Inge Berge: news

Ten True Things & A Filthy Dirty Lie is being pressed. I expect to be able to deliver it around April 12th. Look for promo and general pressure to buy, coming to your inbox soon!

The new record is coming along great. Just putting the finishing touches on the last track, then a few more tweaks on some of the mixes, then we're pretty much ready for mastering.

It's sounding good & I'm happy with the results so far. I'm hoping you will be, too.

The Rockpile sessions from this summer came out great, and I
just did a session here in Norway with a couple of lovely & talented backup vocalists, Linni & Annika, who put their personal touch on a tune called "Ah! This Vanity." Sexy.

Stay tuned.

Things are moving forward. I'm THIS close to announcing an official release date. It'll be sometime in the winter.

Things are sounding good. I'm writing, producing, recording, scheming, dreaming, wheeling and dealing.

There will be a couple of hits on this record. Sez me.

Some of the tracks are more or less ready. You've heard the previews: Hacksaw, One True Thing, Fiona. Much more has been recorded, but I'm not pre-releasing any more stuff till the real record comes out. Muah.

Now you know.

Stay tuned.

Found this little ditty today. Says it all. Rough translation follows. 

Trass - Raga Rockers ©2009 M. Krohn

Jeg er tapernes konge

Jeg lever på trass

Spiser søppel

Bader I dass

Velstand og lykke

Preller av på meg

Jeg kjører en annen vei

Men bakken er glatt

Og bilen mangler ratt

Jeg tror jeg blir sjakk matt

Det er ikke lett å slåss

Mot alle på en gang

Uten annen grunn

Enn for å være vrang

Fred og kærlighet

Funker ikke for meg

Jeg kjører en annen vei

Men bakken er bratt

Og batteriet er flatt

Jeg tror jeg blir sjakk matt

Spite - Raga Rockers ©2009 M. Krohn

I'm the king of the losers

I live just for spite

I eat garbage

I swim in shite

Well being & happiness

Never stick with me

I drive another road, you see

But it's slick and it's uphill

and the car ain't got no wheel

Think I'm finally gonna keel

It ain't easy to fight off

all that needs resistance

based on nothin' 'cept

a contrary insistence

Peace & Love

Don't work out for me

I drive another road, you see

But it's slick and it's uphill

and the fuel gauge screams "nil" 

Think I'm finally gonna keel

 

Inge is looking for a small, but influential indie-label to distribute The Zerosum in Scandinavia and Europe. The label must be able to get the record into the right stores, as well as work to place its songs in appropriate films/TV shows/radio programs.

Inge stands firmly by this record and believes it is an interesting and aesthetically/existentially challenging concept piece which deserves a place on the CD-shelves of serious music lovers all over the world.

Inge's label of choice should be arts-minded rather than overtly commercial, and it should have experience in the marketing and distribution of niche art. This CD is not a WalMart/Convenience store pop-hit-of-the-day mega-seller, but rather, if handled by the right people, a collector's item with a potential "long tail" of sales for years to come.

The label should also be willing and able to collaborate financially with the artist on future releases of high artistic integrity.

Please visit the links page to download a pdf one-sheet describing The Zerosum and additional promotional materials. Musical selections from the record can be sampled in Inge's tape vault.
The record is currently distributed via CDBaby.com and iTunes.
Interested labels can request a copy of the CD by contacting info (at) ingebergeworld.com or by using the form on this website's home page.

Hey son or daughter
welcome to the air outside
As you can see, there's a lot of stuff out here
mostly plastic & chemicals.

The best thing we sculpted out of
plastic & chemicals so far is called  "Television."
Television tells you what things
you need in order to be 
successful and happy.

In order to be happy, you must Consume
lots of things.
The more you Consume
the happier you are. 

It's important that you try to Consume 
more than your neighbors and friends. 

The Television
will keep you constantly informed
about the things you need to 
Consume.

Keep it on at all times.

If there are things you don't feel you need, you
are doing something wrong. Work harder, and 
watch more Television.

In order to get all this stuff, you
will have to work hard for someone else, 
who gives you money
to buy some of the stuff the Television 
says you need.

This person will always have more stuff than you.
That way you will be reminded that 
you need to be more like him
and try to get more of the stuff he has.

Don't be afraid to get tired of old things very very quickly,
and try to get new things
very very quickly. 

This helps the Economy. 
The faster you can use up things, 
The better the Economy is, 
and the better the Economy is, 
the faster new things 
can get made, 
so you can always be happier
and happier
and happier
and happier
and happier
and happier
and happier
and happier
and happier
and happier

like, if your microwave oven is too slow, 
buy a new one, as fast as you can, 

and if something doesn't entertain you in less than, say, 10 seconds, 
(like a "book",  or "music",  or a "film", or "trees")
throw it away 
and buy something else. 

The happiest, most successful people we know about
have actually built "shopping malls" where "trees" used to be.
Maybe you can, too?

Always remember: if you're not totally happy (if you can't get enough stuff) you can always take a drug. The Television
will tell you which ones are good. 

Any questions,
come see me
during a commercial break.

_{Click here for the version published in the Gloucester Daily Times.}
When I first heard about the now dubious "teen pregnancy pact" at GHS and the international media-frenzy it sparked, my instinct wasn't to be ashamed of my adopted hometown.

After reading the onslaught of moral condemnation and outright hatefulness which has formed the bulk of the responses from Gloucester's suddenly high and mighty citizenry, however, I'm not so sure.

Sure, this is an odd and unusual situation. Teenage motherhood is obviously not something to be taken on casually, and eighteen high-school girls choosing to become pregnant concurrently is an uncommon and noteworthy occasion.

