Just a brief post this time, not one of my five-hundred-word monsters.

Spotted on Raph’s Blog, check out Champion of Guitars (requires Java), a sweet sendup of Guitar Hero styled after traditional interactive fiction by Bill Meltsner.

By random chance, and likely by downturn of economy, my usual hair salon was closed when I checked on it last Saturday. This is rather inconvenient, as it’s a good twenty minutes’ walk from work or home and now only open during a tight slice of my working hours. Instead of trying to cram a trim into the hectic tempest that is my average working day, I instead decided to brave the tiny rakarastofa - traditional barber shop - located just two doors down from my apartment.

I’d avoided this place prior for a couple reasons; chief among them, it’s a seriously old-school barbershop. The sort you see in old films, with the heavy leather-cushioned iron chairs, razor strops hanging from the wall and a weathered barber’s pole hanging outside. It also has a pedigree as one of the neighborhood’s fixtures; it’s been in business essentially throughout the living memory of all whom I’ve spoken with.

As I’ve got rather thick, stiff hair, I tended to prefer Asian salons in San Francisco; they were familiar with the consistency of my mane and tended to do a great job for rather little money. Your average Icelander has soft, downy hair that requires the application of Dark Matter to do more than droop. I was, therefore, afraid of the potential expense for an artisan ‘do that wouldn’t suit my particular type of hair.

Also, being an ancient Icelandic establishment, I foolishly doubted the proprietor’s ability to speak English.

Turns out I had absolutely nothing to worry about. The gentleman on duty in the murky gloom of Reykjavík’s January at 9 AM had a fine command of the language, but moreover, he was enthusiastic in trying to speak with me in his native tongue. It was my first real Icelandic linguistics workout since I’ve started learning, and we were able to communicate fairly well after I asked him to speak slowly and clearly for me.

Of further surprise was that this was a serious business type of barbershop. Entering it and having a cut - mind you, one of the best I’ve had, ever - was like stepping right into TVLand’s Fifties. I’ve been searching all over Iceland for proper men’s grooming supplies. Most places either sell overpriced designer crap or worthlessly cheap mass-market product. This tiny little establishment, just next door to my home, stocks real double-edged safety razors, several types of blades, a bewildering variety of shaving brushes and an utterly unbelievable array of traditional aftershaves and colognes. Plus all the accessories needed to operate the above properly.

Having already purchased an entry-level pure-badger brush during my initial quest, I picked out a beautiful golden-brass DE razor and some blades. I’m thinking I’ll check out their selection of proper soaps and colognes next; my current soap is only marginal for a proper wet-shave.

I spent a good chunk of the weekend working on an article for Rob and Dream Not of Today. It was a lot of fun; Palli and I spent a good two hours out among the protestors. I managed to drag words out of a surprising number of people, given the rather reserved persona of your average (sober) Icelander.

Still, in the process I received my fair share of glances bespeaking puzzlement - or other, less kind, emotions. But nothing untoward was said or done; most of the natives seemed content to answer briefly to whatever basic questions I could formulate on the fly.

There’s a bunch of behind-the-scenes stuff that went unpublished for the article; interesting tidbits that didn’t quite fit into the established narrative. I’ll reproduce them here for the interested.

• Several people carried blank signs, in both rectangular and disc-shaped form factors, and offered the sign-less markers with which to construct their own.
• A woman carrying a large European Union flag, mounted on a thin PVC pipe so tall it listed under its own weight.
• A gentleman on stilts.
• A picketer with UTSALG emblazoned across a depiction of the Icelandic flag. The phrase is Danish, meaning “For Sale”. Remember that Iceland was ruled by Denmark for hundreds of years.
• Another sign: Látum Auðmenna Borga. Let the Rich pay.
• The orator’s speech mentioned support pouring in from the countryside, naming towns as far away as Austurfirðir - clear on the opposite side of Iceland.
• A sign: Landrað Af Gáleysi Er Landrað. Strictly translated, “A treason of incompetence is (still) treason.”
• A ladies’ choir singing softly in front of Alþingishusið - the house of Parliament - just after the “main” protest concludes.
• Several small white splatters on the facade of Alþingishusið. Dried eggs from previous evenings’ protests.
• A blue bag strung up from a lamppost. Further inspection, and the questioning of a nearby woman, reveals that it is a falcon. They’ve lynched, in effigy, the symbol of the Icelandic Independence Party. That would be the party of Geir Haarde and Davið Oddsson, both widely blamed for various aspects of the crisis.
• A woman carrying a sign: Ókeypis Knús - free hugs. “An interesting way to boost spirits,” observed Palli.
• There are no (visible) policemen near the protest. One, in a bright yellow traffic vest, ensures that no one befouls the garden behind Parliament.

Strange times indeed.

After long hours toiling in the UNIX mines, I’ve finished upgrading the various bits and bobs behind the Men From Sky facade. At the same time, I’ve kicked together - twice - an articular draft for Rob@(d)N0t. Once I can get through to the fine friend who ended up being my photographer on today’s expedition into the heart of the Icelandic Dream, it shall be published. My ego will, of course, compel me to post news of such things here.

I would write more, but the hour is late and tomorrow, as someone once said, is another day.

If you truly want to get technical, today is another day.

The idea, originally, was beautiful in its simplicity. A few hundred words every other day or so, describing the daily struggles of an American grappling with expatriatism and acclimatizing to a rather unique pace of life. What it failed to take into account, of course, was the seduction afforded by internet silence and a “unique pace of life” disrupting writing’s natural rhythms.

That is, of course, no excuse. I might just as well claim lack of muse or will.

Regardless, we, collectively speaking, are now Here, in a new Year. We’ve received Hope from a new President for the United States and the Promise of a new Parliament for Iceland. The past months have been traumatically dramatized by the ever-toppling stream of financial dominoes.

I’ve recently started, or re-started, a few other side projects in lieu of playing with games during the rare free evening. Now seems as good an opportunity as will be had to give an old project compository-prosical resuscitation.

This evening, should I not be sidetracked - don’t count on that - I intend to update the software behind the site and crack out one of a few things that have been clawing away at my braincase. But for now, I must depart - my good friend Rob of (d)N0t has requested I investigate the unusual riots that have, of late, rocked downtown Reykjavik.