartment behind for a new life in Europe.

Moving here could have easily have been one of my many, many mistakes. And I’ll admit, when I first got to Oslo in January, I felt like I made a big one. My first day was horrible. I couldn’t find my new apartment, I got really lost and didn’t have a map, and my phone didn’t work. I finally was able to contact my new roommate and passed the hell out in my dark, lamp-less room.

Everyone kept telling me to wait for March. That it’ll get better. You’ll find a Norwegian girl. Stuff like that. It didn’t exactly work out like that, but I did enjoy what Norwegians refer to as Spring and Summer. Notice I said what Norwegians refer to. Summer to me is 110 degrees outside and blasting the air conditioner. In Oslo, it’s extremely hot if it reaches 80 degrees and there’s not really a need for air conditioning (although I do use a fan).

So this is supposed to be a year-in-review post, so let’s get started on what’s happened.

I was grossly in-debt coming into Norway

When I stepped off the plane in Oslo, I was very discouraged. I was starting a new job, sure, but I knew I had a long road ahead of me. When I went super manic in October 2011, I charged up a lot of shit on my credit cards, quit my job, and decided to borrow some more to move abroad.

I recovered from my mania to an extent, but my debt was hanging over me with its high interest rates and I could not see the light at the end of the tunnel.

I vowed at the beginning of 2012 to pay off as much debt as possible, dedicating the majority of my paycheck to debt. I’m proud to say that I achieved this goal. I came into Norway almost $25,000 in debt. I now only have a little less than $2,000 left, which I plan on paying off by May (side story coming later). Keep in mind that Norway is the most expensive country in the world, but I’m proud of myself that I’ve been able to pay off that much debt and still manage to save for a vacation with family.

Holy crap, I published 17 entire posts!

If my blog were my child, it would probably be close to dying. I’m a decent writer I suppose, but I just simply didn’t have anything worth sharing. But you have to admit some of those 14 posts were pure awesomeness. My favorite one by far is Why I Enjoy Killing the Un-dead. The post is so my personality on a glorious day.

This year, I promise to write eighteen! Just kidding. If you have something you want me to write about, let me know in the comments or e-mail.

I started, and didn’t finish a book!

I remember telling somebody last January that I didn’t want to take any side projects because I wanted to start a new book. Then I remember procrastinating, and procrastinating some more. Finally, I sat down to write the darn thing and gave up after a month.

Well, this year, I’m going to finish it. What book is that, do you ask? It’s my critical analysis of Fight Club, the movie. Will it sell? Probably not. Will it be awesome? Yes, but only because it’s written by me. You’re welcome to read the first chapter, tentatively titled, Marla the House Pet.

I wrote two WordPress Plugins

Yep, I did my part and contributed back to the WordPress community, which I pledged to shun during my manic phase. The two plugins are called Metronet Profile Picture, and Metronet Reorder Posts. If you’re into WordPress, check them out.

And I made some goals for 2013

Here are some of my goals for 2013. They’re not necessarily resolutions, but ones I’d like to achieve.

1. I want to be completely debt free. It will be tough. I still have about $8,000 in student loans, and I’m hoping the IRS doesn’t target me like they did last year. Time will tell.
2. I want to learn Norwegian. This means I’ll have to take classes, which I currently can’t afford because I’m saving to move into a new apartment.
3. I want to find my soulmate! I know she’s out there. I’m going to get her this year.
4. I want to finish my Fight Club book.
5. I might, very possibly, work on a 3rd edition of my Ajax book to keep me marketable.
6. And to forgive myself. It’s tougher to forgive yourself than it is others. I’ve done a lot of bad things to a lot of good people. I can’t ever apologize enough. I need to learn to move on. To accept my faults. And be happy.

That’s the end

For those that skimmed this post, shame on you. I had a lot of good shit up there!

For my friends, I hope to see you on Facebook, Skype, or Twitter. For the rest of you, you’re still awesome for reading this.

Take care.

Article originally published: Twenty Twelve – A Year in Review

There wasn’t a fire visible when I came across the scene, but I could still smell the smoke. Here are some pictures I took.

A stopped tram with emergency vehicles nearby.

A stopped tram, which aside from construction, is a rare appearance

Emergency vehicles were spread out pretty far.

Fire crews checking out apartments.

Fire crew ladder full extended, checking out the roof.

You can see the fire hoses and crowds from here.

