Last Night in Sweden…

…Kickstarter project update

As of this evening (04.13.17), the project has been funded!  The first two of the three stretch goals have been met, as well.  Hooray!

The third stretch goal, a major traveling exhibition consisting of the 50 best images, is within reach (Note to organizers:  a visit to the RTP area is expected as you do have a consulate here).  The goal is SEK 350,000. Currently, the pledged amount is SEK 337,489 or $38,423.  The project is short SEK 12,511 ($1,384 +/-).

Of course, one can make contributions at any level.  In terms of rewards, the lowest tier is a pledge of SEK 200 ($22.13 +/-) which will yield a copy of the book in either Swedish or English (supporter’s choice), along with the satisfaction of knowing that this pledge contributed to reaching that magical, third stretch goal.  Only 63 additional people are needed to make this a reality.

Alternatively, if one is feeling unusually generous and/or slightly cheeky, one could opt for the next level by contributing SEK 1,000 ($110.65 +/-).  With that, your name goes in the book and when your copy arrives, you will see it.  WITH YOUR OWN PEEPERS (eller med egna ögon – and I will continue to slaughter Swedish until the third stretch goal has been reached).  Do you know who else will see your name? Orange Foolius and every member of the European Parliament. Mmmhmmm.  Only 13 relatively big spenders are needed in this category.

For those with some serious cabbage, a commitment to the arts, a love of Sweden, a deep respect for journalistic integrity and possibly a pinch of spite, there’s the next tier which requires a pledge of SEK 3,000 ($331.94 +/-).  It comes with all of the bells and whistles offered at the lower tiers along with the signatures of every photographer contributing to the project.  Oh yes it does.  Only 34 remain at this level.

There are only 14 days remaining.  Alternatively, there are 14 days left for nagging.  Do the right thing, please.  :flutters eyelashes:

Last Night in Sweden…

…a shameless plug.

The Swedes are a curious lot; thoughtful, considerate, kind and very concerned about the welfare of others.  They are also fiercely patriotic and damn all to hell if you criticize their society or country.  Not only will they reject such criticism, they will go to extreme lengths to correct the erroneous assumption.  Once finished, they will kill you in your sleep.  Need proof?

So, when President Orange Foolius decided to besmirch their reputation, Sweden reinstitued conscription.  IKEA laced its köttbullar with horsemeat.  There was no sharing of the semlor.  40,000 ocean containers full of Kalles kaviar were dispatched to the US disguised as Easy Cheese.  The government hired scores of actors to set fire to certain areas of Stockholm for the sole purpose of giving Katie Hopkins something else to bitch about.  And for all of the Trumpeting Deplorables hoping that any of this is true:  the conscription happened well before your Dear Leader opened his foodhole, the horsemeat scandal was from 2013, you don’t deserve semlor, Katie Hopkins is a cunt and if there is any justice in this world, you will be eating Kalles (and nothing but) for the rest of your miserable existence.

Seriously, though, Swedes have had it with Donald Trump‘s misinformation campaign about their country.  HAD IT.  Over it.  And an angry Swede is not something you want to deal with for the angry Swede is not only incredibly stubborn and relentless, it’s slightly cheeky, too. Also, largely emotionless but very dignified.  The angry Swede will not wrinkle its clothes or muss its hair in battle.

To that end, a Kickstarter was born.  The project is titled “Last Night in Sweden – The True Story.”  The scope is to compile pictures of everyday life throughout Sweden between the hours of 18:00 – 0:00 (or 6pm to 12am for the unable-to-tell-time Deplorables).  These pictures will be taken by award-winning photojournalists.  That’s right.  They mean business.  These pictures will not be taken by suburban women who have their part-time “photography business” focusing primarily on children or families in bucolic fields, newly engaged couples in burnt out parts of cities and babies in wooden barrels.

Once the photos have been selected by a jury, they will be compiled and published in book form.  The first copy of the book will be presented to Shitgibbon, himself.  Stretch goals are listed on the project’s page and they’re pretty damn nifty, too.

So, for all of you truth loving folks, why not chip in and support this project?  If you love Swedenland, why not help portray it in its wonderfully magical form?  If you want to tell Donald Trump to eat a bag of dicks, kick in a few kronor – or kick in several kronor and your name will be printed in the book.  If your name is American enough, Foolius may even understand it when his grandkids read it to him at bedtime.