But is there really cause for hue and cry, moral outrage and wholesale condemnation of the girls (and boys) involved? Of course not. Yet the city's editorial pages and online bulletin boards are dripping with derision. I’ve read, among other absurdities, calls for “sterilization of youth”, “public shaming”, “immediate expulsion from school” and – get this! – “the mayor must resign.”

In addition to this, many area talk radio hosts, frothing at the mouth, evidently think nothing of hurling the ugliest epithets at these girls. “Slut” , “whore”, “welfare trash” and “illegitimate” have all been become staples of radio vocabulary in recent days.

As I read and hear some of the medieval venom directed at these girls - that's when I cringe in shame over our society. That's when I can’t help but recall the Salem witch trials. That's when I see what a powerfully negative force mob mentality can be. That's when I see that whatever choices these girls may have made for themselves, their chances of success are are all but annihilated by the overwhelmingly condemning reactions of local society.

We seem to be forgetting a couple of key things in this story: Even teenage girls have civil liberties. Even teenage girls hold the rights to their own bodies and their own reproductive systems. Even teenage girls have the right to make uncommon and challenging choices. It is not for you and me to jump to the knee-jerk conclusion that all these girls are stupid and uninformed; that they and their offspring are doomed because of their admittedly radical choice. Even so, most of Gloucester evidently sees nothing wrong with engaging in a hate-fest directed at these young women, as if driven by a collective wish to enforce a self-fulfilling prophecy of utter failure for every pregnant high school girl, regardless of her individual circumstances.

The media have, by and large, rushed at the opportunity to help hang these young women. Instead of taking a rational, pragmatic approach - as in: "OK, here's an unusual and challenging situation. What can we do to make the best of this?" - the media and much of the public have brought out the pitchforks and mounted their collective high horse, preferring to ignore the fact that teenage motherhood is in fact feasible, has in fact been undertaken successfully by millions (billions?) of women throughout human history, and can, under the best of circumstances, be rewarding and fulfilling - if necessarily immensely challenging - for both parent and child.

I am not trying to paint a picture of teenage motherhood as something to be encouraged in modern society: as the recent media storm succinctly illustrates, we are ill equipped to deal with the notion. I am a firm believer in sex education, open and free information about human sexuality, reproduction, contraception and the value of making informed, autonomous choices regarding one's own body. These are measures which have been solidly proven to greatly reduce teen pregnancy rates in all societies in which they are meaningfully practiced.

("Abstinence education," by the way, is prima facie nonsensical. Teenagers will always engage in sex - society's only measure of control over which being whether they tend to do so aided by informed decision-making or else in blind ignorance of the facts of life.)

At any rate: I wish to extend an overdue "congratulations" to all these pregnant girls. In case we’ve all forgotten, it’s a common, decent word of well-wishing and good will usually bestowed on expectant moms. It’s a word of which these young mothers-to-be have been woefully deprived - due not only to their age and unusual circumstance, but by society's general thirst for scorn and self-righteous indignation in place of much needed support and guidance. "It takes a village," the saying goes. I hope this village is enlightened enough to put away the tar and feathers, and instead help these young moms deal with their situation in a pragmatic, reasonable manner.

Godspeed!

---

Click here for the version published in the Gloucester Daily Times.
All those in favor of living in a police state, say nothing.
Is it just me, or are things changing around here?

Ok, here's the deal, folks. I'm sitting at this local bar last Friday night, just me and a friend. Having a martini, shooting the breeze, enjoying life. Real chill. Real mellow. There are probably ten other patrons in the room plus the restaurant-owner and the barkeep; respectable folk, all. A class joint, by all standards - not the kind of place where any kind of trouble goes down. Just good food, good drinks, civilized company. Every last person in the joint is behaving him- or herself perfectly, all are well dressed and speaking in subdued tones and drinking Chardonnay or Pinot Grigio. Get my drift?

I would say the name of the place, but then it would look like I'm writing this on behalf of the owner, which I'm not. These are just my private observations.

Anyway. I guess it must have been around 10-ish. We'd been half-way noticing a police cruiser parked out front the previous hour or so – effectively blocking the entrance to the parking area, so that no more cars could enter. Come to think of it, no new patrons entered the establishment on foot either, the whole time the cruiser sat out front. The establishment is relatively new, and could probably use all the business it can get on a Friday night, but, hey. Whatever, right?

At around ten, two uniformed, armed policemen enter the bar. Mind you, there's nothing going on, nobody has called them; nobody would have any reason to. Nevertheless, these two Gloucester cops show up - and more or less start to interrogate the bar owner. Right in front of us - his patrons, his bread and butter. "You the owner, Sir? Any problems with underage drinking in your place? Everything cool? Ever have any trouble? Fights, excessive drunkenness?" I'm paraphrasing, but you get the idea.

It seems they were doing random spot-checks on several area bars and restaurants. Just sort of letting their presence be known, letting the bar-owner know they're there. Always. Right near by. Ready to pounce at the slightest stirring. Listen up, folks. Don’t even think about any funny business. We’re on it.
Now, most folks probably think this is a good thing. Many would likely say this is an example of "good community policing" or some such phrase. I happen to see things in a different light. The whole song-and-dance looked more like posturing to me. If not quite intimidation, then uncouth at least. There's a very fine line between "protect and serve" and "intimidate and harass.”

