Danish Accent

My Pretentious World Tour: Now at Lingnan University, Hong Kong

2009-11-03T19:51:00.000-08:00

1.
"Sterilize in every hour," says the sign at my hotel in Hong Kong.

The sign is referring to the elevator keyboard - this potentially germ, bacteria infested death trap that will give you the swine flu the second you push any button.

Yes, it's not easy to survive in this world with so many dangers. The first time I was in Hong Kong everybody was afraid of SARS. Now it's the swine flu, but as long as you don't touch anything you should be safe.

Let's face it, life is a death sentence - even if we "sterilize in every hour".

2.
Apart from the paranoia, Hong Kong is an upbeat town. I love its mixture of East and West, of double decker buses and sampans, of nerdy computer wizards and soulful soothsayers. However, I'm not here because I was born in the Year of the Monkey: I'm doing a reading and a workshop at Lingnan University in Tuen Mun.

Lingnan is far away from the sizzle of Kowloon. It's situated in The New Territories close to the border to China. This university is small and quaint with a landscaped garden, an Olympic size swimming pool, and a great collection of turtles.

2.
Tuesday I do a reading and book signing of The Tsar's Dwarf - the last event on My Pretentious World Tour.

So what's a show boat like me to do with his sorry life after this? Well, I guess I could write on my novel. Isn't that what novelists are suppose to do, anyway?

Come to think of it, I am writing on two novels, one in English and one in Danish, but then again what would you expect from a scatterbrain who's born in The Year of the Monkey?

3.
I've also been invited to Lingnan to do a writing workshop, so Friday I return from Hong Kong Island to teach a Master Class for 15 adorable students.

It takes place in a classy room with freezing air condition and good tuna sandwiches. The participants are from Hong Kong, Mainland China, Malaysia, and Nepal. Several students have actually traveled from Lignan's sister university in Southern China to sit by the feet of this moronic Master.

My Master Class (yes, I like using this word as often I can) is part of Lingnan's Life Writing program - an absolutely great invention where students write about their own life experiences. If you're a bore you could call it autobiography, but I like Life Writing much better.

4.
I read and critique five stories, and some of them are very good. One student has written a moving tale about how a small gesture of trust from a stranger in Wales changed her life. Another story is a wonderful character study about a late uncle on the Mainland who was accused of counter-revolutionary tendencies, even though he was a mere loner.

But what impressed me the most were the students themselves. After an hour I wanted to put them all in my suitcase, so I could bring them with me to Denmark. They were wonderful, and so were the professors at Lingnan.

"We want you back," says chairman Richard Freadman. And who am I to argue with an Australian chairman? Or with fellow Dane Mette Hjort, chairman of Visual Arts, who invited me here and who knows more about Danish films than any quiz contestant?

Before I leave campus I go back to the turtle pond and kiss my new friends goodbye. "I wouldn't dream of making soup out of you," I whisper lovingly and return by train to crowded Kowloon.

Hong Kong is one of many places on earth where I'd like to live. Why does happiness always screw you up?

Next blog: Varanasi, the holiest city in India where I'll be doing research on my next novel that takes place in India and Denmark.

****

How To Get Thrown Out Of A Country Club in Hong Kong

2009-10-27T03:34:00.000-07:00

1.
I love Hong Kong. It's one of my favorite cities in the world along with Venice, Perugia, Sevilla, San Francisco, New York, and Molyvos in Greece.

My first two days I'm staying at Sai Kun in the New Territories, a far cry from the frantic city center with its tall buildings and hard working egos. Out here there are still sun sets and wild cows roaming the streets.

That's right, Sai Kun is known for its wild cows munching out on the grass in the roundabouts. These vicious animals are known to attack bus drivers and mosquitoes. They get in the way of the traffic, but contrary to the holy cows in India, these cows are not into meditation. These Chinese cows mean business. They will gang up on you and maim you before you have the chance to say dim sum.

2.
Am I making this up? Maybe a tiny bit. I'm introduced to these weird cows when my Chinese guide drives me through Sai Kun on the way to a posh country club at Clearwater Bay.

By the way, I'm not exactly country club material. I'm known to pick my nose in public, and luxury never impresses me too much. However, I'm a bit of a view freak, and Clearwater Bay Golf and Country Club has a view to die for. The bay is right underneath, full of greenish water, small windy islands, and lazy sampans.

But right now I'm just warming up to two events at Lingnan University with some country club fries in the 86 degrees weather, while I'm writing on my next novel. My only problem is a sign by the entrance that makes me vomit.

"Are you serious???" I ask the lady at the counter. "I brought my Filipino maid, my Indonesian butler, and my Norwegian slut, and you're telling me I can't bring them into the pool area?"

"So sorry, Sir," the Chinese lady says.

"But I promise you they won't drool."

"Not allowed, Sir."

"I could tie them to a post somewhere," I ask politely. "Norwegians are used to that."

A few minutes later it gets ugly. The Chinese lady calls her boss, and I'm carried out of the club foaming at the mouth. "I'm the owner of three yachts," I shout. "No, make that four yachts. Five. Siiiiiix..."

Ah, the problems of the rich ...

3.
Did this really happen, you want to ask?

Well, let me put it this way, I felt it happened, for thank God I'm only an underpaid novelist who has no business in a country club. Believe it or not, I don't even have people to write my books for me which just goes to show how out of place I am in Clearwater Bay ...

At night I learn that a new survey has come out. It claims that Hong Kong is the place on earth with the largest gab between rich and poor.

4.
The next day my Chinese guide takes me to the picturesque pier in Sai Kun with fish tanks full of Barracudas that you can munch on for lunch. Here I feel right at home being a bit of barracuda myself.

Tomorrow I'm going to Lingnan University to do my first Hong Kong reading on My Pretentious World Tour for The Tsar's Dwarf.

And hey, I'm planning to bring some of the wild cows with me, so I'm sure to have a sizable audience ...

********

Getting High School Kids Addicted To Scandinavian Literature

2009-10-19T20:23:00.000-07:00

1.
I've found my mission in life.

I want to get high school kids addicted. Not to crack or pot. Not even to a healthy dose of French porn, but to something nice and wholesome - Scandinavian literature.

That's why I said yes to the kind invitation from Lincoln High School in Portland to do a presentation of The Tsar's Dwarf. Hell, I'm in the middle of My Pretentious World Tour anyway, so why not introduce these impressionable youngsters to my South Scandinavian filth?

Two classes were forced to sit through my lecture. And these 16 year old kids behaved much better than the kids you see on reality TV. No one was doing methadone, everybody was as polite as traffic cops, raising their eyebrows when I said fuck or Norway.

Since I'm the epitome of humility, I told my audience that there actually are other Danish writers in the world than me - not to talk about Swedish and Norwegian wordsmiths. We just don't get as much attention as the thriller writers unless we murder someone ourselves.

As any book seller knows, Swedish thriller writers have become the new Abba. Stieg Larsson is simply the most popular dead guy around. His The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo and The Girl Who Played With Fire are world wide hits. Henning Mankell, another Swede, is also selling millions of books. However, none of those gentlemen are among the best writers in Scandinavia.

2.
So, dear readers, why don't you put away those nice thrillers? Why don't you leave Dan Brown at Taco Bell and dive into the fabulous world of Scandinavian literary fiction? We may be from the countries of Lego, Ikea, and frostbite, but hey, we can write, too.

Here are a few books I'll recommend for you English speakers who have made the cruel discovery that there's a world out there of great translated literature:

Sweden:
The Royal Physician's Visit by Per Olov Enquist. You will be hard pressed to find many historical novels as good as this. It takes place in 18th century Denmark where a German doctor comes to Copenhagen and ends up ruling the country instead of the mad king. It's a beautiful love story, too. And a must read for any lover of historical fiction.

Popular Music From Vittula by Mikael Niemi. A funny and poetic coming-of-age novel that gives you a great insight into the Finnish minority in Northern Sweden. Presumably the most sold novel ever in Sweden.
I'll recommend this to any one who's ever had a childhood.

Hash by Torgny Lindgren. Two older gentlemen set out to taste all the local recipes for hash (a dish, not something you smoke) This doesn't sound as much perhaps, but Hash is another hilarious novel from our "boring" brothers across the sound. Yes, those delightful Swedes are often very funny.

Norway:
Before You Sleep by Linn Ullmann. Norwegian magical realism. A great read with an unreliable protagonist who is coming to terms with her family and her fast fading youth. Excellently translated by Tiina Nunnally who also did The Royal Physician's Visit and my own The Tsar's Dwarf.

Tales of Protection by Erik Fosnes Hansen. One of my all time favorite novels. Great storytelling, a masterpiece with four stories that take place during four different time periods and come together in strange ways. Visit Italy during the Renaissance, a small Swedish island in the 19th Century, and Norway and Africa in the 1900s. An unforgettable book that asks a simple question. Why do things happen the way they do? Is there a scientific pattern, a protective God, what?

Denmark:
The Quiet Girl by Peter Hoeg (Høeg to us Danes). Most reviewers hated this spiritual post modern masterpiece, probably because they didn't understand a word of it. Yes, it requires patience like all puzzles, but it's worth it if you appreciate its many philosophical and spiritual references. This is ground breaking stuff from a man who doesn't care if he loses the million of readers he gained for Smilla's Sense of Snow!

Doghead by Morten Ramsland. A grotesque Danish novel that was a huge hit back home. This one is a funny saga about a dysfunctional family in Norway - we seem to have a few of those in our neck of the woods, don't we? We follow these weirdos through three generations, and it's a great ride.

Nothing by Janne Teller. A dark young adult novel that is coming out in a few months (February 2010). You could call it The Lord of the Flies for the 21st century - the publisher does, anyway. Every age group can enjoy this modern fable that is way too beautiful to be depressing or nihilistic. Translation, Martin Aitken.

3.
So what happened to all the great Finnish novels, you may ask?

Well, first of all, I haven't read any.

Second of all, Finland isn't part of Scandinavia, contrary to what people think. The Finns don't share our language and they're better at holding their liquor. This is a huge compliment to Finland that is neighboring three countries that all qualify as happy vomiters.

However, Scandinavian or not, one day I will dive into Finnish literature. And I'll include Iceland, too, so I can pass as an academic instead of a novelist who takes pride in the fact that he writes much more than he reads.

Enjoy this Scandinavian smorgasbord, people!

Next blog: My Pretentious World Tour for The Tsar's Dwarf hits Hong Kong, China.

*****

Getting High on Oxygen at Wordstock Book Festival in Portland

2009-10-13T14:50:00.000-07:00

1.
Yes, all writers are on drugs.

I'm into two things: Extra Strength Tylenol - and the Piña Colada scent at the Oxygen Bar in Wordstock's VIP room.