Supporting the arts is never an exercise in futility.  In the United States, supporting the arts is going to become the provenance of the private sector so why not get a little practice in entering that credit card number right now?  You can also consider this a multicultural endeavour as you channel Swedish customs: enforcing the truth via art and very dry humor while not taking shit from anyone who doesn’t understand their society.

Sverige…

…the horror, the terror, the recovery.

This escaped me and I do not understand how.  As a reader of several Swedish news sources, I do not understand the delay in reporting such a catastrophe in the era of the 24-hour news cycle.  I suppose, with things on a scale as grand as this, the media was simply performing its due diligence and not alerting the general public until it had thoroughly researched every fact before going to press.  Maybe this is the media’s correcting its behavior as it relates to all of the fake news stories it has been printing since The Angry Yam descended the escalator in Dump Towers and declared his intent to drive the world into the ground.  Or, perhaps, an agreement has been reached?  No news regarding the safety of human beings shall be dispersed to citizens until Our Dear Leader, Orange Foolius, informs us directly, preferably at a rally at an airport with only his most devout followers in attendance.

Imagine my emotional state when I discovered that my second country, the place that occupies my heart, the home to many of my dearest friends was attacked.  Attacked in a manner so violent, the newly sensible media thought about the general public for once and chose to withhold all reporting and publishing of photographs to keep us snowflakes from being triggered.

My friends, shaken to the core and traumatized so significantly, were unable to utilize Facebook’s safety check feature.  From what I have been able to ascertain, neither Kitten nor Blitz were able to access a cellphone signal on Friday night.  Their social media platforms were silent from early Friday evening until midday Saturday.  I can only deduce that PM Löfven is working in concert with the Tang Tyrant’s administration – withholding details until Our Dear Leader addresses his public first.  After all, we’re living in an America First era.

A friend of mine is an editor of a fairly large news outlet which provides news for expats in English in multiple countries in the EU.  It was only this morning that I managed to obtain two pictures of the damage to Sweden on Friday night.  I may be at risk of breaching trust but I understand the source of the photos has been thoroughly vetted and I fundamentally believe they must be shared with the general public.  I do not understand how and why the Short-Fingered Vulgarian is not allowing the New York Times or the Washington Post to print them. From a different source, I managed to obtain a copy of Kim Jong-un’s media management strategy guide which is circulating through the upper echelon of Our Dear Leader’s administration.  This will be shared at a later date, when my request for asylum has been granted.

I hasten to add, the images you are about to see are not appropriate for children.  If you find yourself easily agitated, you may want to stop reading at this point.  And, as I said on one of my social media platforms, when the Red Cross begins its text message drive for donations, please, please donate.  Sweden is a country of 10 million.  It has resources and a very strong social welfare system.  But, it will still need assistance from generous donors in order to appropriately distribute tools for clean up, medical services, water, etc…

snökuken Göteborg

snökuken Göteborg

snökuken Göteborg, recovery & clean up

snökuken Göteborg, recovery & clean up

Jag är Sverige för alltid.

Pantsuit Nation

please note:  my usual laziness and ambivalence will be suspended for today.  As various ideas pop into my fragmented mind, I may or may not blurt them out in manic fits of euphoria, paranoia or confusion.  It’s been a difficult election cycle for all.  On the verge of potentially (as a Philadelphia sports fan, I know better than to hope for any positive outcome) witnessing the election of a female president, I’m finding myself genuinely overcome with emotion.

During my years as a member-facing consultant, I never procured a single pantsuit. That was a pointless endeavour, as I’m short and didn’t feel like spending money on a tailor after buying an expensive suit. Skirts it was. Sadly, no pantsuit in the wardrobe for me today.

Undeterred, I yanked out one still-on-the-hanger-from-the-cleaners navy blue jacket and paired it with a red and white striped shirt, dark grey skinnies and my sugar skull boots which are embroidered with the phrase “Don’t walk in fear.” Kang’s version of a pantsuit will have to suffice for the only time I leave the house: the carpool.

Rock on, Pantsuit Nation.

The Millennal Whoop…

…that one and maybe the other one.

Earlier today, I was listening to Spinning by GROUPLOVE.  Why does that matter, you ask?  Because it’s fucking music and fucking music dictates my existence, that’s why.  And, since not even Dock is immune to a power pop song, I thought I would play Spinning for him on the way to McTeacher night at Mac-Don-Ald-Ssss because we had to dump some money into this valiant fundraising effort while slowly killing ourselves via chicken fusion, “beef” and filet-o-fisk (the word fish in Swedish is fisk).