Maybe it's my upbringing. I grew up in Norway. In the eighties. A very different time and place than post-9/11 America, to be sure. No terror threats, real nor imagined, no rampant crime. It seemed very free. Very free of police, too. Come to think of it, I don't know that I ever saw a policeman or a police cruiser from the time I was born until I turned nineteen and moved stateside. That's maybe a slight exaggeration, but you get my drift. As kids, we partied, hung out, did our thing. In the woods, at our friends' houses, at the local lake. In discos and clubs. Nobody ever had occasion for any contact with law enforcement. As a matter of fact, nobody ever saw the police. The police were there, you could call the local constabulary and they would surely send a man to assist, should there ever be trouble. But there never was. To the kids, “The Police” meant a British new-wave band.

Now it's 2008 and I live in Gloucester, MA, USA. Allegedly, I’m a resident of the freest country in the world. I see, on average, 15-20 patrol vehicles a day. If I walk my dog around the block, all probability indicates I'll see an armed officer in a marked cruiser. If I drive anywhere, even just across town, I'm likely to spot at least two or three. In short, police presence is high, folks. We have highly paid, deadly-force-equipped cops guarding every manhole cover being opened, every tree-branch being sawed, every pothole being filled, every peaceful gathering of anything more than a small handful of citizens. If we're lucky, maybe they'll clear the streets following this year's Fiesta celebration with snarling German Shepherds, just to be on the safe side; to protect the reveling citizenry from itself. Who knows? Who cares, right?

The US has the highest rate of incarceration in the history of the world; of human civilization. We have in effect done away with habeas corpus, and our federal government is in the process of demanding that all states comply with the Real ID act, requiring all citizens to be ready to "show their papers" at any and all prompting. Panopticon society is fast becoming a reality, and we simply don't care, as long as there are still cheap flat-screens at Best Buy and juicy gossip about Britney and Paris in the tabloids.

Police is needed in any community, and I applaud and support the fine work of police departments and officers everywhere who fight crime while always keeping in mind what it is they’re helping to safeguard: a free and open society.

Friday’s little cop-show at the bar, however, made me wonder just how long it will be until it's decreed to be OK for officers to enter peoples homes to conduct spot-checks: Just checking in, ma'am. Just keeping you safe from yourself and making sure everything is up to specs. Not to worry. Anything suspicious to report about your neighbors? We’re watching ya.
Now, notice I am not accusing any officer of any kind of wrongdoing under current laws and guidelines. Friday’s police visit was in perfect keeping with the present American zeitgeist; perfectly aligned with our current paradigm of inviting the ever-stronger arm of the law into all forms of social interaction. To me, it was a fitting piece of evidence of a society grown accustomed to forfeiting its civil liberties, piece by piece, in exchange for a perceived increase in order and security.

All those in favor of living in a police state, say nothing. World history indicates you're very likely to get your wish granted.

Postscript: It is now the following Wednesday. After a long day at work, I’m heading back home; the last train from Boston. All day, ruminations on the wisdom (or lack thereof) of publishing the piece you’ve just read have been churning in the back of my mind. Showing this piece to friends and acquaintances, I’ve been advised not to publish it as many times as I’ve been told it ought be printed – which perhaps tells us something about prevalent views on police, liberty, free expression.

At any rate: as I groggily step out onto the platform in Gloucester at 1:15 AM, I and the other passengers are greeted by two policemen, their bright flashlights in our faces, accompanied by a brusque demand for ID. When I ask one of the officers what the story is, he replies “Oh yeah, you wanna get involved, do you? You could be a terrorist, that’s what the story is. Lets’s see some ID before I take you in.” I quickly comply, asking no more questions.

---

I saw something today, briefly. I'm not sure it's all that excellent for my sanity.

My old iPod died a while back, and I just replaced it with an iPod Shuffle. You know, the new clip-on, featherweight, matchbook-sized gadget from Apple. It plays music. Any music. Any sound ever recorded by anybody. Any music that ever made it onto waxpaper, bakelite, vinyl, magnetic tape, CD; any vibration ever made by a human musician and shared with the world as the audible product of their souls, hearts, brains, mouths and fingers.

As it turns out, it can all be stored and reproduced by a thing the size of a matchbook, weighing not much more than a soda cap, player and storage medium one and the same.

I used to understand sound, so I thought. I used to feel I understood soundwaves; their objective, empiric, comprehensible existence. I could mentally follow the path of a soundwave's physicality: how the vibrations of a guitar string make their way into a record groove, how the singer's voice is really only air moving in waves and patterns, patterns drawn so accurately as to communicate the soul, the heart, the art, the essence of the singer. A needle on a record, a finger on a string, a breath on a membrane.

When the digital age came, I sort of followed, still. I could conceptualize how soundwaves were broken down into mathematical equations, sound-pictures drawn binarily - ones and zeroes, etched onto disc, read by laser, reanimated through the D/A conversion process and ending back up as physical waves, yet again tickling the eardrum, making you and I hear the music.
There was always a spinning disc, a mechanical something. A physical, tangible element. Movement. You knew there was a plastic platter spinning inside your CD player, psychologically recalling the physical process of making sound, a carousel of time, a tangible timeline of aural events. There was a motor. Ones and zeroes, sure, but they lived on something. A spinning disc. A hard drive, at least. There was still the reminder of motion; the movement of sound from medium to eardrum.

The disc is gone. Flash memory. The artist is kept alive by a battery the size of a pinkie nail. His soul, his thoughts, his sound, his vibrations, his emotions: living - self contained - in a flash memory chip. No movement, no vibration, no spin. A secret, unseen army of sixteen trillion quantum-size soldiers, each responsible for exactly one sixteen-trillionth of the artist's soul, zealously guarding a one or a zero, flashing their identity on the timekeeper's exact signal - as long as his sun, the fingernail battery, gives his army nourishment.