Man, did I get high. I put on one of those nasty plastic tubes that go over your ears. It has nozzles that fit into your nostril, so you look as if you've just survived a liver transplant. And then my head began to spin.

After the first hit I started to sing the Danish national anthem. After the second, I shared my selection of raunchy Christian spirituals. They had to carry me out on a stretcher while I shouted, "My name is Richard Dawkins, I'll sign your fucking books now."

This, of course, all took place in my mind, except for the fact that there was an Oxygen Bar in the writers' VIP room at Wordstock - a VIP room so crowded it reminded me of a Polish concentration camp. The coffee was cold, but the people who worked there were hot.

2.
When I arrived at the biggest book event in Oregon, I was met by an escort (no, unfortunately not that kind), then I was led in handcuffs to The Mountain Writers Stage to do my reading of The Tsar's Dwarf.

That was not a wise choice of venues. I'm from one of the flattest countries in the world, so after I started to talk I suffered from vertigo. Verbs fell off the page and crashed to an untimely death while I tried to concentrate on the great audience in front of me.

Apparently, I've gotten a reputation as an entertaining reader/performer which definitely is true when I'm not on oxygen. But it's hard to be a serious writer of lit. fiction when all you can think of is, "I gotta get back to the VIP room for some more oxygen."

3.
So how does an Oxygen Bar look, you may ask? Well, check out the picture above. Before my first hit I was a middle aged writer with dandruff, but after two rounds of fresh scented air I turned into a gorgeous platinum blond with a nose job.

So yes, Wordstock was great fun. I signed about 15 books, met readers who wanted me to do books on tape, talked for twenty seconds with Chelsea Cain, for nine seconds with Monica Drake, and for seven seconds with April Henry. Then I hung out at Hawthorne Books booth where I harassed people into buying more of my books.

"I'll sign anything, even the Old Testament," I shouted.

Wordstock is a wonderful event. You can listen to 186 writers who all say the same thing. You can buy expensive tacos, attend work shops about adverbs, and run into people like James Ellroy and Sherman Alexie.

But now you have to excuse me. I have to get back to that cool Oxygen Bar for the newest and most popular scent, the Swine Flu.

Yes, oxygen is a dangerous drug that shouldn't be used by kids and sensitive novelists. Photo by John Ochwat. The Oxygen Bar photo further up is from www.tripcrazed.com.

Next stop on My Pretentious World Tour for The Tsar's Dwarf is Lingnan University in Hong Kong, China.

An Interview about God, Obama, Kurt Vonnegut, Fender Benders, Writers' Block, and Other Literary Nightmares

2009-10-07T11:14:00.001-07:00

This is an interview with me from Willamette Week by Aaron Mesh.

Willamette Week is Oregon's most read paper. I'm one of twenty writers who were quizzed about the things that matter and some that don't. Other "victims" were James Ellroy, Chelsea Cain, and Debra Gwartney.

All of us will appear this upcoming weekend at Wordstock, the biggest literary event in the Pacific Northwest. My reading is part of My Pretentious World Tour for The Tsar's Dwarf.

WILLAMETTE WEEK: Probably the only Portland State University professor to devote a novel to a Danish little person sold to Peter the Great, Fogtdal splits time between Oregon and Copenhagen. Wherever he is, he provides regular updates to a blog that considers such diverse subjects as post-religious Europe (“In Denmark God doesn’t even believe in God”) and the softcore movie Dagmar’s Hot Pants. He is a man of many interests, basically.

You can see him at Wordstock (Oregon Convention Center, Portland)): 3 pm Saturday, Oct. 10. at Mountain Writers Stage.

What’s your personal writing ritual, Peter?

I say a prayer and stare stupidly into a wall or preferably a great view. My favorite place to write, by the way, is in Italy. The language and the gelato do great things to my soul. I’m a nomad at heart, so every time I’m at home my muse tells me to get the hell out.

What are your favorite themes to write about (or that you’re most guilty of rehashing)?

Well, I almost always end up writing about spirituality, and often in a “blasphemous” way. I sincerely believe God has a better sense of humor than his followers. In most of my books I examine people’s struggle with the divine, but often in a lighthearted way. I see myself as a tragicomic writer. However, if you don’t have a dark sense of humor, you’re just going to find me tragic.

The most beautiful word in the English language is:

Fender bender.

What authors made you want to pick up a pen in the first place, and why?

You wouldn’t know him. He was Danish like me. His name was Leif Panduro, and he was a satirical writer who had a lot of depth. However, my favorite novel of all time is John Fowles’ The Magus. It’s a masterpiece of great storytelling and postmodern madness.

Fight Club time: If you could fight one author (or critic), who would it be and why?

I once had the runs at a writers’ residence in Costa Rica and picked up the only book in English I could find. It was Dan Brown’s Angels and Demons. After that, my stomach got worse.

Name a book you think is highly overrated. Be honest.

I love Kurt Vonnegut’s prose and sense of humor, but I can never get through any of his novels, except for Slaughterhouse 5, which truly is great!

Dream project:

The Tsar’s Dwarf is out in five languages as we speak. I would love that to be 55. And then I would want to tour all those countries while being adored by critics and cheerleaders.

Most recent nightmare:

I’m on at Wordstock at the exact same time Dostoevsky is signing his books at the stage next to mine.

Your cure for writer’s block:

I simply order myself to stay away from the computer for two weeks. It works like a charm because I love to rebel against anything, especially myself. “Don’t you tell me what to do,” my dark side shouts, and then I quickly return to the computer and write like a madman.

Pessimistic question: Will you keep writing even after people stop reading?

Of course. All true writers will. We always get depressed when we don’t have an audience, but how can that stop us from doing what we love?

Cautiously optimistic question: Obama? Discuss.

On a soul level, he is the best that the U.S. could hope for. For a politician, there is very little ego in the man, which pisses people off who have large egos themselves. But none of this means he’ll be a “great” president. He’s way too right-wing for a social democrat like me, but I trust him more than I’ve trusted any politician since Marcus Aurelius.

Share one thing you’ve had to change in your everyday life thanks to our current recession.

I buy less toilet paper.

Please paste a short paragraph from the blog you’re currently working on:

“Please don’t ever visit Acropolis in Athens when 3 cruise ships are in town and Mr. Mrs. Obesity are looking for a snack.”

You can read the paper's excellent January review of The Tsar's Dwarf here:

*****

Thanks, Obama, Oprah & the Olympics. Finally Copenhagen is the Center of the Universe (for a Nanosecond, Anyway)

2009-10-01T14:43:00.001-07:00

Finally, it's official. Copenhagen is the Center of the Universe.

This time it's not because of some ridiculous cartoons. No one has beheaded The Little Mermaid, either. Hey, it's not even because of the upcoming Climate Conference.

No, Copenhagen is the center of the Universe because of the 2016 Olympic bid.

For the IOC meeting, Chicago has sent Oprah and Obama, Rio de Janeiro has sent Pelé, and Madrid is sending Franco. When you read this, everybody might know the winner, but seriously, who cares?

What's important is that Copenhagen is in the news - my gorgeous, expensive Copenhagen; a city so windy that even Chicagoans complain about the weather.

But Copenhagen is still God's gift to any trendy, bike-riding hippie with a lust for historical castles and designer porn, so here are

THE TEN REASONS YOU ABSOLUTELY HAVE TO LOVE COPENHAGEN

1) In Copenhagen you find more bike paths than anywhere else on the planet.

2) In Copenhagen everybody is as blond and handsome as in any hair wax commercial.

3) In Copenhagen no one is impressed with celebrities, unless they tell us they love Copenhagen.

4) In Copenhagen you can breast feed your baby without getting arrested.

5) In Copenhagen everybody loves the Queen, even though she's a chain smoker.

6) In Copenhagen we're more self-satisfied than the Norwegians.

7) In Copenhagen our baby carriages are larger than our houses.

8) In Copenhagen we have fewer Starbucks than Plains, Georgia.

9) In Copenhagen we believe in climate change because we want to change our own climate.

10) In Copenhagen it makes news when you fire a gun, not when you discuss your clitoris.

***

So now you know why we're so happy.

But hey, Obama and Oprah, please come back to Copenhagen for the Climate Conference, unless you think that throwing a javelin is more important than the environment?

Please check out my award winning blog, DENMARK FOR DUMMIES: A Superficial Introduction to the Happiest Country in the World

**************************

My Pretentious World Tour: Mais Oui, Montreal, Quebec

2009-09-27T09:46:00.000-07:00

Sunday, September 20
My Pretentious World Tour got off to a good start with a memorable reading at the Athens Book Fair and some Etruscan writing in a small Italian town, Sutri.

Now I find myself on Air Canada's monkey class on my way to Festival International de la Littérature in Montreal. We're four foreign writers who have been invited to this French speaking event, Roberto Pazzi from Italy, Najat El Hachmi from Spain and Marocco, and Jakob Arjourni from Germany.

I arrive in Montreal on a beautiful Sunday. In the airport I'm picked up by the Danish Honorary Consul, a nice man who doesn't speak a word of Danish.

"How can you be consul of Denmark if you don't speak the language?" I ask rudely.

The nice man shrugs his shoulders and drives me along the bay, so I get a sense of the beautiful surroundings.

"What's the capital of Denmark?" I quiz him aggressively.

"Je ne sais pas," the Honorary Consul says and invites me to a delightful lunch with his wife. She doesn't speak Danish either but at least she's heard of Copenhagen.

Actually, I'm not being fair. Seven years ago the sweet couple was in Denmark for a big party for the Danish Honorary Consuls from around the world. They deserve it because they work for free. But hey, they do get complimentary business cards and herring for lunch, so what more can they ask?

Monday, September 21
The Goethe-Institut in Montreal is co-sponsor of the festival, so two delightful women invite me for lunch at a nice Italian restaurant. One of them, Lise Rebout is from Nancy, France - Hanna Zehschnetzler is a trainee from Bonn, Germany.

They don't hand me the key to the city, but a key to the public Bixi bikes in town, so I can ride around making a fool of myself.

Montreal is great. For instance, Starbucks isn't called Starbucks. It's called Café Starbucks which just goes to show how sophisticated they are in Quebec. I also like the fact that the homeless say "bon jour" instead of "how are you, Fuckface?"

Monday, September 21, evening.
I connect extremely well with one of my colleagues, Roberto Pazzi from Italy. Not just because I speak Italian, but because we're both writers of historical fiction and inspired by spirituality and astrology in our work.