Around minute who-gives-a-fuck Dock says “Oh!  The Millennial Whoop. Gotta have the Millennial Whoop.  Can’t have a song these days without the Millennial Whoop.”  I What-You-Tawkin-About-Willis him and wait for his knowledge drop.  Whether I like it or not, Dock is way more au courant than I in the music scene.  “The Millennial Whoop.  You know, where all the Millennial bands full of 90 members sing songs that have to include at least one ‘Wo-Oh,’ typically two.”  I’m all what-the-fuckity-fuck-are-you-on-now?  Dock patiently repeats himself and then launches into a diatribe about the Millennial bands with their eleventy billion members, their lutes, their mandolins and their ukuleles.

“Millennials have to be special, creative and different so they decided to add in a ‘Wo-Oh’ so their friend who can’t carry a tune gets a star for participation.  As for the ukuleles, well, there as many of those as there are strings on the instrument.  Each ukulele has one string and it’s played by a single person, reflecting the individuality and specialism of the player and the instrument because, in keeping with the spirit of Millennials, special things require special dedication.  A ukulele will not be sullied by a player playing all four strings at one time.  Oh fuck no.  A ukulele and its string gets the respect it deserves:  one instrument, one string and one player.  Just like the singer who can’t sing but doesn’t like feeling left out:  that person gets the ‘Millennial Whoop’ credit on the liner notes.”

You can see where we’re going.

Ever the reluctant optimist (Me.  No, really.) says “You know, I have been observing a weird trend.  It seems like the entire world has had enough of the Millennials’ handcrafted, *artisanal bullshit.  Even social anthropologists are like ‘Ugh.  I can’t eeeeven any longer with you snowflakes.  Lemme go find a hairblower to melt your sorry asses.'” Dock, being the curmudgeonly skeptic that he is offered a plate of doubt but I persisted.  I even said “Remember all those years I said, ‘let the Millennials try to change the workforce?’  No longer.  Fuck ’em.  Let them get lost on the way back from yoga or the food co-op and miss a meeting.  I’m busy raising a seven year-old and nagging you to take out the garbage.  I can’t be arsed to remind them to do their jobs or show up for a meeting.”

We came to the conclusion that, like everything else, the Millennials kind of suck.  But, we’re Gen-X so we really don’t want to invest the energy into actively disapproving of them, let alone disliking them.

Then, we decided to do a comparative analysis about shopping for a vehicle:  Gen-X vs Millennials, reality vs life through rose colored glasses.

Car salesweasel:  Hi there!  I bet you’re looking for a car!  What can I help you drive off the lot today?

Gen-Xer:  A car?  Is that what you’re selling?  I was hoping for a kidney or one crack, please.  Also, can you confirm the rumor that Mudhoney is playing a rent party in the backroom?

Millennial:  Oh wow!  Hi!  Thank you for being so helpful!  Why yes, I am looking for a car!  Can we be friends?  What’s your user name on Tumblr, Instagram, Snapchat, Kik and Waterbuffalo?  Are you on Yelp so I can review you?  What about FourSquare?  Will you give me positive feedback as a super-extra-awesome customer when the transaction has concluded?  Also, I’d really like a t-shirt but please make it one that looks like it’s from the 90s.  I’m totally dedicated to retro.  Can’t you tell I’m going for the Cobain-meets-man-bun look?

Car salesweasel:  So, whatcha looking for?

Gen-Xer:  Something that goes backwards and forwards.  Relatively reasonable fuel economy.  Carplay or other stupid interfacing whatever. Turn signals would be nice.  One of those rearview cameras, too.  Just so long as it doesn’t jack up the price because I’m not paying list.  You hear?  I am not paying list.  If you have it in black with tan interior, we have a deal.  You dig?

Millennial:  Ok!  So, this is what I’m thinking about!  I have a few pictures if you want to see what I have downloaded!  I have added some stickers and emojis to convey my feelings because I’m not really great with the words!  I’d like a car that is environmentally friendly because we don’t care enough about the environment these days and I’m super-extra-passionate about the environment and none of the candidates even addressed that in the debates!  None!  Can you believe that!?!  Well, Bernie did, at least!