Earlier tonight, I stood in an open field, stars above, earbuds in ears, and listened to myself. My own voice, my own guitar, my own feelings, my own emotions. The record I made a year ago. It was coming from an item the size of a matchbook, an item with no moving parts, not even a slight vibration. There was no remaining hint of mechanics, only data-transfer between matchbook-chip and Inge-brain. Two values - everything and nothing, on and off, one and zero - flashing at light speed and recreating, well, me.
As I listened and looked at the stars, a fleeting satori-like notion flew through the moment: neurochemistry is digital but reality is analog. Then the thought disappeared, and I haven't really been able to get in touch with it since. Guess I got sidetracked by wondering when exactly the 16,000,000,000,000 soldiers and their offspring will move out of the matchbook and into my brain, to be directly overseen by myself in conjunction with Apple and Pfizer Pharmaceuticals.

How many angels can dance on the head of a pin? Can we do anything but wait, and keep listening, having, perhaps irreversibly, discovered that all human effort just may be reducible to the size of a soda cap?



***

Inge Berge will perform - physically, tangibly - at the Dogbar Sunday night. Strings will vibrate, voices will travel through membranes, cables and speaker-cones, to be received by your eardrums, and, if we do it right, the process will make you drink martinis, dance, socialize, talk and have a good time. Ain't that something. It's an analog sensation.


Inge at the DogBar, Gloucester, MA. Sunday nights, 930-closing.

www.ingebergeworld.com www.dogbarcapeann.com

Also, at the Mandrake, Beverly. Tuesday. Nine o'clock!

www.mandrakebeverly.com ***

To say that Janice Moresby was torn by doubt would be like saying it's a little bit tricky to calculate the exact value of pi.

Sure, she was perfectly well accustomed to making fast,rational and - more often than not - correct decisions in her job at the
hospital. Janice excelled at her work. But this was different.

Janice just couldn't shake the feeling. An ominousness, a foreboding, a sort of emotional nausea. It had stayed with her since Wednesday, when she first learned, through a coworker, that Inge Berge and His Red Acoustic™ would be appearing at Mandrake in Beverly. On a Monday! This coming Monday!

"Inge plays the Mandrake on Tuesdays," she had countered. No use. The coworker, a rather steely, frequently sterile and humorless neurosurgeon, had persisted in repeatedly assuring Janice that it was in fact true. "Inge is playing on Monday this coming week, not Tuesday, Janice. End of story. It's an unalterable, clinical, scientific fact. Live with it."

Bastard.

How could it be? The dilemma persisted, gnawed, tore at Janice's brain. Monday is Jam night at the Rhumbline! With Leo, Joe and the boys! This cannot be. Like a pesky gnat on a hot summer night, the thought just wouldn't let up. Several times Janice thought she saw the answer coming to her, only to see it evaporate into new rounds
of paradox a minute later: a new depth of impossibility, a
centrifuge of sheer unsolveability.

Janice slept poorly all week. Tossing. Turning. Night sweats. Channel surfing, re-reading her favorite books, even wandering the empty streets, fruitlessly looking for answers. Saturday night she took a Valium. She had always been very careful with benzodiazepines, wouldn't usually touch them, but on this particular night it was simply a necessity. For her sanity, she told herself. She slept a deep, dreamless sleep that night, and when she poured her morning
coffee, drowsier than usual, the obsession seemed weakened,
neutered. But noontime came, and Bang! there it was again. Monday! Goddamn, motherfucking, cocksucking Monday! Inge at the Mandrake! Janice didn't usually swear. Not at work.

Janice read Kafka. She read Kant. She revisited both Jung and Freud. She poured over Dostoevsky, the DSM-IV, the Bible, the I-Ching, Nietzsche and Kierkegaard. She even delved headlong into an impossible quagmire of a book, "The 12 Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous." Janice was a very, very fast reader. No answers. No leads. No insights, no revelations.

Monday came as Monday always will. Janice was in hell. Every second, every tick of every hospital clock was a gunshot, an exploding bullet, a countdown to impossibility, to a morass of Nothing, to an incalculable singularity. Evening would come, Janice would find herself in her car, driving around and around the rotary, unable to
decide whether to turn up Washington street or else head down highway Twelve-Eight toward Beverly.

Perhaps the police would finally stop her, bring her in for
questioning, jail her for the night. At least it would be settled,
then: No music. No drinks. No company, no dancing. No Inge at The Mandrake. No Rhumbline Jam. Perhaps it would all be for the best.

Janice left the hospital at six. Janice went home to relax and get ready for a night out; that was the story she told her colleagues.

She was found three days later by a hiker. Dogtown, near Whale's Jaw. Wearing nothing but a knit poncho and her grandmothers showercap, singing Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive." According to the
paramedics report, she had tethered herself to a young spruce with a length of bungee-cord, and there were cut-marks on her elbows. She was trembling. Hypothermia and hunger were all she knew. That, and
the lyrics to "I Will Survive."



Study Questions:

1) What was Janice's dilemma?

2) Was the dilemma really unsovable? Why? Why not?

3) Where is Inge playing on Monday night?

4) What would you do in Janice's situation?

Please return your answers/essays via electronic mail to
janicedilemma@ingebergeworld.com no later than Monday, April 7th,
5:00 PM. You will be graded. Please indicate if you consent to your
answer being posted at ingebergeworld.com.