Roberto's books are out in 26 languages (lucky bastard). His novel Conclave has been sold to 18 countries and sounds like a wonderful read. Luckily, I'm not the jealous type (?), so we hang out a lot talking about Proust, the Baroque period, and our killer Plutos. We both claim we communicate with the dead, but a historical novelist has to, since the people who lived back then are ... dead.

There is absolutely no way a writer can write about a historical figure without that person trying to influence you. The fact that he or she doesn't have a body has nothing to do with it.

Tuesday, September 22
At 7 pm I'm being interviewed by Jean Fugère from Radio-Canada.

The event is called "Une heure avec Peter H. Fogtdal" and it takes place in the huge auditorium at Grande Bibliotèque downtown. I would lie to you if I said it was full, but since I am a liar, the auditorium was full.

Jean Fugère interviews me about La Naine du Tsar (The Tsar's Dwarf) and luckily his questions are great.

Towards the end he says, "I've been doing this for 20 years, but your novel is the first Danish book I ever read. In Canada the only Scandinavian books we know are Swedish and Norwegian thrillers."

I sigh. There is nothing wrong with thrillers, but couldn't people start to show interest in our Danish mass murderers? Hey, we're good at rape and mayhem as well, dammit!

After the event I talk to a few readers who ask me if there are a lot of trolls in Danish literature ...

Wednesday, September 23
Montreal is gorgeous and trendy.

I ride around on my Bixi bike in the old part of town. I hang out in the Portuguese ghetto around Duluth, I enjoy the cafes at Saint Denise and downtown. People here are friendly but not obsessively so like in the Pacific Northwest where everybody is smiling to the point of insanity.

And hey, the Quebec French like their cigarettes. They'll be happy to blow smoke in your face any time any place. But you end up forgiving them because Montreal is a vibrant city of bistros, beautiful houses, seedy strip clubs, and oui, c'est vrais Café Starbucks ...

Thursday, September 23
My second event in Montreal is at Atwater Public Library and this time I'm allowed to do my show without a translator. My reading is part of a lunch series that attract a lot of Danes from the Scandinavian ghetto in town. It's great fun to meet them and I run out of books to sign, so I start on Stieg Larssons. Those dead Swedes need all the help they can get.

Roberto Pazzi and the wonderful Spanish writer of Moroccan descent Najat El Hachmi are kind enough to join me for my reading. Najat is a known essayist in Catalonia and her first book won an important prize in Barcelona.

In the evening Roberto Pazzi and I hang out again. The only bad thing I can say about the man is that he doesn't like soccer.

At one point he watches me carefully and pays me a wonderful compliment: "Peter, you have two faces. One of them is a ragazzino (a young boy), the other one is a wise old man, and they change all the time."

As the readers of Danish Accent know, it's definitely the boy who maintains this blog ...

My two colleagues Najat El Hachmi and Roberto Pazzi with Hanna and Lise from Goethe Institut, co-sponsor of Festival International de la Littérature.
Thanks to Hanna Zehschnetzler for the two photos from the readings.

*******

Acropolis and Rome: Been There, Done That. Now Back to the Cruise Ship for Some More Fatty Food

2009-09-20T15:57:00.000-07:00

Sunday, September 13
When you're in Athens you have to visit Acropolis.

You don't really have a choice. Acropolis is the most famous ruin in the world. It reeks of ancient history. You can almost picture Socrates, Plato, and Ari Onassis walk around with their iPods.

Yes, something is wrong with Acropolis, especially on a Sunday when four cruise ships are in town. No matter where you go Mr. and Mrs. Obesity are killing time before they go back to B-deck for some more chili burgers.

After five minutes I've had enough. The sun is beating down, and there's absolutely no shade, not even in Pallas Athena's armpits. But you do have the pleasure of rude Russians who demand you take pictures of their sulky daughter; of boisterous Belgians who miss Manneken Pis, and of dumb Danes who'll become mass murderers if they don't get out now.

"Move on," the prison guards yell when we stop to take pictures. And prison guards are the right word for these uniformed Greeks. Some of them should have worked at Auschwitz. Come to think of it, maybe they did. This is just a new incarnation of herding cattle around, inflicting pain on the people who have paid 12 Euros to get in and 52 Euros to get out.

In front of me a Spanish guide is sounding like a bazooka, two Frenchman are getting erections. I love Greece, but Acropolis is almost as bad as a turkey farm before Thanksgiving.

God, Sometimes I Wish I Was Born in Italy and Had a Daughter Named Francesca

Monday, September 14
My Pretentious World Tour for The Tsar's Dwarf is continuing on to Italy.

Unfortunately, none of my books have been published there, so I'm "only" going to write on my novel. One of my Danish unions, DPA has an apartment in a small Etruscan town where I'm staying for 6 days. It's free for members if we do the dishes.

Sutri is close to Viterbo. It's one of those places where you want to sit on the piazza for a year with a caffé Americano, La Gazzetta dello Sport, and a bad tramezzino.

I'm basically the only straniero in town, but I get a lot of attention because I speak the language. My Italian has become a little rusty, but I'm happy to say it's decent enough to order food, insult Juventus, and discuss the sex life of Berlusconi.

Thursday, September 16
God, I'm writing well. So would you if it rained for three days in a row.

At the local bar I talk to the barista about Zucchero and Enrico Ruggieri, my two favourite Italian singers, ma San Remo fa schifo we both agree.

I always get high speaking Italian. The language is like a drug to me. If only I could get my fix more often.

Saturday, September 19
On my last day in Italy I take the bus into Rome.

In the late nineties I lived for six months in Trastevere, the most beautiful part of the city, but now the place has become a boot camp for middle aged Danes in search of Campari.

I walk around in a daze enjoying Campo de' Fiori and my favorite hang out Bar Calisto. Everything is as great as I remember, but being in Rome is like re-visiting an old lover who is still gorgeous but has very bad breath.

Sunday, September 20
Today My Pretentious World Tour moves on to Montreal, Canada for three events at the Festival International de la littérature (FIL).

I'm a happy man with an aisle seat. Now it's time for some Canadian jet lag.

*******

My Pretentious World Tour: First Stop, Athens, Greece

2009-09-15T02:41:00.000-07:00

Thursday, September 10:

Apart from looking into the eyes of my girlfriend when she's asleep, my favorite thing in the world is to be on book tour.

Well, actually it might not be my all time favorite thing; I'm fond of sex, too. And riding my bike into ongoing traffic. And watching Denmark's national soccer team when it plays well which it did a millennium ago. But you get the idea: I'm very happy going on My Pretentious World Tour for The Tsar's Dwarf.

Let's face it, I'm not a household name in any country, but still the world wants my ass. I'm going to Athens, Greece; Sutri, Italy; Montreal, Canada; Portland, Oregon, and Hongkong, China. And on my way back, I'll stop in Benares and Mumbai, India to do some research on the novel I'm writing. All this is covered by wonderful grants from the Danish Art Council, CopyDan, and DPA, The Danish Songwriters' Guild.

I'm a lucky man. And right now this lucky man can't sleep. He lies in bed, his silly head full of silly ideas while the world of literature is waiting to devour him.

Friday, September 11:

What's wrong with the climate? I'm leaving a gorgeously sunny Copenhagen for a rainy, dreary Athens. Are the Greek gods on drugs?

Actually, the atrocious weather is appropriate since this year's Athen's Book Festival has a theme, Greening the Future. So now The Danish climate has moved to Greece and the Greek climate has moved to Denmark - that is kind of scary.

I'm met in the airport by the Danish ambassador's Greek driver. The man turns out to be an entertaining cynic. He tells me at great length about the politics of his country, how the Greeks are fooled by corrupt politicians, how he was born in Australia where there isn't much to see, how Denmark should get its act together and clean up Copenhagen. It's an enlightening monologue from a smart man who seems disillusioned with the ways of the world.

I'm only disillusioned with the weather. "When it rains in Athens, the whole city comes to a stop," Panagiota Goula, the Greek cultural attache at the Danish embassy tells me. "Then everybody in Athens gets into their cars and traffic breaks down."

Later she shows me several Athens newspapers that mention my name. But if someone gave me a million dollars and a little of that excellent taramosalata, I still wouldn't be able to decipher where my name was on the page.

Saturday, September 12

I'm invited to a liquid lunch with the Danish ambassador, my colleague Iris Garnov; Leo, my translator, and four local poets - one of them turns out to be the Greek ex-ambassador to Sudan. Talking about multitasking!

By the way, I'm at my best behavior during lunch - I don't vomit on anyone.

The ambassador's apartment has a gorgeous view of Acropolis and the rest of Athens. "Can I be the next ambassador here?" I ask the nice man whose name is Tom Norring. "No," he says flatly and I leave the apartment totally devastated.

Luckily, I recover for tonight's performance. About thirty people show up at The Danish Institute in Plaka where a Greek actor Konstantinos Konstantopoulos reads excerpts from The Tsar's Dwarf and my latest Danish novel Skorpionens hale.

Even though I don't understand a word of the Greek translations, it's obvious that Konstantinos Konstantopoulos is doing a fantastic job. I'm totally spellbound by his voice. He never looks up when he reads but he totally stays in the world I've created. Two fine Greek musicians add flavor to the night, and I'm moved to tears by the whole event.

My only regret is that Zeus and Pallas Athena didn't show up. Where are the Greek gods when you really need them?

By the way, tomorrow I'm going to Acropolis. I believe it's some kind of semi-famous ruin they put on all of their postcards ...

Iris Garnov, Danish poet, Georgis Georgiadis, musician; yours truly; the Greek actor Konstantinos Konstantopoulos, and Dimitris Theocharis, musician. What a memorable evening.

***

Wonderful Copenhagen (Shame about the Garbage and the Five Dollar Coffees)

2009-09-07T01:31:00.000-07:00

1.
I've been a tour guide for ages. Not a professional one, just a happy amateur showing loved ones around Copenhagen like the adorable cattle they are.

I've always been proud of my city, especially the fact that it doesn't have a Starbucks. To me Copenhagen is a gorgeous sleepwalker; a self satisfied but trendy, historical city that will whisper to you in its husky voice, "you may be visiting a small country, but it's much better than yours."

The last victim of my tour guide skills was no other than my favorite stalker, my pale girlfriend who shall remain nameless until she gets a tan.

She has been to Copenhagen several times and she's in love with the place. It's not so much the beauty of our capital that impresses her but our baby carriages and the fact that we leave them outside cafes, babies included, without any fear that a pervert will steal them.

However, what makes her faint with joy is not our gorgeous castles, our smørrebrød or our environmental trendiness, it's our Danish legs.

Maybe it's because you see them everywhere - we have quite a few legs in this country.

"Perhaps I should take you to Esbjerg," I smile. "That's the obesity capital of Denmark."

"Why is that?"

