My girlfriend and I were at the Dusty Groove America record store in Chicago's Wicker Park neighborhood when a man to my left looked up from the soundtracks section (alphabetized by composer, not by movie title—Dusty Groove don't mess around, y'all) and said, "Ingebrigt?"I wasn't sure at first what he'd said—I didn't recognize any English in the question he had posed.
He followed it up with "Håker Flaten?"
Again, confusion. I was wondering where the hidden camera was located.
"You're not Ingebrigt Håker Flaten?"
At that point I remembered the bassist's name from the five years I spent proofreading the music listings at the Chicago Reader. According to the gentleman at Dusty Groove, Håker Flaten doesn't live in Chicago anymore, so it's a good thing I'm still around for false sightings.
(This is my "actor" head shot. If I don't land the role of Ingebrigt Håker Flaten in The Ingebrigt Håker Flaten Story, I'll have to fire my agent. Of course, before I take that drastic step I'll have to find an agent, but why sweat the details?)
That's awesome. You should learn to cuss in Norwegian for next time.
ReplyDelete"Føkk deg, all you local jazz fans who wish to rob me of my own identity!"
ReplyDeleteThey have as many different words for farting as the Eskimos do for snow. But why?
ReplyDeleteMaybe Norwegians are juvenile. And bored.
ReplyDeleteI can say with some authority that all that is written above is true.
ReplyDeleteYou always talk about such inappropriate things, Terje.
ReplyDeleteTo quote Eddie Money, I'm a stranger in a strange land, j-j-j-j-just a stranger, yeah.
ReplyDelete