*****

Study Questions:

1) What was Janice's dilemma? Janice's dilemma was that she was incapable of accepting that there can be order in chaos and this contradicted with her controlled, rational, anal retentive world. This caused her high levels of anxiety, followed by an intense break with reality that isolated her from joy, love, and most importantly, music by Inge Berge and Leo Sharamitaro.

2) Was the dilemma really unsovable? Why? Why not? If Janice can accept that control can be gain by releasing all control over to an energy greater than herself, she might be able to find joy in the addition to Inge Berge on a Monday night. She could also consider seeing a psychologist who could put her on some strong mood stabilizers and/or anti-anxiety medications. She could also learn to resolve this inner turmoil by learning some meditation.

3) Where is Inge playing on Monday night? Beverly, MA at The Mandrake, only a fifteen minute drive from The Rhumbline in Gloucester.

4) What would you do in Janice's situation? I would embrace the idea of experiencing Inge and Leo together in one night ;)



Grade: A

You present a grab-basket of possible solutions or remedies to Jainice's dilemma, and I like the result-oriented nature of your reply.

I feel, however, that you are taking too lightly on the dilemma itself, preferring instead to pretend that the two are easily combinable: while doable, going to both events is not practical for most people and seemed to be something that Janice could not even bring herself to consider. But perhaps she should have, true enough.

You also discount the problem of free will a little bit too easily, I think... Janice was a rational woman and as such not particularly prone to simply leaving the decision to a "Higher Power." Such solutions are often helpful to those with a pre-existing proneness towards belief in the numinous, but it is my take on Janice that she had few or no such inclinations.

While a neuro-chemical angle on Janice's predicament may have been partially helpful, I doubt that anything would have been fast-acting enough to work in the time allotted (wednesday to monday; five days.)

Your reply is well thought out and open minded. Perhaps my main issue lies with #4 in which you say (with a wink) that it's possible to experience Inge Berge and Leo Sharamitaro concurrently, or "together in one night." I wish to assure you this is as close to an impossibility as you can imagine.

Study Questions:

1) What was Janice's dilemma?

janice is obviously a woman of knowledge, depending on facts and truths to get her through her day. Her inability to deal with the harsh realities of a musicians changing schedules baffled her beyond comprehension.

2) Was the dilemma really unsovable? Why? Why not?

duh. it was not unsolvable. check out ingebergworld.com its that easy. she couldnt handle the truth of a change in pace.

3) Where is Inge playing on Monday night?

MANDRAKE

4) What would you do in Janice's situation?

i would call you and say " yo berg, is it true your playing the mandrake on a monday?!" you may respond with a "well yes zoe, it is true. because im a musician i am available to play music whether it be a monday or a tuesday night. hope to see you there"


Grade: B

I am flattered, yet troubled by the easy, one-sided view you take of Janice's dilemma. It's as if you choose to ignore the entire Rhumbline problem, focusing instead on Inge's simple schedule change, and forgetting the resulting juxtaposition with another important event, the jam at the Rhumbline.

Study Questions:

1) What was Janice's dilemma?

I think Janice was dead and did not realize it, like Bruce Willis in
"The Sixth Sense"

2) Was the dilemma really unsovable? Why? Why not?

Janice's dilemma truly IS unsolvable unless she can sacrifice her own
life, as did a certain heroic deep core driller slash astronaut on an
asteroid in the movie Armageddon.

3) Where is Inge playing on Monday night?

Inge is performing as a member of Loose Goose at Planet Hollywood in
Beverly, MA.

4) What would you do in Janice's situation?

If I were Bruce Willis I would not know what to do, because I stopped
drinking alcohol in 1988 and both situations are extremely risky.

This reminds me, I truly realized that Janice was actually Bruce
Willis when she was reading the "12 Steps" book.



Grade: C+

Joe, I think you are taking the "Bruce Willis" inference out of thin air. It's a creative attempt at a solution, but I don't know that it has any real world applicability.

I am tempted to believe you are trying to skirt the real issue because you are part of the dilemma, a reality you don't wish to face.

Study Questions:

1) What was Janice's dilemma? Janice does not know what she wants but
yearns for Inge's music and more then that she wants a piece of his soul
as hers has fades away. Like a tic she wants to latch on but there is a
force that keeps her away......haunting her to hear the music of Inge as
the jam at the Rhumbline is a hit or miss. Who will play? Will they be
good? Will they play one chord all night like they do at times!!!! This
turns into a crush on Inge but she does not know why.

2) Was the dilemma really unsolvable? Why? Why not? What she wants is
not Inge but the creative spirit that commands him to play night after
night even if he gets depressed and wants to quit the guitar and singing
he can't......It is unsolvable because Janice does not know what she
wants because it is deep deep in her soul!

3) Where is Inge playing on Monday night? Mandrake .......

4) What would you do in Janice's situation? I would get my own guitar
and learn to play it so I too could reach the heavens with sweet musical
sounds that sooth the soul....



Grade: A-

I like your analysis and your creative solution, bypassing the entire dilemma by instead becoming self-sufficient and making her own music. But if we all did that, would anyone have an audience? Is everything ultimately a selfish pursuit, to the point of inevitable solipsism?

A somewhat satisfactory solution, but by no means universal.

***

I.
My name is Inge, and I'm a liar. (Hi, Inge!)
I've been telling the Truth for 5 years now, ever since I discovered the wonderful program of Liars Anonymous. (Applause.)
I would like to share with you what brought me here, how I recovered from active lying through this heaven-sent program, where I was, and where I am now - all thanks to this fellowship known as Liars Anonymous.