"Because it's the city closest to Germany," I answer sweetly and devour my tenth soft ice of the day.

2.
My pale girlfriend continues down one of our prettiest streets, Magstræde with colorful houses from the 16th and 17th century. The cobble stones make the place romantic. You can easily imagine how it must have been back then - especially when you see all the garbage.

"You know, I find it surprising that Copenhagen isn't as clean as Spain. Why is that?"

Unfortunately her remark is true. Copenhagen has been dirty the last decade. It's a disgrace and a lot of us natives are ashamed of it. However, Naples is worse. And so is Calcutta, I hope?

3.
To make things more ridiculous our politicians are going to "gift" us with another Metro that no one needs. This means that some of the most picturesque parts of the old city are going to look like a construction site the next ten years.

You see, our Danish politicians are like most other politicians. They want growth - that's their favorite word. They don't necessarily know what it implies, but it's a sure vote-getter. Growth has become the Viagra of the mind.

Things might not be going well in Denmark, but at least we can beat Sweden in soccer. I watched the World Cup qualifying match in Portland with six Swedes and barely made it out of the house alive. A very aggressive half-Swede tried to strangle himself, then me - not the most logical succession unless you've overdosed on Abba.

4.
Back to my gorgeous city. We cross Strøget, our famous walking street that starts to look like any other mall in the world.

"... and then you tolerant Danes have almost become racist," my pale American continues while we pass a Japanese who is trying to commit harakiri because he only can get overpriced sushi.

"WHO SAYS THAT?" I shout.

"You do. All the time."

I start to blush, ""Oh, that's true, but we're racist in a very endearing way. If we know that you're just visiting, we'll embrace you no matter where you're from. But if you decide to stay, you're asking for trouble."

Then I tell her about the biggest controversy of the summer - how we just expelled a bunch of Iraqi refugees who were hiding in a church. The police picked up the women, the kids, and the men and sent them back to the most dangerous part of Iraq - the Iraq we helped to destroy by being part of Bush's Coalition of the Willing.

4.
I kiss my girlfriend goodbye in our flashy airport. Her last act is to get a soy steamer at Baresso, our Danish version of Starbucks with scarily polite baristas.

When I see her adorable back disappear through the security check I'm happy that she isn't Iraqi.

Next time she visits we just might let her in again. After all, she's pale enough to pass as a sun starving Dane.

***
Also, read my award winning blog Denmark for Dummies - a Superficial Introduction to the Happiest Nation on Earth
***********

Ecco Walkathon Copenhagen - Only For People Who Are Truly Good

2009-08-30T22:06:00.000-07:00

Pulling groin muscles for a worthy cause - that's how humanitarian I am.

I just participated in Ecco Walkathon Copenhagen.

Yes, it's true. I walked 6 kilometer through my windy capital for humanitarian reasons. Every step I took meant that 1001 humanitarian causes made money off my sore feet, so the more I walked the more humanitarian I became.

"I'm a good person," I thought as blisters exploded under my feet. "I'm doing this for Street Kids International, the Danish Hjertebarnsfonden, and for those cute Pandas that are dying off in China," I sighed while I pushed some kids into Copenhagen's harbor to get ahead.

"Relax," a hysterical mother shouted at me , "it's not a competition."

"Oh, yes it is," I shouted and overtook three 96 year olds who thought they could outdo me in an intermediary sprint, but I showed them who was boss. I bet those old timers are still gasping for air in some hospital while I'm writing this humanitarian blog.

By the way, that's the problem with the world. It just isn't as humanitarian as me. At the Walkathon, I saw thousands of egotistical people in the street who weren't participating in this great event.

"You selfish pigs," I shouted at a nice couple who was out walking their poodle, "how much humanitarian work have you done today? Scooping your dog's pooh off the street don't count, does it, you bastards?"

Yes, I was so humanitarian that I insulted drivers, too - those soulless people who ride around in their flashy cars, not caring whether the rest of us will die from their exhaust fumes.

"Why don't you do something charitable for once?" I shouted at a Jaguar. "I'm pulling groin muscles for street kids in Sao Paolo and you're going out to Sunday brunch with some brainless bimbo."

After 6 kilometers I passed out at the goal line finishing an impressive number 64.358 in the Copenhagen Walkathon.

It's hard being a humanitarian, but luckily the Ecco Walkathon is over, so I can now go back to being my old nasty self.

The Walkathon took place at the harbor of Copenhagen where even the windmills are humanitarian. Danes are truly good. Almost as good as me.

*****

Dagmar's Hot Pants (Oh, Those Were The Days of Softcore Scandinavians)

2009-08-18T17:48:00.001-07:00

Life is too short for Danish sex comedies.

That's what I discovered the other night.

But why would I write a heartless thing like that? Don't I support the rich heritage of my proud country? After all, Denmark was the first nation on earth to liberalize porn. That happened in the late sixties and made Copenhagen the unofficial capital for horny business men and nuns looking for a gang bang.

With that in mind I got excited when my girlfriend told me that Comcast was showing a Danish sex comedy from 1971 for free.

"Let's see it," I shouted.

"It's called Dagmar's Hot Pants," she told me - a promising title that brought back my early teenage years of premature ejaculations.

God, what a disappointment the film was.

First of all it was in English, but the actors came from Denmark, Sweden, and the US, so everybody was talking with different accents.

For any one who is interested, Dagmar's Hot Pants does have a plot. Kind of.

Dagmar is a happy hooker in Copenhagen on her last day of work - she is closing up shop because she has finally saved enough money to put her boyfriend through medical school. On this working day she introduces a teenage boy to sex while his father is watching through the keyhole. Dagmar also does the dirty with Robert Strauss and a lot of other oddballs. Most of the men are great to look at - if you like men over eighty.

But unfortunately Dagmar's Hot Pants is a sex comedy without much sex or comedy. And it only shows American style nudity, breasts. At least, that was the case on Comcast, but I bet that those prudish bastards have edited this masterpiece.

Well, back to the movie.

Apart from Diana Kjær, the Swedish lead, the actors have a hard time saying their lines. If only they'd had something exciting in their mouths I would've understood, but this film is as boring to watch as curling.

The only thing that turned me on was the shots of Copenhagen from 1971. "Yeah, I remember those cute trams from my childhood," I screamed to my girlfriend during one scene. "My parents had a phone like that in their bedroom," I yelled during another.

My girlfriend was disappointed with the movie as well.

"I don't think I ever want to have sex again," she said.

Luckily, most sites online call the movie for Swedish.

I'm totally okay with that.

******************

Unhealthy Rants about American TV from a Man Who Usually Is Happy but Occasional Gets a Meltdown

2009-08-13T12:28:00.000-07:00

#RANT 1
Why are pundits always screaming at each other on American TV?

This is something I've asked myself since I came over to the US. Do they pretend they're Italians? Or are they happy to behave like toddlers who have been thrown out of day care?

No matter what the answer is I get a headache watching these experts who only get hired if they have a) boring mainstream opinions, b) know how to insult each other without saying motherfucker, or c) have unhealthy white teeth.

Are those shouting matches suppose to pass as serious news? MSNBC, CNN, and FOX seem equally determined to turn their programs into The Jerry Springer show where everybody is waiting for the next punch to be thrown.

If the networks want conflict, why don't they go all the way? Why doesn't Lou Dobbs invite an illegal immigrant into the studio, so he can beat him up with a burrito? Or how about a free-for-all on Hardball, so we won't get irritated at Chris Matthews for interrupting his guests when they finally make sense?

It would almost be a relief with some serious body blows on Larry King, Greta Van Susteren, Rachel Maddow, Countdown, Morning Joe etc, so we don't have to listen to overgrown frat boys and snotty sorority girls fighting like they've just given each other herpes.

#RANT 2
A philosophical question: Is there anything in this world more pathetically endearing than FOX News?

I'm not talking about the fact that these guys belong to the far right. Somebody has to inhabit that unattractive place, but do these adorable demagogues have to be so lame?

Let me give you an example. When Fox keeps on referring to Obama's supporters as Nazis, couldn't some one with a degree explain to them that the Nazis belonged to the far right, not to the very left that the network despises so much?

If FOX wants an insult that's more on the mark, just use the old classic, socialists.

You know, socialists are those ugly people who swallow semen and talk endlessly about protecting the poor - an idea far from the mindset of FOX that only believes in compassion when it's lucrative.

And hey, Fox, stop your scare tactics when it comes to health care, even though your negativity works for your fan base. Your fan base being those souls who believe that Bill O'Riley is the Father, Sean Hannity the Son, and Glenn Beck the Holy Ghost.

#RANT 3:
By the way, why is government-run health care so scary to the same people who love government-run wars? In many circles there seem to be more support for killing Iraqis than helping poor Americans. Is that what you call patriotism, or is it just something this dumb foreigner has misunderstood?

#RELEASE
Thanks for bearing with me, my wonderful blog readers. I feel so much better now.

Out of the goodness of my heart I actually deleted a pointed section about Nancy Grace whose show has made a successful career out of murder, rape, pedophilia, and sodomy of beautiful blonds.

I deleted it because I don't want to appear too grumpy today. But let me just say I'm not a fan of the show. After all, Nancy, the Southern Belle, is happy to sentence any suspect before the courts have had a chance to disagree. Hey, who needs justice in America when your favorite pitbull will crucify you on prime time TV?

But let's face it. TV ratings are the only God.

Luckily, no one is forcing us to pray ...

******

How to Sleep With a Famous Writer in the Comfort of Your Own Head

2009-08-06T10:33:00.000-07:00

1.
It's a difficult choice.

It's always a difficult choice: Who to sleep with. So many writers, so little time. But at Sylvia Beach Hotel you can choose between the cream of the American/British crop. You can shag up with Mark Twain. You can cuddle with Agatha Christie. You can share saliva with Scott Fitzgerald. Or how about enjoying your nightmares with the one and only Edgar Allen Poe?

That's what we did at this wonderful hotel in Newport Beach, Oregon. It's a theme hotel. All rooms are named after a famous writer. Sluts as we are, we slept with three, the first being Edgar.

If you don't know Edgar Allen Poe, I'll tell you this: That man was seriously messed up - like a latter day Lou Reed with a keen eye for the poodle droppings of life. Just looking at his portrait was enough to make your skin crawl. And his room was creepy as well. Dark red colors, pictures of ravens (not exactly the most cheerful bird around), an axe above the bed. It wasn't a healthy room to stay in. After a few hours I actually tried to murder my girlfriend.

2.
The next morning we moved out and took a walk on the beach. It was a gorgeous day. No dead bodies around, just your odd Christian fundamentalist gazing wistfully at the young girls.

