Reykjavík Grapevine - 25.08.2006, Blaðsíða 19

A fragment from La Dolce fucking Vita
So, right after a successful suicide attack on your office, in your safe absence, you will feel very free. It will be a
magnificent and glorious feeling, but that feeling, on its own, only lasts a while, a very short while, indeed, a while
that will be on the verge of a moment, after which you will hardly realise a while has lasted and gone at all and after
which you will nonetheless have to shake your head, and take action to secure your lasting freedom. For that pur-
pose you have two options. Either you can pretend that you actually were in your office at the time the incident took
place and thus leave the world entirely, starting anew in another continent. This will, of course, limit your actions
a bit, a lot, even, what with the internet and everything; as you are, in all likelihood, too lazy, too decent and/or
too disconnected from the most advanced criminal and/or subversive underground to forge new ID, you will have
to suffice with laying low in the public arena, for decades, or until you, for some reason or another, might desire to
actually return to your first life, your life as you now know it, at great cost, emotional and otherwise.
(Don’t mind about me, I love you but it will be all right.)
Either you do that or you have the patience to collect all the sympathy and benefits offered you from others, from
your neighbours, friends and family, your commune, your country, your foreign allies, and then make use of that
sympathy and those benefits, to start anew, with the extreme advantage of a budget and a passport. Those two
things do make life easier, in as far as despair is not the issue.
If you despair to the point of losing your soul there is nothing I can do for you, but life is probably easier and more
enjoyable without a soul anyway so there should be nothing to regret.
If you don’t mind me saying so, I’ll recommend you go to Iceland. It is miraculously easy to start bank accounts
there, and the locals are known to be quite promiscuous.
The text was written in English, for one on one performances in small spaces, cosy or claustrophobic.
Nýhil Poetry in the Grapevine:
Haukur Már Helgason
Haukur Már Helgason is no stranger to the Grapevine – he was the first Icelandic writer I hired after taking over
as editor, and he wrote a scathing critique of the arts scene in Iceland called Screaming Masterpiece for my second
issue.
When he isn’t shaping debate on the arts in local magazines, he teaches around the country, and he publishes po-
etry with the group he helped found, Nýhil. Instead of submitting a translation of his poetry, Helgason has instead
constructed… something else entirely. All in keeping with a man who once served as the Grapevine’s Existential-
ist Restaurant Reviewer. BC
poetry
“Where are my dirty, horny women!?!” a
tanned and muscular man wearing only a
black G-string, shoes and a collar shouted into
a microphone, resulting in treble screaming,
shaking bodies and wine glasses f lying throu-
gh the air.
The noise didn’t diminish when he
continued by telling the girls in the audience
they were all virgins again for the night. With
no husbands, boyfriends or fiancés, they were
told they were also all very single and about
to witness something they had never seen
before. Getting the crowd ready for a night
of contentment and satisfaction he yelled out:
“Let’s open your hearts, minds and souls for
the Chippendales!”
Yup, the world-famous male strippers
Chippendales visited Iceland for the first time
last week and performed to a full house at
Broadway. In the local media the performance
was advertised as being better than sex. Seeing
the “studs” in their f limsy attire was said to
be the girls’ World Cup, an opportunity of
a lifetime to see the most perfect men in the
world strip down and dance around for your
pleasure only. The girls could even take part
in the dirty fun themselves.
Like many young women in Reykjavík, I
decided that this was something I just had to
see for myself.
‘Oh man, what did I get myself into?’ was my
first thought when I tried to find a good spot
inside the packed venue where about 1,000
women of all ages, who were all amazingly
well-dressed and gorgeous, had nestled into
their seats, queued by the bar or standing
on chairs to get a better view of the all-male
revue just starting. Many had attended for a
friend’s birthday or bachelorette party. With
the exception of a couple of guys in the audi-
ence this was a girls’ night out.
Sex wasn’t the first thing that came into
my mind though as the show went on. This
night was more hilarious than I could ever
have expected, and the term “sexy” wouldn’t
exactly describe what I was about to witness.