Article originally published: Fire in Grünerløkka, Oslo

A photo of the tram from across the street

A close-up of the tram

Here’s a comparison of the old-style vs. the new-style of tram in Oslo

Article originally published: Old-Style Tram in Oslo, Norway

When a door needed opened, I opened it for her. When I saw that she needed to sit down, I found her a chair. She always thanked me, and never thought I was creepy. It had to have been obvious I had a thing for her. Well, in 5th grade terms.

I don’t remember much about her except that 5th grade beauty: Long flowing hair, a beautiful smile, and velvet skin.

I overheard her on the playground once talking about me. “Ron is a great person.” My heart lifted.

When 5th grade ended, I was well on my way to middle-school. This time it would be 6th grade, a new school, lockers, and a different classroom for every period. It took a lot of adjusting for me and I never really got into the groove of things.

When I saw Christina again in sixth grade, she was totally different. She dressed like a gang member. She was rude to me. She wasn’t the angel I remembered.

So one day she and a couple of classmates were making fun of me. I called her out on it. “Christina, you defended me all of 5th grade. Why did you change? You were a sweet person.”

She was silent. The classmates egged her on, “Slap him! Slap him!” So she did. I immediately got my stuff, walked out of the classroom, and cried all the way home.

Perhaps it was wrong for me to call her out on something, but I felt totally alone that day. My brother couldn’t understand why I was so depressed.

I didn’t see much of Christina after that. But she will always be my 5th grade crush and my first rejection.

Article originally published: The Rejection

The Narrator, according to Marla Singer, is “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Jackass.” The Narrator starts off in the movie as a hostage, which we later find out, isn’t to be. The Narrator is a hostage to himself, being held captive by Tyler Durden.

If you’re confused by now, I don’t blame you. On many subsequent viewings of the movie, it’s hard to tell when Tyler has taken over, or when the Narrator is truly in charge. For the sake of all involved, I’ll pretend this is intentional.

The Narrator chooses early on not to focus in on this hostage situation but on his insomnia problem. The craziness, the multiple personalities, and Mr. Jackass, all started out with his inability to sleep.

Try thinking of the worst insomnia you’ve ever had. Any point past three or four days without regular sleep is very bad for your health. At one point in my life, I went ten days without sleep. I was so scared and malnourished that I checked myself into a hospital. The Narrator went without sleep for six months. No wonder this guy was crazy.

The Narrator had a great job as well. He was an accident investigator for one of the “big names” of motor companies. “Which company do you work for?” a single-serving-friend asked him on a flight. “A major one.” he would reply.

He was all pressed, in his white shirt and tie — a drone of the corporate world. He answered to a higher power, which was his boss with a cornflower blue tie and grande latte enema. In other words, the Narrator was a slave and he eagerly wanted to break free.

The Narrator felt content to order from catalogs, creating the perfect condo full of condiments, furniture, and dish-ware. All of this proved secondary to the Narrator needing to sleep.

He pleaded with his doctor, “Can you just give me something?”, which was followed by a stern, “No.” from his doctor.

“I’m in pain!” the Narrator pleaded. The doctor encouraged him that if he wanted to see pain, to attend various support groups. “That’s pain.” the doctor concluded.

It was only then that the Narrator decided to check out these support groups, and realize, “Holy shit, these people are pretty fucked up.” The Narrator could simulate his rock bottom with these support groups, and was once again able to sleep.

This is about when Marla came in, screwing up his support group fetish, and plunging the Narrator back into insomnia.

We’ve already covered Marla (ah, flashback humor), so let’s delve into when the Narrator decided to call himself from a pay phone outside of his condo, have drinks with himself, and then tell himself, “I want you to hit me as hard as you can.”

He proceeded to beat the living shit out of himself, thus starting the first ever Fight Club beat down.

I must ask, have you ever been with a fight with yourself? Perhaps punched a wall or thrown something that ricocheted back. Like, actually drawn blood. Maybe you punched yourself in the abs to see how strong you were. Yeah, none of that is compared to what the Narrator was prepared to do to himself.

The Narrator started Fight Club. The Narrator was Tyler Durden, asking himself, “I want you to hit me as hard as you can.” He likely punched himself in the ear (not an easy task) and then proceeded to punch himself in the gut (again, not an easy task). In fact, stop reading this now and try it (only kidding).

But the Narrator was not himself at this point. He had invented this separate personality that could compensate for all the things the he was not willing to do. For example, why in the world would the Narrator want to blow up his precious condo? “That condo was my life!” he told a police investigator when pressed as to who could do such a thing.