We went back to the hotel and had a wonderful breakfast. Those are hard to come by in the US, unless you're infatuated with plastic spoons. But at Sylvia Beach they actually have a bit of class: Pancakes, sausages, soy milk, and only a few of those bagels that taste like cardboard.

At noon we moved into the Gertrud Stein room. It was a small place with a lesbian cabinet, a few of her letters on the wall, and some nice unattractive pictures of the writer. We felt much better in those surroundings, even though there wasn't much of a view. But you can't have all in life. That's what my grand mother used to say. She was run over by an ice cream truck.

By the way, there are a lot of cats at Sylvia Beach Hotel. For an extra twenty dollars you can have one sleep on your belly - they should call it Rent-A-Cat - it sure beats Avis. Maybe they should have a house penguin as well. I have a weakness for animals in suits.

3.
On the third floor, there's a library with beat up chairs and a fantastic view of the ocean. I tried to reserve all the chairs as the Germans do, but we Scandinavians just can't get away with that.

Sylvia Beach is an easy place to connect with book nerds. Even New Yorkers become mellow when they look at the view. Several times I strolled through the small library at the hotel. It has an impressive collection of all the books a writer ought to read - you know, the so-called classics. Those dreadful books that only have one purpose in life, to make you feel like shit because you haven't read them.

4.
The third night was a treat. A couple got the swine flue and didn't show up, so the kind people in the reception offered us the suite - the Agatha Christie room, with four windows facing the ocean, a fireplace, and an old typewriter.

God, I loved it. Everything had a twenties feel (or a thirties feel, what do I know?) I could just picture Miss Marple looking for murder clues in the ashtray, or Hercule Poirot driving everybody insane with his Belgian accent. The room was so wonderful I decided I'd never leave - I actually handcuffed myself to the bedpost instead of paying the bill.

In the afternoon we got fogged in, too. The coast disappeared, and the seagulls looked pleased when they defecated on our windows. That night I slept like an angel wrapped up with my pale girlfriend who kept on having nightmares about Edgar Allen Poe and ravens.

5.
So what can I say? I've stayed at hotels around the world. I've been smothered in Thailand, spoiled in France, and humiliated in Costa Rica, but the Sylvia Beach Hotel in Newport, Oregon is something else.

And I'm definitely going back one day. I just have one small request. Please name a room after me. I know I'm not that important a writer, so the Peter H. Fogtdal broom closet will do. Or how about one of those bathrooms where the toilets won't flush - I would be happy with that, too.

That's how humble I am, seriously!

****
Check out The Sylvia Beach Hotel here!

In Hollywood Even the Ghosts Have Boners

2009-07-25T13:28:00.001-07:00

1.
I met Camilla Overbye Roos back in 1986. She served at a birthday party of mine and did a memorable job, spilling red wine on my mother and charming the pants off a middle aged fashion designer.

A few weeks back I met up with her for the first time in over twenty years. During that time Camilla has been very successful. Around 1990 she became an actress in Hollywood working with people like David Lynch. She made the cover of Life Magazine in 1993 as a young starlet. And hey, she had a small part in an unknown film called Titanic where she played Kate Winslet's Norwegian friend. Later she has directed several prize winning documentaries, among others Queenas about Latino transvestites in LA.

2.
Now Camilla and I are enjoying a Vietnamese dinner together, but we're not talking about her past in Tinseltown; we're not discussing how she used to play backgammon with Leonardo di Caprio on the set of Titanic; we're discussing whether ghosts can have a hard on.

"Yes, they can," Camilla says taking a bite of a huge Vietnamese spring roll. "I used to live in the El Royale in Hollywood and we had a ghost that haunted the apartment building - he used to walk around in his bathrobe with a great erection. I kept on telling the others, send him up to me, send him up to me."

I watch the spring roll disappear into Camilla's mouth.

Never trust an actress, I tell myself.

Especially not if she has worked with David Lynch.

3.
According to Camilla, the name of the ghost was Mr. Felcher. Everybody knew him because he had lived in the building in the flesh (so to speak), but now he had taken his boner with him to the Afterlife.

Mr. Felcher started haunting his own apartment - then he was seen in three other apartments as well. The four places had one thing in common; they had the doorknobs from the old place. Why a ghost would be emotionally attached to something as ridiculous as doorknobs is beyond weird, but the well mannered lady who was the first to spot Mr. Felcher's boner blushed when she told the management about her sighting.

"His bathrobe was open," she said, "wide open."

Mind you, even in Hollywood horny ghosts are a rarity. And it doesn't make it better that felcher is a description of a sexual act that doesn't go down well in the Bible belt, unless you happen to have an anus.

4.
Some facts:

Ghosts are souls that refuse to leave the earth. They feel they have unfinished business, so they stay around trying to contact the living. Mr. Felcher was probably scared that he couldn't flash any archangels in the Afterlife, so he hung around El Royale looking for a blow job.

Actually, El Royale was a good place for any one who wanted to fulfill his sexual fantasies. Cameron Diaz, Uma Thurman, Michelle Williams, and Diane Lane lived there. So did Ben Stiller, Matt Dillon, and Billy Zane who probably could have gotten a quickie with most female ghosts.

"I loved living in El Royale," Camilla tells me, "but as I said, I never saw Mr. Felcher. I lived in the wrong apartment."

Apart from this tragedy, it's hard to feel sorry for my friend. Even though most of Camilla's Titanic scenes ended up on the cutting room floor, she still lived on the Mexican set for months hanging out with Leonardo, Kate Winslet, and other beautiful icebergs.

James Cameron, the director of Titanic, was fond of her, too. Actually so fond that di Caprio begged Camilla to come on the set on her days off because she had such a soothing influence on the director.

Camilla Overbye Roos in Titanic. She isn't crying because of the iceberg, you know ...

5.
But now Camilla is back in her native Copenhagen after twenty years of la dolce vita in New York, Hollywood, and London. She has three small kids who are living it up in their Danish apartment. And she's thinking of studying psychology. So would you if you'd lived in Southern California.

And Camilla doesn't seem to miss the old days at all. Not even Mr. Felcher with that metaphysical boner of his.

***********

Summer Reading, Anyone? Excerpt of The Tsar's Dwarf

2009-07-19T00:41:00.000-07:00

Pushing The Tsar's Dwarf in New York. Here with my friend and fellow author, the great Nuruddin Farah of Somalia at the World Voices festival.

As my blog readers know, I've worked tirelessly for The Tsar's Dwarf, my translated novel that has come out in the US, Canada, France, Portugal, and Denmark.

You could call me a small time writer who's been equally ignored in five countries. And that makes me unbelievably proud.

But things are definitely going my way, friends.

In the fall I've been lucky enough to be invited to literary festivals in Montreal and Athens representing Denmark and myself. And I'm going to lead a workshop and present the book at Lignan University in Hongkong.

And let's not forget my next gig at Ladybug Coffeehouse in Portland, Oregon Thursday July 30 at 7 pm.

What can I say, I'm a happy nomad with a slightly strange book that people seem to like.

But I'm no different than other writers.

We always want more people to read our work, so forgive me for a humble - and I mean, humble - suggestion that you bring my novel with you on your summer vacation?

It goes well with any bikini, bike or condom. All it requires is that you have a sick mind. And a craving for serious novels about human dignity.

After all, there's more to life than Dan Brown and the Old Testament.

The protagonist, by the way, is a female dwarf, and my historical novel starts like this:

THE TSAR'S DWARF (AN EXCERPT)

1.
My name is Sørine Bentsdatter. I was born in 1684 in the village of Brønshøj. My father was a pastor, my mother died in childbirth.

When I turned six my body decided not to grow anymore.

I don’t care for the term “dwarf.”

As a rule, I don’t care for dwarves at all.

2.
The fine gentlemen have brought me here to Copenhagen Castle. They’ve set me on a carpet that feels as if I’m treading on seaweed. Now they’re looking at me in that jovial manner they favor—their heads tilted, their lips twitching — but I stare right back at them. I always stare back, because they’re uglier than I am. The only difference is that they don’t know it.

“Do it again,” says the finest of those gentlemen.

His name is Callenberg. He’s a smug cavalier with red cheeks. His legs are bound with silk. I put my hands on my hips and stare at his multiple chins, which are quivering with mirth.

Callenberg spreads his legs and smiles. I move across the soft floor, duck my head, and walk between his legs. I do it four or five times, back and forth, like some sort of obsequious cur. And now they’re all applauding; now they’re cackling contentedly in their perfumed chicken yard. Of course I could have bumped my head into Callenberg’s nobler parts, but that would have been foolish. And you can say any number of things about a wench like me, but I’m no fool.

“Splendid.” Callenberg draws his legs together with a satisfied grunt.

The courtiers once again stare at me with a condescending expression — the same way that everyone looks at me, with a despicable mixture of contempt and joviality. But they could just as well have been staring out the window. They could just as well be gazing up and down the length of the Blue Tower, because they don’t see me, those people. How could they see me when they’re as blind as bats?

All at once I catch sight of my figure in the mirror. I’m small and withered, with deep furrows on my brow. My eyes are tiny and green, my lips thin and sardonic. My nose and my ears are a bit too big, my hair is long and graying. The veins dance up and down my bowed legs, but there is nothing ridiculous about me. That’s something they’re all going to learn.

Callenberg sits down on a scissors chair and snaps his fingers. A moment later a glass of clove wine is brought to him along with a plate of Flemish chocolates. His hands are fat and pink, his nails look like shiny seashells. That’s how a human being is. Loathsome and vain, with habits that increase in cruelty the more the person eats.

“Ask the dwarf what sort of tricks it can do.”

The First Secretary turns to me. When he speaks, he does so slowly, as if he were talking to an idiot. I choose to ignore him.

I’m familiar with the fine gentlemen. I have more experience with them than I would care to admit. I know how they think and how they behave. They can’t fool me with their vulgarities.

“Can the dwarf perform tricks or read fortunes in salt?” Callenberg asks.

“I can both read and write,” I tell him.

Callenberg tilts his head back and laughs. He would howl with laughter no matter what I said, because dwarves are so droll, dwarves are entertaining in the same way that parrots are entertaining. We are creatures who serve only one purpose: we exist so that human beings can feel superior.

Callenberg rubs his hand over his chins.

He is the Lord Steward at the castle. Not just the Lord Chamberlain but the Lord Steward. That’s the sort of thing that the nobility care about. Their whole raison d’être lies in titles. The higher the title, the greater the reason they have for existing.

“I can both read and write,” I repeat with annoyance. “I also know German, Latin, and a little French.”

“And where has the dwarf learned these things?”