Next, I need really gentle tires for the blacktop!  I hate hurting things, physically and/or emotionally!  I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night knowing I caused any form of pain!  Also, I left my favorite fluffy at my parents’ house when I was there doing laundry and they told me I wasn’t allowed to come back for two weeks so sleeping has been really. really, really hard.  :cry cry cry:

Super critical!!111! Do you offer carbon offset credits? Because, again with the environment!!! I cannot buy the Grand Wagoneer without the credits! I just can’t! And I really can’t see myself and my 20 dogs in a Fiat! There’s just not enough room for that!!! We can’t have the dogs cramped on the long trips to the mountains for the weddings I have to go to! Also, I haul *a lot* of mason jars and pickled vegetables for my side business. Are you interested in purchasing pickled gourds for your Thanksgiving dinner? I handcrafted them myself with help from my friends who make their own diaper cream. :sticks screen in salesweasel’s face: LOOK AT MY WEBSITE!!! Helvetica is the best!!! I masturbate to style guides. Oh. That was TMI, wasn’t it?

Car salesweasel:  Are you financing the purchase or…?

Gen-Xer:  What the fuck is wrong with you?  I’m financing this like I financed the toilet paper I had to buy yesterday.

Millennial:  So, here’s my concept of how we should be paying for things!  Money is corrosive to the soul and thus corrosive to society!  In order to build a more perfect world, I suggest we trade!  You will give me the car and I will give you two hours of manual labor at your home!  I can empty the dishwasher, take out the trash or clean the litterbox! Wait!  You look disappointed.  Fine.  I’ll throw in a case of my special, birch scented homemade beard wax if you promise to give me a year’s worth of oil changes, too!  What do you say?  Do we have a deal?  OMG OMG OMG!  If we do, I will totally meet you at the park for a game of kickball!  You’ll love my friends!  They make the best moonshine you have ever tasted in your life!  Right in the bathtub!  I’m telling you.  The things one can do with what one already has.  If people just stopped, slowed down and appreciated what was around them and the unique gifts life has to offer…

Then we started making fun of the Millennials’ farm-to-table lettuce sammiches on stone ground wheat bread.  Little did they know the lettuce was sourced from Compare Foods on Avondale Drive in Durham and the bread was stolen off a delivery truck parked by the Sheetz on Miami Blvd.

Being Gen-X is whatever.  We knew from a young age no one gave a shit about us or anything other than themselves.  This was impressed upon us every time we came home from school to an empty house with only the television to keep us company.  We’re not necessarily the bastards of the young but we are the bastards of the Boomers.  There’s a lot to be said for being the progeny of the narcissistic.

While other generations have said our attitude sucks and we’re slackers, thinking that was going to incite some form of change or emotional growth and development, we stayed true to our ambivalent selves and did nothing.  We don’t fucking care about what people think.  Never have.  Never will.  We remain the generation just trying to make it across the hellscape.  We’re the generation that took existentialism and nihilism and made it something for the masses as opposed to the intellectually sanctimonious and elite by merely breathing and rolling our eyes while smoking a blunt and drinking PBR from a CAN.

And, as we sit on the cusp of this nation’s destruction, some of us are concerned but we’re also not. Gen-X continues to see your bullshit. Be it the selfishness and narcissism of the Boomers or the complete inability to accept that humans are ordinary from the Millennials. Whatever comes to pass, as the circus continues around us, Gen-X, sandwiched by The Bearded generations (patchouli Deadheads who refuse to let go of the past and hipsters who really have no fucking idea what irony is), will remain spectators, quietly singing along to the Millennial Whoop in our financed vehicles while consuming processed food, drinking overpriced coffee, comforted by the knowledge that we don’t look through rose colored glasses.  We’re not snowflakes.  We’re not special. We’re not seeking “experiences.”  We just don’t want to be assholes – bearded or clean shaven.

Oh well, whatever, nevermind.

*Look at this.  Even spellcheck won’t acknowledge the existence of artisanal.  That’s how fucking lame this word and this concept is.  To prove my point further:  the word includes the word ANAL as the suffix.

Tim on Tim…

…and The Replacements.

I love politics.  I love music.  This is not a secret.

Imagine my splodey-hearted-and-headed joy when I read that Tim Kaine loves The Replacements.  Imagine my bliss when he quotes “Bastards of The Young.”  Imagine my being unable to function for the rest of the day as I sit at my laptop and draw hearts in the air with one of my eight legs while dreaming of the potential Vice President and Paul Westerberg.  Together.  With Tim playing in the background.  All of the Tims.  All of the time.