I had a normal childhood. Loving, responsible parents, food on the table, vacations by the sea. A normal, privileged kid, by all accounts. Except for one thing. I discovered lying early. Sure, all the kids lied a little bit: an exaggeration there, an omission here. Just normal stuff. A padded story, an innocent fabrication. No big deal. For them, that is. Me, I knew I was different. Once I started lying, I just couldn't stop.

I remember how I first started thinking I might have a different relationship with the truth. I had been at a birthday party for one of the neighborhood kids, an 11 year old girl named Lina. All the kids were playing games, having fun, lying a little bit here and there, making some stuff up as they went along. Like ordinary kids. Not me!

We'd played a game of "telephone." You know, you whisper into the ear of the kid next to you, the secret phrase goes around the table, and then you reveal what you've heard, compare it to the original, and have a good laugh at the intrinsic inaccurateness of verbal human communication. A learning moment. Well, the word had started out as "Birthday Cake," and I knew that. I had accidentally heard it. The phrase made it full circle, unaltered, a rare outcome. When the kid before me in line whispered "Birthday Cake" in my ear, unmistakably and with great diction, I nevertheless said "Garter Snake." The kids laughed. It was a hit! It felt good. I felt alive! Living on the edge. Soon enough I would fall off.

High school came and went. I did OK, got decent grades, hung out with some of the more popular kids, went to concerts, parties, bars, dance clubs. Played in a rock band. Lied the entire time! For each lie a schoolmate of mine told, I would tell two. Or three. Nobody really noticed it. I hid it well, you see: No whoppers, no obvious fallacies, no getting completely out of hand in public. Now and again some jackass would question the veracity of a story I had made up, and I would usually just stop hanging out with him. Avoid people like that, lie secretly to myself if I had to. Nobody would discover my lying problem that way. Denial was my best friend. My only friend. My one true ally.

It got progressively worse and worse, as this hellish disease inevitably will. By my mid-twenties, I was lying all day, every day. Started the day with a fib, an eye-opener, just to ease the pain of the heavy lying the night before. Lunch-time falsehoods, afternoon fictions, evening canards. It didn't matter what the occasion was: work or leisure, happy or sad, solemn or light. Everything was an excuse to lie. I started being careless about being caught, too. By now, I didn't really care who knew that I wasn't telling the truth, all that mattered was telling another cock-and-bull story. More, more, more. My work suffered, my relationships were all going to hell, my life was, in short, a mess of lies. One after the other. Untruth built upon prevarication, fabrication upon fallacy. Little inaccuracies had long since stopped cutting it: I had set up shop in the land of impossible whoppers. Fantasy stuff. Improbabilities beyond the pale. Everybody knew by now. But I kept on lying. Lying about lying. Lying about lying about lying. (Chuckles.)
I hit my bottom at thirty. I woke up one morning in a hotel room in West Palm Beach. Didn't really remember how I got there, something to do with work, a conference, a major client, it didn't seem to matter. All I knew was that I had sat in the same hotel room for three straight weeks, doing nothing except lie. All by myself. To myself. Hadn't even lied to strangers. Just me. It was all a blur. I had been on benders before, sure, but this was truly beyond the pale. Hadn't done a lick of work. I vaguely remember a phone call, or was it just a voicemail message? - informing me that I'd been fired, that must have been sometime during the first week. Finally checking all my messages that awful, mind-bending, hellish Florida morning was the wake-up call I needed. My wife wanted a divorce, I was fired from my job, there were thirteen messages from my best friend wondering where the hell I had been, my parents were worried sick, my dog was dead. Heart attack or broken heart, not sure which. A message from my lawyer, too, firing me as his client.

My first instinct, even inside this moment of clarity, was to reach for the phone and lie some more. Try to escape the awful truth, explain it all away with more stories, further misrepresentation. But something else took hold of me on that morning. Something greater than myself. I decided to get help. I did use the phone, but for a radically different purpose: I called Liars Anonymous. The local chapter promptly sent two men carrying Truth. The rest is history.

So now I'm here, in this meeting, telling you all my story. I know it's similar to many stories told in this room. Through the strength of the fellowship of Liars Anonymous, I've been telling the Truth for five years now. I will always be a liar, that is true. But through this program, I have found that I can arrest my disease. As long as I stay away from lies - all lies, even the slightest bending of truth - I will be a Truthteller. And let me tell you, that is WAY better. (Applause.)
I would be lying if said there haven’t been difficulties. About three years into my Truthtelling, after the pink-cloud stage was over, I got very tempted. I started telling myself I could lie just a little bit again, hang out with some regular liars, go to liar bars. Make up some stuff. Moderate lying. I know it's possible for some people, you see them every day - these people who can fabricate just a little bit, get away with it, you know, life goes on, no harm, no foul. Normal folks... whatever that means.

One Friday night, two years ago, I tempted fate, dangerously. I don't really know what got into me (actually, oops, that's a lie: It was a desire to be "normal, like them." Forget about it, folks! (Chuckles.)
Anyway, I went into a bar, sat at a table, started a conversation with some strangers, nice people. Shot a game of pool with them. After an hour, the bullshit was flying pretty high and everyone was having a great time. Everyone except me, that is. By the end of the night, I had spun tales so tall that nobody even pretended to believe me anymore. I was banging my fist on the table, yelling, insisting that everything I'd said was true, but it was no use. I was out of control again. So quickly! Once a True Liar, always a True Liar. I was embarrassed and humiliated, and I went home that night knowing that the first thing I would do in the morning was to find an L.A. meeting. There is no playing around with “white” lies when you're a True Liar. It's all or nothing. Complete abstinence, or complete bullshit. (Applause.)
Well, I've been completely truthful since then. No slips. Not a fib, not even a willful omission. Complete veracity and factualness in all my affairs. It's True. Thanks for listening to me, guys. Without you fellows, I'd surely be out there, lying like a rug, right now. I am Truly grateful. Thank you! (Big Applause.)