I let my eyes survey the chamber. Exquisite portraits of Frederik IV hang on the walls. The drapes, which are a golden peach color, flutter in the breeze. There are chromium-plated mirrors with sullen looking angels. The strong scent of Hungarian cologne permeates the wallpaper. All very elegant,for those who have a taste for elegance.

“I suppose the dwarf is also knowledgeable in Russian?”

The Lord Steward looks at me with a condescending expression. Then he snaps his fingers and a chamberlain opens the lavishly embellished doors.

“Tell the dwarf to come back tomorrow.”

The First Secretary nods. He has a weak chin and a timid face — the sort of face that confirms the amount of time he has spent in submission to his master’s fury.

Callenberg disappears down a long passageway lined with Venetian mirrors. The last I see of him are his hands behind his back and his thin legs beneath his stout body. After that he is swallowed up by the castle — and by the specters of all the kings who refuse to let go of the past.

A few minutes later I’m escorted down several narrow staircases intended for the servants.The stairwell feels damp and clammy, and I very nearly slip on the high steps. Two dead bats are lying on the stairs. The archways are draped with cobwebs. The footman opens the door to the kitchen. In front of me is a vast room that goes on and on, as far as the eye can see. There are people everywhere: master cooks, footmen, errand boys, and pastry chefs. They’re rushing back and forth, armed with marzipan and mackerels and mulberries.

I stare at the wooden spoons that are almost as long as I am tall. And at the pots containing saffron, the tubs holding Iceland cod and whiting in brine.

We start walking.

The kitchen makes me uneasy. There’s a strange mood in there, as if the kitchen were waiting for something. I pass two assistants who are making a pigeon pâté. A royal taster is sampling a sour burgundy. They are all in their own meaningless world; they are all waiting.

The footman leads me over to a back door and opens it impatiently. When I turn around to ask him a question, he gives me a swift kick. Involuntarily I gasp with pain. Then the footman points to the moat and the high castle bridge. He points to the slum quarters, the flatbed wagons, and the flea market. When he slams the door, I angrily wipe my mouth and start walking.

It’s still a hot summer day. The towers of Copenhagen are sweltering in the sun, and the barges gleam like silver in the canal. I head across the High Bridge to Færgestræde. A horsedrawn
cart loaded with wine barrels almost forces me into the water. A moment later I vanish into the crowd among the coaches, soldiers, and loudly shouting fortune-tellers.

3.
I live on Vintapperstræde in the middle of the king’s city. It’s a narrow lane where violence hangs in the air. Not even our watchman dares make his rounds in that section of town.

There are six distilleries, four taverns, and a few whorehouses. But I take pleasure in the atmosphere; it keeps me on my toes. The human being is an animal that fights to survive. Nowhere is this more apparent than in the part of town where I live.

I share a wretched cellar room with my poor scoundrel Terje. His path through life has taken him from pub to prison,with involuntary stays at Bremerholmen. We’ve been together for four years. Before that I lived with another scoundrel who was also fond of misshapen females. In a way I’m in charge of my own curiosity cabinet. Each morning I haul myself out of the cabinet, brush myself off with a damp cloth, which is enough to turn the stomachs of many goodfolk —and then I listen to their comments.

They say that I have an ancient face, that I’m descended from a demonic race. They think my head is deformed, that my fingers are stunted, that all the parts of my body are out of proportion. But who decides what is out of proportion?

According to other wise folk, I belong to a noble race that has lived on earth longer than human beings — a race that has mysterious powers and can see into the future. That may be true, but I don’t really care. I have the same problems as everyone else. I eat, I shit, and one day I will die.

When I step inside my cellar room, I find Terje curled up on the straw pallet. He is unwell, as usual, his body burrowed in day-old vomit. He is shaking with fever and a cold sweat. His face looks like mauve porridge speckled with yellow beard stubble. The Scoundrel looks up at me, his expression reproachful.

“Where the devil have you been?”

I ignore him and go over to one of my stools. I have three of them. The Scoundrel made them for me so that I could reach things in the larder. I don’t live in dwarf lodgings like other dwarves. I have no use for a dollhouse with sweet little dwarf doors. With a few objects to help me, I can manage to get by in the world — without extra assistance. There’s no reason to feel sorry for me.

Right now I open the larder, which once again is half-empty. A rat leaps out with a scrap of cheese in its mouth. A moment later it darts through the wood shavings on the floor.

I look at my scoundrel.

“I have work at the castle.”

Terje laughs scornfully and spits into the straw. He’s one of them —a human being. He’s tall and redhaired, with a chest like a Scanian rebel. He is usually quite handsome, but ever since Candlemas he has been sick with consumption. Now he looks shrunken and withered; his smell has taken over the whole room. I ought to be used to it. There are all sorts of different smells in the world when you live between the legs of goodfolk.

I go over to Terje and study his face. I see the dull look of his eyes and his hair, which sticks out in greasy tufts. Then I wipe the fever from his brow. Sickness is Our Lord’s way of rooting out His children. The Devil is more merciful. The Devil has always been more merciful.

“Don’t you want to hear anything about the fine people in the castle?” I ask.

“No.”

“They have chairs made of gold in the offices,and there are mirrors on the walls—even on the inside of the doors.”

“What for?”

“So they’ll have a good view when they scratch themselves on the ass.”

Terje laughs hoarsely. I stretch out my hand to him, but he knocks it away. Then I go over to my little box. It’s filled with herbs and healing salves: amanita, swallowwort, and mustard plasters. There is also a secret compartment containing tinctures. I open the box using a rusty nail that hangs around my neck. Then I select the herbs for a miracle-working elixir. And as I work, the voices come to me. They’re like birds flying around my head, birds that demand to be heard.

I turn around to look at the Scoundrel.

“ You’ll be dead by tomorrow,” I say.

Terje nods, slowly and sadly. Outside the dogs are baying, and a drizzle settles over the city like a delicate silk coverlet. When Terje croaks, he’ll be the third scoundrel that I bury.Scoundrels don’t last very long, especially when they’ve been thrown in irons at Bremerholmen. But they’re needed in the house, particularly for a wench like me.

“What the hell did the king want with you?”

Terje has a malicious look on his face. I ignore him and pour beer into the birchwood tankards.

“He probably wants to use you for a footstool.”

I slap his face.Terje puts his hand to his cheek but is wise enough not to say anything more. He makes do with giving me a glare, but a glare that doesn’t seem to belong to him.

I go over to the fireplace. The elixir is brown and bubbling; a bittersweet scent spreads through the room. I light another candle. There is only a small peephole in the cellar, because who would want to look out at Vintapperstræde? And who would want Vintapperstræde to look in at us?

“Sørine?”

“ Yes?”

“ You’re a good sort.”

I smile sadly. A few minutes later Terje starts to snore. It’s a familiar sound. I don’t like to admit it, but I’m fond of the sound. Terje’s snoring makes me feel calm. I don’t know why.

*****

The Tsar's Dwarf is translated by Tiina Nunnally (translator of Peter Hoeg's Smilla's Sense of Snow) and is published by Hawthorne Books in the US and Canada, Gaia Editions in France, Mercado de Letras in Portugal.

The paperback version just came out as Gyldendal pocket in Denmark.

The Confession of a Twitter Slut: @danish_novelist at your service.

2009-07-17T08:57:00.000-07:00

I'm finally getting the hang of Twitter.

If you don't live on another planet, you should've heard of it. Twitter is the second most popular social network online and you reach a lot more people than you do on Facebook.

Take some one like me, I want the world to know about my silly novels and my silly blogs, so I send off meaningless tweets that people around the world might read. "Oh my God, that guy seems like a jerk," a woman in Botswana may think and then we stalk each other online.

Sounds like fun? It is. And it might even help your work/your business/your career, if you come across as a benign weirdo people want to interact with. Then they might get interested in your work and the ball is rolling.

I happen to think I can live up to that benign weirdo description (well, definitely the weirdo part; benign might be a bit of a stretch).

So this is a new way we can communicate, blog readers. Let's all look for that fine line between The Art of Shameless Self Promotion and Engagement With Our Fellow Human Beings About What Goes On In The World and In Our Lives.

Yes, as you can tell, I have become a bit of a Twitter slut.

So follow @danish-novelist if you're on Twitter and you might risk that I follow you.

Consider the last part of that sentence a threat.

SILLY TWEETS:

1.
Goodbye, Michael Jackson. I bet God is dangling you from His favorite balcony right now.

2.
The Tsar's Dwarf has more than 80 reviews on Amazon and I wrote them all myself.

3.
How many bugs does the average Tour de France rider swallow during the race? Scientific studies, any one?

4.
I seriously don't think God minds blasphemy. It's all the fanatics who make Him vomit.

5.
After 12 novels I'm changing my approach: I only write when I'm having fun. Sorry about that, Martin Luther.

6.
I saw a ghost in London. And I don't mean Tony Blair. Blog

7.
I only want an iPhone if it can wash my clothes.

8.
In Denmark God doesn't even believe in God.

9.
Great progress at the G8 in Italy. Berlusconi's whores are offering green condoms for everybody!

10.
The great thing about art is that there are no rules. THAT'S the golden rule.

11.
Forgive me, but didn't Michael Jackson's memorial come across as the US Open in Public Grief?

12.
I wonder if Michael Jackson truly is dead? Maybe he lives in Argentina with Adolf Hitler?

***

My favorite tweet from a fellow Tweeter, @bookwalter :

I may have done a little too much rewriting on my thriller - it's now a cook book.

Happy tweeting, everybody.

A world of interesting people are waiting to hear from you.

***************

Thanks to Copenhagen's Jazz Festival, I'm Getting More Arrogant By the Minute

2009-07-14T03:42:00.001-07:00

1.
Please consider this blog a church.

You should bow your head in reverence when you enter. Perhaps you should even whisper a word of thanksgiving for having the great (mis)fortune of visiting these scribblings.

Why do I write this? Well, because Danish Accent is an award winner now - a fact that has made me even more arrogant than before. You would understand if you could see me now. I'm sitting in the oldest and most prestigeous luxury hotel in Copenhagen called D' Angleterre - a hotel that is 200 years old and smells like it, too.

No, it would be an exaggeration to say that I won the hotel, but I won two nights in luxury with My Pale Girlfriend Who Shall Remain Nameless Until She Gets a Tan. I wrote the best and weirdest blog about Denmark in an online contest. The happy givers are Denmark.net and Copenhagen's Jazz Festival, bless their souls.

My winning entry was Denmark for Dummies - a Superficial Introduction to the Happiest Country on Earth. If you're a regular to this blog, you might have read it before, but it pretty much tells you everything you don't need to know about our Southern Scandinavian paradise.

2.
D'Angleterre is situated in the middle of Copenhagen and looks like a white cheese cake. It has a grand entrance and an aura of old school. The staff is scarily polite. In Denmark politeness is scary; it's as rare as diamonds.