There has been nothing redeemable about this shitshow of an election cycle.  My child cannot watch the debates, let alone the news, with me.  I have been called a Skype and an Oven Dodger.  We have heard “Grab ’em by the pussy” for the first time and it’s not Mrs. Slocombe doing the talking.  For someone who finds political theatrics intoxicating, this election has been the equivalent of drinking too much grain punch from a frat house garbage can and puking down the front of your shirt in front of the really adorable guy you had been trying to get with the entire time you were in school; a messy, public humiliation that everyone is talking about.

Until now.  Until Tim Kaine saved the day and restored hope to this bleak hellscape by speaking of the underrated brilliance of The ‘Mats.

Once I’m done coloring in my hearts, I’ll cross my eight legs and hope for a Hillary/Tim victory.  Not just to restore sanity to this frothy cauldron of doom, stupidity and hatred this country has become.  No.  But for an inaugural ball befitting a modern era and featuring The Replacements as they should be – loud and drunk.

La lutte est cruelle…

…Madame Kardashian West

Poor Kim Kardashian West whose pain we can all relate to. I, too, understand the sheer terror of being held at gunpoint in a *Parisian bathtub, losing that which I hold dear and value highly.

As the day wears on and we remain distracted by the news, as we so often are, let us remember all that is important for it is not Syrian refugees. It is not children without food, schools without textbooks or adults without jobs. It’s the fate of a woman whose diamond ring and grill was ripped from her possession. A woman whose sole existence is to promote an unrealistic body type to attain and lifestyle to emulate. A woman whose come-up was a sex tape. A woman who understood and upheld the integrity of marriage…for 72 days.

That is the true tragedy of the day. And a truly awful way to begin the Jewish New Year.

Let us pray.

*Change Paris to Rouen
Change bathtub to bathroom
Add:  stench of cat urine, three bottles of Beaujolais Nouveau, two hours of vomiting and not knowing where the wine ended and my insides began
Also:  jetlag

Gävlebocken!!!

Assembling Gävlebocken.

Assembling Gävlebocken.

It’s the most glorious time of the year!  Gävlebocken has returned!  I feel reborn.

It's a beautiful day...to burn.

It’s a beautiful day…to burn.

Important reference material:

Twitter Feed
Blog
Instagram
Website
History

Shimmering in the darkness, begging to be ignited.

Shimmering in the darkness, begging to be ignited.

Now, for the important stuff:  Gävlebocken Incineration Sweepstakes is underway on Facebook.  If you wish to participate, leave your desired date of destruction in the comments.  I will let you know if your selection is available.  The prizes:  one beautiful, sparkly virtual trophy and the right to gloat for one entire calendar year.

Please, please burn me.

Please, please burn me.

Call to action:  Gävlebocken must burn this year, motherfuckers.  Do not allow the kommun to break it down and ship it to China (or anywhere else, for that matter).  Do not allow it survive.  Burn this bastard.  Make it so.  Deliver your offering to the High Priestess.  She rarely asks for anything, after all.

Every family has that idiot cousin who has to be invited to all the celebrations. This is Gävlebocken's. He should burn, too.

Every family has that idiot cousin who has to be invited to all the celebrations. This is Gävlebocken’s. He should burn, too.

Deciphering Taylor Swift’s Lyrics…

…everyone’s favorite parlor game.

No one is immune to the grandeur that is Taylor Swift.  NO ONE.  I tried avoiding her for years because:

  1. I’m a grown-up
  2. I’m a grown-up
  3. I’m a grown-up
  4. I don’t particularly care for that sort of watered down country pop (if I must listen to country music, it had better be OG country music)
  5. The last time I had a crush on a boy was, like (twirls hair and snaps bubble gum), 198x, k.?.

Now, I find myself all giggly and screamy whenever I see Taylor for she is positively fabbo.  I mean, the woman carries around her fucking Scottish Folds (note:  I’m hipster crazy cat lady and knew the breed before any of you!) and those cats actually don’t freak out in public.  She’s either the cat whisperer, a witch or heavily sedates them with kitty ludes.  Oh, and her wardrobe:  uh…ah-may-zing.  I would sacrifice all my future trips to Starbucks for one just one of her purses or a day shopping with her.  And don’t even get me started on her fan-lovin’:  total heart of gold.  Clearly the woman has descended from the heavens above.  She must be the Messiah or Second Coming of Christ (or Christina, if you prefer).