II.


My name is Inge, and I'm a liar. (Hi, Inge!)
I've been lying to you this whole time. (Silence.)
I don't know what to do. I've been working the program, I've been doing the steps. I've been going to meetings. You all know that, you've seen me here. But I'm still lying. It's true. Nothing I've said in these meetings over the last five years has been truthful. Been lying the whole time, fibbing, fantasizing, fabricating. Through the teeth. (Complete silence.)
I want to stop. I swear to you all. (Complete silence.)
Ok, Ok. I know! Why should you believe me? I'm telling the truth now, I swear. Please, God, let these people know that I am telling the truth about my lying. Please, please, please, God. I want to change.

Listen, fellows. I know where I went wrong, alright? It's Keira. I met her six years ago. In a liar's joint. I've never talked about her in meetings. I know. Hear me out. I'm coming clean. (Pin-drop silence.)
Keira and I hit it off, alright? Big time! I fell in love. Like never before. Great conversation. Magic. Chemistry. Politics, art, life, religion, sex. Oh, the sex!! But I digress. Me, the True Liar, truly in love with a regular, everyday fibber. Is this possible? Of course not. We know that. What was I thinking? (Headshakes, murmur.)
But, you know, I've been sticking with her ever since. Living a big, fat lie. Hear me out, friends! I'm clean now, I swear. She's gone from my life.

Keira calls herself a moderate liar. She lies occasionally, about small stuff. It's so easy for her. Just an appropriate, white lie, only when necessary, for fun, to relax, just to tell a story. People know when she's lying, and she just shrugs it off, it's nothing, just fun. She never had a True Lying problem. OK?

So here I am. Totally in love with this wonderful, mostly truthful woman. And I just can't handle it! Seeing her spin a tale so effortlessly, so occasionally, so flawlessly, with charm and finesse to boot - I just can't handle it. I can't be around lying at all! It messes with my head, and I start lying again. I swear, It's like I don't even know I'm doing it. It's like an illusion of truth, I believe my own bullshit, I listen to her lie, and it's beautiful, and I get totally turned on by it. Then we're off to the races, folks. After a while, we reach complete breakdown, and nobody can tell the truth even if we wanted to at that point.

I think I'm going insane, friends.

We've tried everything. We truly wanted to be together, her and I. But she's a normie. A moderate liar. She started attending meetings herself for a while, to try to lie a little more, to try to be more like me. Truthtellers Anonymous, you know it, the program for people who can't lie and would like to learn how. But that wasn't Keira's problem, she didn't fit in. She can't be a True Liar, and she can't be a Lying Truthteller. She's somewhere in between. It's her nature, she seems to have been born that way! No matter what whoppers she earnestly tries to fabricate, they just don't come across as True Lying. Not like mine, not when I used to lie actively. Those were solid lies, real lies, serious problem lying, disease lying. The biological, inborn kind.

Keira just can't help operating somewhere in the middle. Mostly truth, some small exaggerations here and there. It's incomprehensible to me, extremely confusing. I'm more fucked up than I have ever been, excuse my French. (I don't speak French, though I used to lie and say I did.)

That woman, my co-dependence on her, that’s been my main problem these past six years, and I finally see that. I broke up with her last week. I sent her packing in a cloud of lies, half-truths and True Truths. After she was gone, I sat in my kitchen for 8 hours, bullshitting to myself, bad stuff. Then I lied myself to sleep. It was awful. I pray this was my True bottom. It must have been. If it wasn't, I'd rather die. I swear. This whole week has been a blur, absolute hell. Many times worse than West Palm Beach. I swear it's true.

Anyway. Keira is gone now, and I'm here with you guys. To tell the Truth, I'm going to be taking a break from this homegroup for the next eighteen weeks. I've reserved a bed for myself at an intensive Truth-resort in Ohio, True Living™ - just working the program, re-learning the steps. Total immersion in the Truth, twentyfour-seven. I know I will come out of it a changed man. They've got a great track record working with chronic re-liars. I understand their main focus is on instilling in the Liar a sense of True Belonging to the True Liar community, so that he'll never want to mingle with moderate liars again, even if it means spending the rest of his life completely alone, being Truly True. They also have strong links with Solipsists Anonymous, Paranoia Anonymous, Hypocrites Anonyomus and Anonymous Anonymous, should it come to that. I pray it doesn’t, but I'll do whatever it takes this time. I promise.

I have hope for the future, hope for myself. I find hope in this Program, fuck everything else, God bless you all, and thank you for hearing me out. Yours Truly!

(Thunderous, True Applause.)

©2008 Inge Berge

***

10:48 Wake up, shower, floss, brush teeth, trim nose hairs.

11:27 Coffee. Newspaper. Finish 7% of crossword.

12:01 Walk dog around block. Poor thing really needs to go.

1:02 Start getting ready for brunch with uncle Bert and Aunt Selma.
There's simply no getting out of it this time.

2:05 Late brunch. Eggs, toast, ham, maybe a mimosa or two. Aunt Selma be
damned if she can't handle it. Hear all about cousin Fred and how he's doing
out in Indiana. Never did care much for that guy. What a tool.