By the way, every celebrity in the world has slept here including Hans Christian Andersen, Ronald Reagan, Diana Ross, the Queen of Jordan, Claudia Schiffer, Michael Jackson, Walt Disney, Winston Churchill, and Hermann Göring, the fat slob. And let's not forget Lou Reed and Imelda Marcos. They weren't here as a couple though; I doubt the two of them would shag up.

So yes, I'm definitely enjoying the high life with My Pale Girlfriend. A moment ago I shampooed my hair in French champagne, then I had breakfast next to a weapon dealer with a porn model in tow.

The guests at D'Angleterre are more classy than us but then again that doesn't say a lot.

3.
The last day of the jazz festival takes place while we're testing our double bed.

As always, it's a great event with more than 600 concerts. Big names like The Blind Boys of Alabama and Chick Corea grace our city along with local bands on every street corner. Most of the audience seem to be older people - jazz doesn't appeal much to the young. Maybe that's why they have Jazz for Kids - a way to get adolescents addicted to swing instead of heroin?

Whether it works or not, I have no idea. All I can say is that the Copenhagen Jazz Festival is a wonderful event. No matter where you turn you run into a sweaty saxophone player. You even got bands in the canal boats. I wouldn't be surprised if I found a Dixieland trio in one of the public toilets. When we Danes throw a festival, we mean business.

4.
The only problem is the weather. As my girlfriend says, "it's colder in Copenhagen in July than in Portland in February." And February in Portland is pretty gruesome if you want to know.

However, fairy tales should have a happy ending, so the last day the weather turns gorgeous. The sun actually comes out, it's 66 degrees, and we stroll around the city with The Lady is a Tramp ringing in our ears. So no, we wouldn't mind coming back next year if Denmark. net awards me with another luxury weekend at D'Angleterre.

To tell you the truth, luxury becomes me. And I kind of like the idea that Imelda Marcos and her 1001 shoes stayed in the same room as me ...

Tour de France, Twitter, and Lance Armstrong's Boring iPod

2009-07-06T21:32:00.000-07:00

1.
No, I'm not doped up. You don't have to be on EPO to watch Tour de France, but it helps.

It's early in the morning on July 4th. The world is waking up and I'm in Monaco to enjoy the First Stage of the greatest race on earth. A few hours later I'm surrounded by 180 skinny men on bikes. They all look wildly anorexic.

At one point I'm almost run over by last year's winner Carlos Sastre. And I'm so close to Lance Armstrong that I can smell his deodorant. By the way, he doesn't wear any.

But still it's a dream come true being at the center of the universe. I've watched the Tour on TV since I was eleven, but now I'm here with 80.000 fans, an obese Prince Albert, and a few of my nephews and nieces.

By the way, I'm rooting for Andy Schleck.

First of alle, Andy Schleck is from Luxembourg, the only country in the world that's smaller than Denmark. Second of all, he's riding for Saxo Bank, the Danish team.

Needless to say, Lance Armstrong has more followers than Schleck. As always, Lance divides the French into two groups: 1) the people who hate him a little and 2) the people who hate him a lot.

One of the reasons is envy - a Frenchman hasn't won the Tour since the fall of the Bastille. That was in 1789.

2.
For the record, I actually like Lance; I just think he needs a crash course in humility. Hopefully, not on the bike, just in real life.

And by the way, throw in a course in anger management. Lance Armstrong is a brilliant and charismatic man but he seems like such an angry dude. Maybe it would help if he stopped dating George Bush?

3.
However, I still follow Armstrong on Twitter, but so far the only thing I've learned is what he puts on his iPod.

Once in a great while there's a gem though. So here are some of Lance's best tweets (status) taken from his Twitter profile:

*Listening to Ryan Adams and the Cardinals on my iPod.

*Coldplay is on my iPod

*Greg Lemond is on my iPod.

*Called Greg Lemond and told him, I love you, man, but get the fuck out of my iPod.

*Getting a massage.

*Getting a rubdown.

*Getting a blow job.

PS
If you're shocked by any of this, you should see the pictures Lance put on Facebook of Sheryl Crow.

5.
Monaco is surprisingly sedated on the day of Le Grand Depart, but then again there's always something sedated about Monaco. It's a place where people don't work for a living; they just down their cognacs and come on to their housemaids.

They also throw gifts at you. At least from the caravan preceding the stages in Tour de France. Gorgeous women toss caps at the spectators - plus key rings, magazines, t-shirts, crackers, vibrators.

Sometimes the pretty girls hit the odd spectator with their junk, but no one cares because you can always brag that your jaw was broken at the biggest cycling event in the world.

6.
My nephews and nieces are sitting in the harbor watching the time trial. They're bored out of their skulls. They want some of the riders to crash, but everybody stays on their bikes. It doesn't bode well for this year's Tour.

Fabian Cancellara from Saxo Bank wins the race, Lance Armstrong comes in as number ten.

On his Twitter page, Lance claims he's pleased with the result. But we all know better. Lance won't be pleased until he's won Tour de France 25 times and saved 200 billion people from cancer.

I truly wish him luck on the latter, but not the former.

Four hardcore cycling fans from Denmark with some of the junk that was thrown at them from the caravan.

***************

The Ghost at Tower Bridge (A True Story)

2009-06-30T23:20:00.000-07:00

1.
I was just in London for the weekend.

As most sane people, I like the city immensely. London is full of fun and excitement - for instance, there are so many ways you can get run over in England. The British cars come at you from unexpected angles. It's part of that London experience: when are you going to get mowed down - and by what? The first time I was in London I was hit by a double decker; the next time by a milkman. Yes, London is great fun and the British hospitals are cheery places - I usually bring a date.

London is also a city full of ghosts.

No, I'm not talking about Tony Blair. He is gone. I'm talking about real ghosts in real apartments. You don't even need to stay at a castle or an old inn. You can find many in the posh Tower Bridge district.

I should know because I visited my friend Ruthie who has psychic abilities. Let me give you an example of her amazing gift: The first time she saw me she knew I was an asshole. That was in Koh Samui six years ago at a health spa. We both got dengue - at a health spa! And lost seven kilo. You could say that we bonded over our diarrhea.

But back to the ghost: There's a dead guy in Ruthie's apartment and he sucks the air of the place.

He's not a scary ghost, mind you. He doesn't tackle you rugby style or make you trip over stools; he just stares at you from his corner - you feel that some one is watching you; it's a bit like being in Syria.

"What am I going to do with Presence?" Ruthie asks me one evening. That's her name for the ghost. Not Jerkface, but Presence.

I find that endearing. But I guess you should be nice to your ghost. There's no reason to make him angry; the ghost might get a heart attack and die.

Ruthie has tried to get rid of him for a long time. She has tried Buddhist rituals and Japanese chants. She even reads him Norwegian poetry, but good old Presence just stays around sucking the energy out of the apartment. She can't write in her own place, it makes her tired staying there for more than a night.

"What do you think Presence wants?" I ask Ruthie who is a lawyer who has gone to Psychic School, "your legal advice?"

Ruthie sighs. She's tired of him but a bit fascinated as well. It's probably the fascination that keeps him there.

But ghosts don't belong on earth. They should go back to their ghost towns and rest.

Isn't that part of the curriculum at Psychic School - along with channeling God and deceased poodles?

2.
The last day I'm in the apartment Presence fucks with the internet. Ruthie can't get online. But funnily enough, I can.

"It's because of my un-psychic ability," I tell her. However, it's not true because I suddenly catch a glimpse of the ghost and sense him, too. Presence has come back. He wasn't here when I arrived. Maybe he went to Wimbledon to watch some tennis?

"Please stay here with Ruthie," I tell the ghost, "don't stalk me; my girlfriend won't like you."

But when I get back to my apartment in Copenhagen I actually see some one next to me when I work at my computer. I won't name the porn site I'm on, but let me put it this way: That ghost is a bit of a pervert.

But how an alien like him got through Danish immigrations I'll never know.

This British woman has obviously seen a ghost at the fruit stand. Or is it just the obscene prices she reacts to?

****

My Morality Lesson: Don't Write About Dildos, Write About Crown Prince Frederik

2009-06-26T00:22:00.000-07:00

Crown Prince Frederik and Crown Princess Mary - they're much more popular than dildos.

I don't get it.

A few days ago I wrote a blog in support of Crown Prince Frederik of Denmark. Why did I do that, you may ask? The answer is simple, I'm a compassionate person who wants to help people who get criticized - you may call me the Mother Theresa of Blogging.

In my piece I explained to the world that Frederik is not a degenerate, he is not lazy, and his wife Crown Princess Mary is cute.

I'm happy I did that because ever since I've been flooded with comments from RoyalDish, a website that has turned its hatred of royalty into an art form. These wonderful but slightly deranged people have told me scary stories of Mary's sordid past in Australia; how she's a Prada loving gold digger who's only after one thing ... more Prada.

Let me clarify one thing: I like Mary but I don't know her personally. I shook her hand on Amalienborg castle once, but that doesn't mean I can look into what some might call her Prada craving soul. But I do have a feeling that Frederik and Mary actually love each other, which, of course, would be very un-Royal.

As everybody knows, marrying for love is not only disgusting, it's unhealthy. Royal marriages have always been political. A Crown Princess has two obligations: to look good on coins and supply the coming King with circumsized boys ... that's it.

But I guess Freddie and Mary are good for at least one more thing: They attract a lot of readers to my blog.

You see, it's only two weeks ago I started to learn how to get Danish Accent out in the world. I did that by following the advice of Portland's leading web guru, Mediachick. She said ... and I quote her:

"Peter, ít's extremely important that you use the word DILDO in your blog titles. Even if you write about your own boring novels, you should use the word DILDO as often as you can. If you don't, you'll never get any readers."

Well, the expert was wrong. My dildo blog was beaten by my piece on Crown Prince Frederik and Mary from the House of Prada. So now I'm planning a long list of blogs about Royalty and sex toys, including pictures of a naked Prince Harry making out with Paris Hilton - while Queen Elizabeth is watching.

This will definitely make my blog world famous.

So maybe you finally understand why I'm a devoted Royalist?

Why Isn't Crown Prince Frederik of Denmark a True Degenerate?

2009-06-21T23:28:00.000-07:00

1.
This is a picture of the Danish Crown Prince Frederik.

We're very proud of him, even though he only works 81 days a year. He also has an adorable wife. Her name is Crown Princess Mary of Tasmania - an Australian island that's not exactly known as a breeding ground for Danish royalty.