After a very long intro in which one guy
bounced around in his underwear trying
to warm up the crowd before the real deal,
the show started with a man wearing a suit
walking onto the stage. He was introduced
as a normal guy who had just arrived home
after a long day at the office. As expected
after a difficult workday, he climbed on top
of the desk, took his clothes off nice and slow
and, with his hand in the crotch of his pants,
started humping the air while blasting techno
music. As he covered his dick with a towel,
the audience started screaming for more. He
turned his naked ass to the crowd, picked up
his clothes and ran off the stage again.
It is hard to pinpoint what act was the
most hilarious, but when a guy wearing pink
satin pyjamas started simulating a sex act with
a bed while his partner was pouring candle
wax on his chest I thought I would choke on
my drink.
Better yet was when the whole group came
out wearing white military uniforms singing
“I can be your hero baby” while walking
around and throwing their clothes on the
f loor, finishing the act standing in boxers
with the American f lag. None of them could
even keep up the rhythm in the very simple
choreography, but that made the whole event
even more absurd. It was like witnessing an
ill-rehearsed boy band miming some of the
worst songs ever recorded while stripping
down to their thongs and squeezing their
buttocks. Incredible.
As mentioned above, the audience got the
opportunity to participate in the show and
they didn’t have to ask the girls twice. Sc-
rambling for a time in the spotlight, the girls
rushed on stage for the joy of grabbing some
bums and stroking sweaty abs, ready to party
hard with the Chippendales – who weren’t
afraid to grope their breasts.
One moment that summed up the evening
was when the Chippendales started their se-
arch for the horniest table in the house while
begging the women to take some Chippenda-
les back to their homes after the show. At that
point, the audience went insane and everyone
was in for it, trying to sound hornier than the
next group. I even spotted some women in
their sixties standing on chairs slightly hys-
terical and applauding loudly when the guys
walked out into the audience to make better
contact with the ladies, and of course earn
some tips.
As can be expected, the Chippendales’
arrival in Iceland has been the talk of town
and not all are satisfied with this kind of
amusement. Some find it humiliating, disgus-
ting and are shocked at girls who want to pay
to see this kind of disastrous entertainment
where the male body is merchandised into a
play toy for women. I’m not going to debate
that issue. The only thing I have to say about
it after seeing the show is that I at least didn’t
find it humiliating for anyone. Women are di-
verse and while some girls in the crowd found
the greased men to be the hottest thing on the
planet, others were just in it for a laugh, and
those who don’t like seeing stripping guys just
didn’t attend that night. Watching their goofy
moves and judging by the feedback I think the
majority in the audience was laughing at them
and the whole idea instead of being crazily
turned on by the show.
The guys seemed to be enjoying themsel-
ves pretty well on stage as well as when ming-
ling with locals at Sirkus attending the Mínus
concert the next night (wearing clothes). I
don’t see the harm in that.
Aside from the fact that many detest these
kinds of women-aimed strip shows, it was a
memorable night for those attending. I’m not
the least bit ashamed to admit that I had a
great time and can now understand pretty well
the reason for the Chippendales’ longevity.
Entertaining millions of women worldwide
every year, the show was never boring, even
though the guys never got naked, and I never
saw a sour face in the crowd. Watching guys
wriggle in their G-strings, socks and shoes is
just indescribable fun, although they will ne-
ver be my idea of sexy. Rather than describing
it as a peep show, it was an entertaining and
ludicrous Broadway comedy with awkward
dancing and terrible music, where sweaty and
f lexible grown-up guys are the stars. Nothing
more and nothing less.
After standing on a chair for almost three
hours, I left Broadway when the now extre-
mely frisky audience got the chance to take
their picture with the group. Some women
couldn’t get enough of their muscular and
sweaty bodies at that time (maybe the trips
to the bar had something to do with that).
Whether the Chippendales left home alone
that night is hard to say but they undoubtedly
sent a group of horny and tipsy women out
into the night.
Flexible, Greased Up Comedy
Chippendales strip for Icelandic women at Broadway
by steinunn jakobsdóttir
recreation
Rather than describing it as a peep show, it was an
entertaining and ludicrous Broadway comedy with awk-
ward dancing and terrible music, where sweaty and flex-
ible grown-up guys are the stars.
3