The Narrator, in his life, was seeking perfection. Or, what his idea of perfection was at the time. In the beginning, the Narrator was seeking perfection by filling his condo with an inordinate amount of useless shit. He was reinforcing this perfection by going to groups, crying over Bob’s big tits and listening to Chloe rant about her sex life.

He exuded this perfection when talking to his single-serving-friends. Even with Tyler, when he met him for the first time on the plane, the Narrator was cocky. “So how’s that working out?” Tyler would ask, referring to the Narrator being clever. “Good.” the Narrator would reply, still proud of himself.

It wasn’t until at the airport when his luggage was confiscated did we start seeing the Narrator fall from perfection. When he arrived at his building to see his condo had exploded, the Narrator was in utter shock. “Is there someone you can call?” the doorman would ask. He only had two people who would answer the phone: Marla Singer and Tyler Durden.

Overtime, after starting Fight Club, the Narrator’s idea would change. He would challenge people to random fights, even in his imagination. “Who would you fight?” Tyler asked. “I’d fight Gandhi.” “Good answer.” Tyler chimed.

The Narrator would eventually challenge his boss to a fight. Then destroy Angel Face’s face in a fight after the Narrator grew jealous of the supposed favoritism shown by Tyler.

Eventually, the Narrator would throw his relationship with Marla away, demand to be arrested, escape, and then end up holding a gun to his own head minutes before several buildings nearby were to explode.

I mean, how far down can a guy go? Is this hitting rock bottom, or is this just an utter and complete fall from the Narrator’s ideal of perfection?

In the end, the Narrator fulfilled Tyler’s ultimate goal, with Tyler saying (in their second meeting over beers), “I say never be complete, I say stop being perfect.” Tyler would go on, “I say let… lets evolve, let the chips fall where they may.”

The Narrator’s fall from perfection didn’t come easy. He fell quite a ways. But he still ended up with some souvenirs, namely Marla and loyalty from his colleagues in Project Mayhem.

Not all of us are as prepared to fall from grace as the Narrator. Just as with Tyler and hitting rock bottom, take stock in what you have. No matter how far you fall, you’re still the same person, as the Narrator demonstrates at the end when all of the nearby buildings start to explode around him.

Article originally published: The Narrator and Perfection

Tyler. Where to even begin with that guy?

He’s a metaphorical twist of douchebaggery; he’s an antagonist and protagonist at the same time.

He’s the one that lures the Narrator into his firm and twisted grasp. “Why, so you can pretend to be interested?” he says to the Narrator in their first real meeting on the plane.

Obviously, the Narrator and Tyler have met before. Shortly after giving the Narrator the ass (as Tyler moves to a different seat on the plane), the Narrator’s condo blows up.

“Did you know if you mix equal parts of gasoline and frozen orange juice concentrate, you can make Napalm?”

Yes, this guy, Tyler, intentionally blew up the Narrator’s condo. But why? Did the Narrator, in some masochistic twist, invent Tyler out of sheer boredom or insomnia?

Let’s not dwell too much on why the Narrator made up Tyler. Oh, but now some of you may be quoting the infamous hotel room scene where the Narrator says, “You’re a voice in my head!” Tyler immediately responds, “And you’re a voice in mine!” Tyler would go on, “I look how you want to look. I fuck the way you want to fuck. I am free in all the ways you are not.”

Yes, the Narrator, somehow, in some pitied frenzy, invented the asshole of all assholes; a multiple personality that is not only self-destructive to others, but self-destructive to the Narrator himself.

But deep, deep down, Tyler, is, in essence, a super nice guy. I mean, why else would he grab some guy out of a convenience store, hold him at gun point, and demand to know intimate details about the person. “What did you study in school?” Tyler demanded. “S-s-s-s-stuff!” the man responded. Only after interrogating the poor bastard some more did Tyler take the man’s driver’s license with the promise that the man would continue on a life of meaning, rather than as a dead-end-job clerk in a convenience store.

Isn’t it rather ironic that Tyler demanded others to hit rock bottom, but when he met people that he considered slummish, Tyler expected better? Why did he not hold Marla at gun point and demand she stopped going to support groups to give her life meaning? No, Tyler is a good guy at points, even if it’s a gun to your metaphorical head. He wants people to realize their potential.

Tyler likes to shit on people who think they have it all. Let’s grab a senior police investigator during his bathroom break and threaten to cut off his nuts. “Do not fuck with us!” Tyler demanded.

Or, let’s urinate in peoples’ soup and giddily watch them scarf it down as he masturbates into some other restaurant concoction. Tyler is also the guy that relishes splicing scenes from a pornographic movie into family films. But, why? Does Tyler just not give a fuck? Or does Tyler have some higher purpose to prey on those who think they are comfortable in their lives.