How did I get into the bliss that is Tay-Tay?  Easy.  I have a kid and when you have kids of a certain age, you need to be exceptionally cautious about song lyrics (teachers of your kids, otoh…).  With my lexicon, it should be pretty apparent that I give zero fucks if/when Milky starts rifling off profanities.  I’d much rather him not do it at school or in front of other kids because other parents can be less than appreciative of playmates who use the word “cunt” as often as the word “please.”  Wait.  My kid has to be reminded to say “please.”  Let’s use “now” instead.

Back to the topic at hand – deciphering her song lyrics.  It’s my understanding that many a fangurl will sit down with their secret decoder rings and ponder for days over which ex-suitor Ms. Swift is singing about.  I’m considerably out of touch but the shit the kids read these days have these articles which take a deeper dive (oh fuck you, corporate speak!  Get the fuck out of my private time!) explore this in great detail.  Well, I wanna play that game now, too!  It’s a little known secret that adults like to have fun now and then, just like teachers have sex and drink booze (source:  every teacher everywhere).

Shake it Off was released right around the time The Sprog started kindergarten.  He changed schools and it was a bumpy road in the beginning so I started playing this song for him each day, encouraging him to physically (totes adorable, double-oh-em-geeeeeee) and emotionally shake off the troubles of the day.  I’m not going to say that I don’t understand the lyrics because my IQ is considerably high (for realsies, stepfather was working on one of his eighty billion continuing ed degrees and I took like a trillion IQ tests and I’m supposed to be like this super genius or something) but the whole “And to the fella over there with the hella good hair…” did pique my curiosity.  Isn’t “hella good hair” subjective?  Great googly moogly, Chris Rock did a whole documentary on good hair (Good Hair and I totes recommend).  This shit is deep, yo.

Then, this morning, as I’m scrolling through my Facebook feed (before the two cups of coffee it takes for my brain to begin functioning), I spy, with a blurry eye, a video featuring The Try Guys which was posted by the lovely Kitten.  Oh?  The Try Guys are going to get nice and naked and I get to see this before 08.00?  Okidokiloki!  Then, I saw it.  Like the proverbial beacon in the night, I saw it:  the fella over there with the hella good (hipster) hair.  Eugene.  The mind boggled.  If I had any artistic abilities what-so-ever, I would doodle a picture of my head with springs flying out of it, eyeballs dangling and tongue hanging from the corner of my mouth.  Alas, I don’t so you’ll just have to imagine that bit yourself.

I’m on coffee number two so I’m still a bit drowsy but not so drowsy that Eugene did not pop my cork, pet my monkey, float my boat or trip my trigger.  Ha!  I’m awake NOW.  I’m awake and thinking of Eugene, pizza and inappropriate things to do with Eugene and pizza.  If all y’all thought the teacher was shaking in his normcore sneakers, adorable Eugene should be in full panic mode for I am wildly inappropriate when good hair and pizza are in the mix.

Monday is starting off as a quadruple win:

  1. I finally get to play “What’s Taylor Really Saying?”
  2. I played “What’s Taylor Really Saying” and won!  ZOMGWTFBBQROFLCOPTERZ!!!111!
  3. Kitten introduced me to the glory of Eugene, whom I shall cover in glorious pizza whenever he asks provided I get to muss his hair with my tentacles of doom.
  4. Partial nudity.

This only means one thing:  it can only go downhill from here.

Here are some interesting facts about the number 37…

…in honor of it being my 37th birthday. 🙂

“It is a prime number, the fifth lucky prime, the first irregular prime, the third unique prime and the third cuban prime of the form.”

Now, I know what a prime number is but I have no idea what the rest of that stuff is. I’m especially curious about the “cuban prime” and find myself wondering if it’s Numero Uno de Cuba, Fidel Castro?

Probably not.

“It’s the normal human body temperature in degrees Celsius.”

Very useful information, indeed.

“New General Catalog (NGC 37) is a lenticular galaxy located in the Phoenix constellation. It is approximately 42 kiloparsecs (137,000 light-years) in diameter and about 12.9 billion years old.

Here’s a picture of it:

Here’s a closeup of something really far away

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

37 is also:

“The number of plays William Shakespeare is thought to have written (counting Henry IV as three parts).”

“The [former] international dialing code of the German Democratic Republic (aka East Germany)”

“Kevin Smith’s Clerks’ Dante Hicks’ girlfriend Veronica’s number of former boyfriends with whom she performed fellatio.”

(Thanks, Wikipedia)