3:33 Home. Pop on the TV. Skim the paper some more. Form more solid opinion
on the Eliot Spitzer resignation. Five grand for a hooker?
Damn, that's something. Would you have sex with a powerful politician for
$5K? Of course you would. But who would offer? Nah. Not gonna happen.

4:30 PM. Nap. Sweet dreams of adventures to come, only slightly disturbed by
twisted images of a naked Spitzer, only somehow he's morphed into your
grandma, and there's some type of small poodle involved. Unsettling.

6:20 Damn, did I really fall asleep for almost two hours? Holy crap.
Better get ready for JOE AND RENEE at the Rhummy. Jot down dreams of
Grandma/Spitzer real quick, remember to tell shrink on Tuesday.

6:22 Quick second shower, just to wake up from nap.

6:28 Pick out ensemble for the evening. Something glamorous, sexy.
Feeling frisky. Need to get that grandma dream out of head.

7:07 Walk into Rhumbline. Joe and Renee playing sweet, sweet music.
Feelin' good. Couple cocktails. Chat with friends. Life is good!

9:45 Oh! F**k! INGE BERGE is at the DOGBAR! C'mon, it's right down the
street! I've heard it's where all the hipsters hang out on Sunday nights in
Gloucester!

9:55 Walk into Dogbar, order fancy martini. Look at all the hot, sexy
people, listen to the pulsating rhythms of Inge's Red Acoustic™ and feel
flush with excitement, knowing that you're cavorting with Gloucester's
in-crowd. Finally!

11:00 Never better! Sitting around a table, Inge belting classic tunes in
the corner... lively discussion about the Spitzer scandal...
hmm.. maybe best not to mention the grandma thing? More martinis. More
music. Life is good.

12:29 Things still going strong. Inge has played his Beatles medley and is
moving on to Springsteen. People are dancing and looking hot, glamorous.
Maybe tonight is the night you get lucky? You've been acting confident,
funny, and that joke you told really got the whole table. You've got game
tonight, baby!


02:18 Mental images of Grandma/Spitzer/Poodle all gone. Could this be love?
Maybe, maybe not. But one thing is certain: from now on, you'll never miss a
DogBar Sunday with INGE AND HIS RED ACOUSTIC again!
You've found a new sense of belonging, and the feeling is grand. A piece of
yourself that has somehow been missing has been replaced tonight.



08:15 The dog really needs to go out. Where the F**k am I? Holy S**t... What
happened? Who is this? Eliot Spitzer? AAAH! Ok, calm down. Time to wake up.
Am I working today? GRANDMA...!? What day is it? (Call shrink, check in)




www.ingebergeworld.com www.dogbarcapeann.com www.myspace.com/ingeberge

and hey, Inge's got a new facebook page. Join me!


DOGBAR: 65 MAIN STREET, GLOUCESTER, MA

has been dead for days

I don't give a fuck what you think.
What do you think?

I went to see his show out in Worcester the other day.
What a great guy.

I'm so lonely
wanna die
I'm so lonely
wanna die
If I ain't dead already
girl you know the reason why

Mr. Bergman has had tremendous impact on my life, esthetically, philosophically, intellectually. A giant has passed. Dear Mr. Bergman, may you rest in peace. My heartfelt thanks to you for being a beacon among artists, for continually shedding light on the human condition through your work in film and theater, and for NEVER compromising your art, your truth, to please the masses. You will continue to serve as an inspiration to me for the rest of my life. My deepest condolances to Mr. Bergman's family and associated artists.

Leo Sharamitaro fired me today. Thanks to all those who have been coming out to the Rhumbline Jam and letting me sing for them.

Well, since my baby left me,
I found a new place to dwell.
Its down at the end of lonely street
At heartbreak hotel.

Program for July 12th, please practice:


-Puff the magic Dragon
-It's a hard knock life (From "Annie")
-American Idol Medley (w/ audience participation - idea: LEO = Simon?)
-On-stage face painting & balloon animals
-The hokey pokey
-She'll be coming round the mountain (see note*)


-"Inge rides a pony"

Something for the adults: Mustang Sally (see note**)

-Nap time for the littlest ones!
-Also: Remind the audience about the special "TV" area (for those who can't handle any more live entertainment) IDEA: should we just have TV's on stage with us?

-Interactive Jam: (hand out drums/percussion to the kids): Family Values/Always Be Normal/Think Like the Rest/Jesus Wasn't Gay

-Quick break, band change into to Purple dinosaur costumes

-Barney Song
-Theme song: 'Thomas the tank engine'

-Everyone on stage: We are the world/pledge of allegiance/group hug/salute to the men and women serving our country in Iraq

-Everyone stand for the national anthem

-Inge shoots himself in the head (see note***)


END OF SHOW (45 minutes)



* I think the veiled reference to female orgasm will go over the heads of 99% of the kids. Safe?

**A bit risque, I know, but I think the kids can handle it, after all, the lyrics address the wonders of sexual abstinence; about a woman who prefers to ride in her car rather than engage in (unsafe?) sexual practices. I feel this is probably a wholesome enough message. Let me know if you think it's OK.

*** Some people have told me that they are a bit concerned with such a violent ending, but almost everyone I have spoken to concede that it's probably OK as long as there is no overt reference to sex or sexuality in the show, nor any damaging adult language. Studies have shown that kids cope much better with near constant exposure to severe violence than with hearing even a single instance of the word "fuck."


Uncle Inge

Run, kids! Run! How, you ask? By clicking THIS LINK.

In other news: today is Norway's Constitution Day. May 17. Now you know. For next year.