I like Frederik, and I think it's unfair that he has taken so much flack. The Danes are upset that he makes 17 million kroner a year which, disgustingly, is the same as our best soccer players. We're also upset that he is "lazy" and that he flaunts his blue blood at a time when red is the only way to go.

You see, in Denmark we're all about equality, so if we have a Crown Prince who thinks he's more important than us, we want to set him straight. "Why do you need a private secretary when Mrs. Hansen doesn't?" we scream. "Don't you monarchs know how to type?"

As a country, we have a lot of problems. However, the most important isn't the economy or our growing racism, but what to do with the Royal family. Should we execute them in the name of democracy and elect an obese president? Or should we take pride in the fact that we're the oldest Kingdom in the world?

Since I always live in the past (you have to when you're Danish), I'm definitely a royalist. I want Denmark to keep Queen Margrethe and her Dachshund. And I want Frederik to become our most important King since Oluf Hunger.

That's why I think the discussion about modernizing the Royal Family is absurd. I mean, the Crown Prince is on Facebook, for Christ's sake, shouldn't that be modern enough for any one?

So the solution must be the opposite of modernization: We should bring back the good old days when Denmark mattered. First of all, Norway should be returned to us immediately (except for their national football team which sucks) - plus other old Danish countries like Sweden, Iceland, England, the Baltic States, and let's not forget the Virgin Islands.

2
I think Crown Prince Frederik will be happy when he reads this. I bet he's tired of representing Denmark in Uganda and Lithuania. It must be an awful job smiling to business leaders and pretending you want to hear about laxatives. You also have to sit through boring meetings with mayors and other Riff-Raff. No, let's face it, we don't need a Prince in Armani. We need an Absolute Monarch - a hard drinking degenerate who can kick some ass and lay down the law like the Vikings used to.

I mean, what's wrong with rape, pillage, and conquer? It has worked for us as a country before and it will work for us again.

So your Royal Highness Crown Prince Frederik of Denmark-Norway, Greenland, and Those Funny Caribbean Islands That America Stole ... as far as I'm concerned, you can be as lazy as you want as long as you give us back our national pride. Marrying a Tasmanian and getting two adorable kids just doesn't do the trick.

King Canute, the Danish king who conquered England. We want our English province back. Now!

*********

Dammit, I Missed The Naked Bike Ride in Portland (Sweaty Balls and All)

2009-06-15T17:20:00.000-07:00

I'm still disappointed I didn't make it to The Naked Bike Ride Saturday night in Portland. All those bloated bellies and saggy balls flapping in the wind.

My Pale Girlfriend and I wanted to go, but as everybody knows it's hard work getting naked. First you have to take off your clothes, then you have to make sure that your genitals are behaving.

But if God has blessed you with a great body, you have a responsibility to flaunt it. I don't mean to brag but I'm a 53 year old with a body of a 52 year old. Hey, I belonged in that race. And I wasn't going to wear a sissy helmet or a g-string like all the Germans I know.

The ride is part of The World Naked Bike Ride, an annual occurrence in Portland, San Francisco, and several degenerate cities in Europe. I've heard they even have one at Guatanamo bay.

This year thousands of Portlanders biked through downtown to prove that riding naked is the thing to do when it's 56 degrees and your nipples are as hard as kidney stones.

But as I said we never made it. My Pale Girlfriend and I had just stripped naked when we found a mouse in the house. The mouse raced through the apartment and hid under the sofa. I tried to get it out with a broom. When that didn't work I went New Age on the rodent. "I see God in you, so get the fuck out of there before I call Rent-a-Cat."

And it's true. I don't want to kill any animal on earth; it's only people I want to terminate.

God, we did everything in our power to get rid of the mouse. First, we put on a noisy fan, then we ran around screaming like maniacs.

"No, we have to do something nastier than that," I said to my girlfriend and played some Country and Western music, but the mouse still stayed put. Later we found out that it had built a nest under one of the cushions. It was quite comfortable there. The mouse munched on our goat cheese - it even enjoyed watching Judge Judy.

So My Pale Girlfriend and I missed The Naked Bike Ride. And I wanted to go so badly - not to show off my ten inches (I have a long collarbone), but to teach people how vulnerable cyclists are in traffic. You see, naked cyclists are killed every day. By truck drivers wearing too much clothes.

So it's high times that we take action. And Saturday millions of cyclists made the kind of political statement that can bring world leaders to their knees - at least if we hand them a pair of binoculars.

This guy was arrested at The World Naked Bike Ride in Portland. Not because he sent creepy smiles to the young girls but because he refused to strip off his yellow shirt.

***********************

Hey, You Won't Find Any Horny Cheerleaders with Vibrators on This Clean Blog

2009-06-11T09:01:00.001-07:00

Disclaimer to kids and Republicans: It doesn't get dirtier on my blog than this.

I'm from Denmark, but I never think of sex. I want you to know that nothing is further from my mind than blow jobs. I actually don't know what a blow job is and if I did, I would be so disgusted. I've never visited a porn site in my life, and I don't sleep with my girlfriend. I'm saving myself for the right one, and she has to look like Mom.

All this is the Gospel Truth, may God and John Holmes be my witness. Last time sex crossed my mind was in 1982 when Nancy Reagan looked at Ronald with those wet cocker spaniel eyes. "God, Republicans are filthy," I told my girlfriend - my platonic girlfriend, that is.

But recently my interest in sex has increased. And it's all because of Google. As my readers know, I'm learning how to get my blog out in the world. An expert spent a Sunday afternoon teaching me the ropes. Frankly, I didn't understand a word she said. She lost me the first time she said Windows. But I remember that at one point, she looked at me intensely and said, "I always get a lot of hits on my blog when I write about vibrators. Vibrators seems to have a lot of Google juice."

After that I couldn't sleep, because is it really necessary for a serious novelist to stoop to the level of lecherous librarians with vibrators? The answer, of course, is a resounding no.

I mean, I'd love to have thousands of blog readers every day, but I have no interest in horny cheerleaders looking for a rod - unless it's mine, of course. So I want to give you a guarantee: You'll never, ever find any filth on Danish Accent.

Why? Because I pride myself in being a Beacon of Light, the Fox News of Blogs, the Bill O' Riley of Righteous Behavior.

So for those of you perverts out there who have fantasies about donkeys, please go somewhere else. This is a clean blog - as clean as you can expect from a novelist who was conceived at an orgy in Legoland.

****************************

It's Award Times: Winner of Best Booth at Book Expo America (Hey, It Was an Outrageous One, Too)

2009-06-08T06:03:00.000-07:00

As the followers of this blog know, I visited Book Expo America last weekend.

It took place at the Jacob Javits Conference Center in New York - the kind of place that would be perfect if you brought your private jet and didn't know where to park it. Unfortunately, the Javits isn't an airport hangar, it's the home of North America's biggest book fair.

So how do you survive a room with thousands of booths, with literary blogger assassins, and neurotic novelists looking for people to harass - not to mention an Elvis impostor, a skinny girl in beige bikini, and two Scientologists trying to convince you that Ron L. Hubbard is God and Tom Cruise is the Holy Ghost.

Well, it ain't easy. But I survived, mainly because BEA09 (as we smart asses call it) is a lot of fun if you're schizophrenic. I also survived because I ran into some truly great people.

So ladies and gentlemen, it's awards time. I'm going to give a prize to the best booth at Book Expo America. And no, it ain't Simon & Schuster's, even though they had the kind of carpet my dog would love to take a dump in. It's not Penguin Books', either. Those booths were the kind of places you'd go if you felt like head butting your accountant.

No, the winner of The Danish Accent Award for Best and Most Outrageous Booth is: WINDY CITY PUBLISHERS, Chicago!!!!

Winner of Best Booth at BEA09, Windy Publishers. Oh, to drown in this sea of gorgeous women.

You've never heard of this fine publisher? Well, I hadn't, either. I've never even heard of Chicago, but this booth kicked serious ass if I may be so bold. I got acquainted with these gorgeous psychos Saturday afternoon. I was in a bad mood (which is rare for some one as shallow as me), but suddenly I was attacked by two beautiful women. They started off by passing out pens, golf balls, and garden gloves to get my attention. Then they got down to business, removing my clothes under the excuse that I should feel more "comfortable". More women joined in. Believe it or not, one of them was a mother of three. "I'm gonna scream if you stop," I shouted - it was certainly a full-service booth.

Seriously, I hung out there for half an hour, convincing all the women that they should buy The Tsar's Dwarf. To get rid of me they promised they would, but I don't even care if they lied. Windy Publishers made my day. You should buy their books. Or their book. They just started out, but they're going places if you ask me.

Runner up for Best Booth at BEA09: Yogananda, SRF publishers, and his soul mates.

Runner up: SRF Publishers
I always need a dose of spirituality. So would you if you watch Judge Judy. Luckily for me, SRF Publishers had a booth that was dominated by the face of Yogananda, the Indian guru who introduced the West to Kriya Yoga and samosas. I adore Paramahansa Yogananda. He might be my favorite Indian guru, since he never dabbled in small boys as opposed to a lot of his competitors. If you don't know this Indian master, you should get hold of SRF's books. The most famous is the gorgeous Autobiography of a Yogi, a must for any one who is into spirituality. SRF has also reprinted a lot of Yogananda's wonderfully uplifting speeches.

I had a lengthy talk with Frank Marquette, a man who radiated the kind of serenity you'd expect from a cocaine addict. But Frank Marquette was not high at all, he was the real deal and I enjoyed talking to him immensely. He seemed like a man who lived his spiritual values. I would definitely buy a used guru from that man.

Jenn Northington, King's English Bookshop and me at the BEA09 in New York. It's Jenn on the left.

Honourable Mention: Jenn Northington from King's English Bookshop, Salt Lake City. Jenn Northington didn't have her own booth, she just had 8.244 meetings to go to. Still, she found time to introduce me to book sellers, event managers, and a Twitter party that took place in a night club where you couldn't hear a word any one said - the perfect venue for people who are forced to express themselves in 140 characters. Mrs. Northington was the one who told me that I should go to BEA, so I could meet the right people. Luckily for me, Jenn is a big fan of The Tsar's Dwarf and has sold an obscene amount of the book in the Mormon City. Dear God, let me meet more book sellers like her on my fall tour!

Yes, that's right. You should sign up for my fall tour, the third one I'll be going on. I'm loud, ridiculous, and known to stand on broken chairs. Nine states have survived me so far. If you want to be next, send an email to my publisher Kate Sage at Hawthorne Books, ksage@hawthornebooks.com or contact me (see upper left bar on this blog)

Support your small independent publishers. They do weird things like believing in Danish novelists of the tragicomic persuasion ...

Also read, Unpublished Writers, Please Don't Visit Book Expo America or You Just Might Get Shot at Dawn

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