“I don’t want to die without any scars.” Tyler would at one time say to the Narrator before they duke it out for the first time.

Tyler, in my most simple description of him, hated those in privileged positions. The Narrator was very privileged. The Narrator had a great condo full of meaningless shit, had a respectable job as an accident investigator, and generally had his crap together (besides not being able to sleep). Tyler ruined all of this in one explosion, which is paramount in a way as it shows how stupid it is to collect material possessions.

Tyler was also a leader, but he really had no plans at all. Actually, Tyler did have a plan. His plan was to un-plan all of the plans of others. Think you’re going to work in a convenience store for life? Nope, get your ass home to study. Think you’re going to be in debt and a slave to banks for all of your life? Nope, let’s destroy those buildings, give you freedom, and start over.

In the Narrator’s view, Tyler just wanted to cause chaos. Not so true. Tyler wanted to free people of their obligations. Tyler wanted to give everyone a near-life experience. Tyler wanted to allow people to reach their full potential, and let go — even if it meant blowing shit up and reigning chaos throughout various cities.

Were Tyler and the Narrator the same person? I would argue no. Tyler needed the Narrator more than the Narrator needed Tyler. Tyler needed someone like the Narrator to squirm and squeal his way to rock bottom.

So, what is it to have hit rock bottom? Some would say it’s a place where you have nothing left to lose. In other words, you can’t hit further down because you’ve hit it. It’s only up from here.

I would argue that I’ve hit rock bottom twice in my life. But that’s my version of hitting rock bottom. I quit a great job, was unemployed for over a year, racked up loads of credit card and medical bills, and couldn’t make enough even to help pay rent as I stayed at my sister’s place.

But even my rock bottom didn’t compare to a guy I met named Mike. We met at a karaoke bar while I was going through one of my manic phases. I asked if I could sit next to him since all the tables were taken. “Sure.” he replied.

I later learned that he was as mental as I was, and that he was a paranoid schizophrenic. He was down on his luck as well, living out of a motel room. He was alienated from his children and didn’t have a job. I did my best to help the guy, but there was only so much I could do.

If Tyler put a gun to Mike’s head, Mike would have immediately responded, “I want to own a restaurant.” If Tyler did the same to me, I would have probably stuttered, “S-s-s-s-stuff.” Or perhaps screamed back, “I’ve been to school. I’ve been an engineer. I’ve done my programming. I’ve published a book. What else is there?!” Then after Tyler knocked me over the head with his gun, I probably would respond, “W-w-w-writing.”

Hitting rock bottom is different for everyone. Some rant and squeal, as I did. Others just take life as it comes. I say, try moving to a different city or country with a few days notice. You’ll very quickly realize what is and isn’t important to you.

You can always build up for later, but what’s the point? In a moment’s notice, all of your stuff could go flaming into the night.

Article originally published: Tyler Durden and Hitting Rock Bottom

Harestua, Norway

A few weeks ago, a friend of mine took me to Harestua, Norway for some rest and relaxation. Here’s one of the photos I grabbed at sunset.

Article originally published: Harestua, Norway

Holmenkollbakken Ski Jump

Last week I decided to see two tourist attractions in Oslo, Norway: Holmenkollbakken Ski Jump and Akershus Fortress

Below are Flickr slideshows for both visits.

Holmenkollbakken Ski Jump

If you are on a mobile, the slideshow can be viewed on Flickr.

Akershus Fortress

Inside the Akershus Fortress

Akerhus Fortress is very visible from the Aker Brygge area and is a neat place to visit. You can see the Flickr slideshow below.

If you are on a mobile, the slideshow can be viewed on Flickr.

Article originally published: Holmenkollbakken Ski Jump and Akershus Fortress

The following is a trial-by-fire by myself. I’m thinking of writing a non-fiction book regarding Fight Club and spreading my insights throughout. If you like, hate, or have any feedback on the material, please weigh in via the comment section. Cheers.

“I haven’t been fucked like that since grade school.”

Those words, coming out of a freak-shell of a woman, Marla Singer, would resonate through the entire movie as the Narrator slowly realizes he is, in fact, Tyler Durden.

Hopefully I didn’t spoil the movie for you. It’s only been out since 1999, and is a cult-classic of sorts; it’s a movie that can be dissected and re-watched many times, with something new popping out every time (pun very much intended).

