The Eurovision Urine Saga

The Eurovision contest was held in Helsinki this year, due to Finland’s surprising, first ever win of the contest with Lordi’s disputed “Hard Rock Hallelujah.” This win was actually disputed by many in Finland, being deemed by its few religious fundamentalist weirdos as the marking of the beginning of the end, an ushering gesture into the start of the apocalypse. The disagreement on propriety was widespread however, and there was even discussion of an intervention in the group’s continued involvement in the contest on a governmental level. People were not sure if they should represent the country.

(Lordi is basically a Finnish version of the American Heavy Metal band Gwar, wearing near comical horror costumes as part of their stage act.) The murmuring had no consequence, they were not disbanded and ended up winning the contest, launching them, ironically, to the position of national icons, being paraded on newspapers and leeched by industry, having dolls made in their guise, coloring books and Lordi cola.

Whatever could be said about it, Finland needed this win and I think it would be great, no matter what kind of costumes, themes or terrible songs gave it to them. It is such a wonderful country and it seems healthy for it to get a boost of self-confidence, something it could always use. Finland also made it to the top in hockey, losing to Canada, but beating Russia in intense and surprising matches. It was a good year to be there.

Anyhow, I went to the Eurovision finals with many students, taking the train to Helsinki to pack into the city with thousands of people from all over Europe. There were two stages in the event, a main one at the auditorium and one at the cathedral square by the university. We were at the cathedral square.

The event was exciting because of the people, everywhere, from all over, but I realized after a few minutes of listening that I hate the music of Eurovision. (For those that don't know what Eurovision is, it is a song contest between European countries and some outliers like Russia. Seeing how huge the event is, and how much of the world is involved, I am shocked it doesn't get a lot of coverage in the US.)

But yeah, I had a bottle of wine, and was sitting, listening to the music, looking out at the thousands of people watching, when it struck me, “my god, this music is wretched, empty, filthy. I can’t stand it.”

As a music lover, it is hard to bear this strange display of creepiness. I saw a TV program at my friend Jaakko’s a some days before the contest, where judges were saying what was good about a song, and what they looked for in a Eurovision song contest song. Their answers were horrifying. Not only did they know nothing about music, they didn't appreciate anything about music that marks its artistry or beauty.

“They should just come on stage and like, BAM!!!, and the song just explodes,” said one guy. “Lyrics don't matter, just as long as they’re happy. I don't want hear about sadness or trouble, they need to be fun and upbeat. It doesn't matter if they make sense, or if they are good, just as long as they are catchy and not sad.”

They said shallow statement after shallow statement, some worse than these, I just forget a lot of them and cannot convey how shallow and cocky they were in appearance and tone while offering their “expertise.” It is like saying a painting’s contents and the artists skills don't matter, just as long as the colors are bright and the frame is nice, both in itself and in the living room.

Anyhow, I had not cared or thought much about that TV program, or really any opinionated rhetoric before going, and I figured it would simply be a fun event no matter what. But, with the wine depressing my brain a bit, and the sudden realization that I had to pee really bad, I was suddenly not so excited to be at the Eurovision contest.

We were sitting on these 10 or so inch steps that lead up the cathedral. To move at all was a huge inconvenience, but to leave the area completely one need good balance and a good dirty, hateful look deflector. Even better, they were blocking both the top and bottom entrances to the steps, only letting people back up who had someone to verify that they had a seat where friends were sitting. What a drag.

I snuck away while everyone was standing, making it easier to leave. By this time I was wondering if one could die by holding in urine for too long, by way of exploded bladder or liver poisoning. I headed down the steps and there were too many people coming. I saw a guy from Germany I knew and he yelled and waved to me. I had to haggle with the guard, a tough, short, bulky woman, eventually getting him in, while I had to turn around and go back up the other way, the distance looking worse, the people slowing my movement and becoming more inconvenient.

I got to the top and they were blocking way back in from the top. I would have to go around. I asked if there was a bathroom inside the area, and they said no. I was in serious pain by this time. I walked off towards a street I thought might hold promise for a bathroom. It was rather dark on this street but there were people everywhere. In fact, on closer inspection, there were people urinating all over. Noticing this I looked closer and saw there were small rivers of urine all over the place, on the sidewalk, next to the sidewalk, in puddles where there was no slope.

Still, I could not just pee right here on the street. I could be native, embrace the moment, the trend, but I didn't want to flash my junk for everyone to see. Its illegal. I grew up in a religious household. Ive never even see my parents naked. You don't just pee on the street where people are walking.

I walked in vain, around two blocks, three blocks, I don't know. I was about to pass out. I felt my stomach filling up with urine, seeping outside my intestines, into my legs, up into my chest. I was turning into a urine tank.

I saw a church, dark, with a tree in a receding area. The only problem, there was a couple sitting on a wall in the area right before the shadows of freedom.
“Do you guys mind if I pee back here?” I ask them, feeling pretty ridiculous and a little embarrassed.
“Ah, no problem,” they answer nicely. “The situation is pretty bad, isn’t it.”

I was so, so happy. I went into that corner and discovered the real meaning of the often meaninglessly tossed around word “freedom.”
“Wow, you really needed that didn't you,” the guy said as they packed their drinks back into their bag.
“Yeah, I did.”
I was done long after they had left.

I walked back to the event, going around the top area, down to the bottom, struggling through people. I got to the line and they had stopped letting people in. I tried to get up to the spot where the guards were, to tell them my computer and camera and bag were up there with my friends, but I was blocked by a heavy set girl in black. She jammed her thick arm into my shoulder and gave me this ridiculously stupid mean expression. Then a few other women around her closed in and all shook their heads at me. “No,” their expressions said, “you’re not going anywhere, little man.”

I called my friends and said I could not come back, could they watch my things. They sent messages explaining others had made it back up, “be tough.” I wasn't going to walk up and start a brawl with these women. I spent the rest of the event bored, swallowed by the crowds on the sidelines, unable to see much.

I love Eurovision.