Back to Marla, who has uttered the words that would forever shock critics and audience members. She’s an attractive person in certain contexts. The main context being when the lights are off and there isn’t a hint of light protruding through any doors or windows. Perhaps I’m being too hard on Marla. She is quite beautiful in an endearing sort of way. But this beauty isn’t realized until much later on when we finally see her full maturity and wisdom.

Marla is a fairly unattractive woman. She’s rundown, wears thrift clothing, and generally doesn’t care at all about anything. She’ll walk into traffic without a care, steal clothing and sell it, and harvest meals from the back of a charity truck. “Tragically, they’re dead.” as she explains the stolen meals, “But I’m here and in poverty.”

She’s the same person that will take a bottle of Xanax and attempt suicide in one scene, and then fear for her life and safety by requesting help from the Narrator to feel her tits for cancerous lumps. In essence, Marla wants to die quickly, rather than a slow and relatively painful death such as cancer, tuberculosis, or some of the other diseases she’s a faux-member of a support group for.

Marla came across the Narrator quite by accident. The Narrator had finally discovered his cure from insomnia by attending support groups. In the Narrator’s own words, he said, “I found freedom. Losing all hope was freedom.”

In the Narrator’s eyes, he could simulate hitting rock-bottom by going to these various support groups, cry his eyes out in desperation, and leave the support group with all of his nuts, lungs, and lacking any parasites or brain deformities.

Marla, in the Narrator’s point-of-view, ruined all of this. The Narrator had a guilty conscience. And knowing Marla was a faker (a.k.a., a tourist) reflected his lie. He could no longer function in these support groups. The Narrator, in essence, could not find freedom, or, as I’ll call it, simulated rock-bottom.

It wasn’t long until after meeting Marla that the Narrator confronted her and threatened to expose her lie to the others. “Go ahead, I’ll expose you.” Marla chimed back.

To alleviate this tourist issue, Marla and the Narrator decided to ration out the groups and exchange telephone numbers. “It doesn’t have your name.” Marla would explain as traffic rushed all around her since she was standing in the middle of a busy street. She stared at the piece of paper that the Narrator had given her. “Who are you? Cornelius? Rupert? Travis? Any of the stupid names you give each night?” The audience would never know until much later who, in fact, the Narrator really was.

And at this point, Rupert, Cornelius, and others, were just one of the stupid names he gave out at the support groups. Tyler had been slowly breaking in in the background, much to the Narrator’s dismay. As much as Tyler had been breaking into the Narrator’s life, Marla had begun breaking in as well.

After all, when the Narrator’s condo blew sky-high, he had choices. And he called Marla first. Who knows how the movie would have went had he just chimed in as Marla explained she could hear him breathing over the telephone? Instead, he chose the safe route and called Tyler instead.

What progressed in that first phone call and subsequent meeting with Tyler was a wake-up-call for the Narrator. The Narrator could have easily have had drinks with Marla, went to her shitty apartment, and shagged the hell out of her. Marla to him was so disgusting that he opted for Tyler instead, which is rather ironic considering Tyler lived in an absolute shithole.

“At least she’s trying to hit rock bottom.” Tyler would at one-time quip to the narrator. And it wasn’t until the Narrator had been through hell and back before he realizes the true beauty, that is Marla.

Marla, in essence, reminds me of my first (and hopefully last) ex-wife. We had two cats at the time, and I was away on travel when we separated. When I arrived back at our apartment, one cat remained. This cat was Marla, the house pet.

To say I treated this cat like shit is an understatement. When it wanted to cuddle, I brushed it away. When it wanted to be fed, I relished in its cries. I didn’t treat the cat so badly that animal control had to be contacted (I still fed the damn thing, and cleaned the litter box on occasion), but I didn’t love the animal.

Marla was like the cat. And every frustration I had at the world I would vent upon this cat. I drank heavily, swore heavily, and hated God. However, no matter how badly I treated this cat, it would always come to me whenever I needed it.

Marla was like this to the Narrator. She was the unconditional love that the Narrator needed. The Narrator probably didn’t think of this at the time. He probably assumed what Tyler assumed, which was that Marla was a predator posing as a house pet.

Just as I slowly began to love the cat, with all the negative sentiment I felt towards her, the Narrator began to feel this love for Marla. It got the point that even Marla was amazed at the ferocity of love. When the Narrator truly wanted to help Marla out, she stated, “Oh, here comes an avalanche of bullshit!”

The Narrator had lost at this point. He had not quite hit rockbottom. But he was close.

And the last thing Marla said to the Narrator before he sent her away to relative safety, “You’re the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Article originally published: Marla Singer, the House Pet