rafael pyton

I just noticed we have slipped into February, which meant my absolute minimum requirement of one post per month - itself the lowest of low targets - got slandered, slain and slaughtered. But what is a man to do, when there is so much of “do”, and so little of “dodo?” I strongly suspect insomnia to be paradise.

Let me open the gullwings of my Delorean, and go for a ride to mid-December. Ah, I seem to recall a brilliant visit from Germany’s finest journalist, Dr Gonzo. What a sensational sin we endured in Helsinki for a couple of nights, a heady mix of rum and kebab and unduly, unruly behaviour.

Then it started snowing. It still has not stopped. This is the very finest, coldest and whitest winter since 1987 - just when you thought that your childhood winters were a thing of your past and you had accommodated your body to the common and prevailing belief that everything is melting and who will save the polar bears and Karis will be a seaside resort. Not that I would resort to analysis on basis of one winter, but the Climategate certainly proved that there are so many lies floating around that it is impossible to uncover the uncorrupted truth.

As usual very few knows what to believe in, and those who do, fool themselves.

And then it was Christmas, aka the best day of the year. This time, family old and young, emigrated out to the ever-beautiful archipelago, to mother’s. It was, in a word, magnificent! Even the snow angels outside begged to be let in.

Instead of celebrating the birth of Jesus, we worshipped at the altar of crass materialism. Particularly Scarlett, who found a little red guitar in one of the packages, and immediately ripped off a few chords worthy of Keef Richards.

For New Year’s we packed ourselves into the Fiat 500, and drove off to Tallinn. Since this is a family blog (really?!), I can only say the the party was particularly exuberant in every imaginable way, and lasted for several days. The Estonian jet-set are the kings and queens of Good Time. Mostly queens. Why, even better.

And with that, a new decade busted forth like the cork from Dom. Speaking of the old monk, when Scarlett turns 16, there is a vintage ‘98 pink Dom Pérignon waiting for her. It was a gift from one of our friends in Tallinn. Attached, the message: “Scarlett, the first champagne you taste should be the best.” Don’t you just love that?

Now what? Well, work’s great. I’ve just single-handedly snapped up one of Sealed Air’s biggest customers in Finland, which made Scandinavian director very happy indeed. He’s going to have to pay for this one, of course - I’m taking Madli to Haikko Kartano as a reward. A weekend of luxury spa, cold therapy, roasted dove, fine wine, should ensure that the batteries remain charged and charging.

I also just put the last touches to Scarlett’s new little room, pics later. It is quite the colorful little nest, will either drive her to nightmares or produce a great artists… hihi.

Finally, a sneak preview: February ought to end well. First, a little sales trip to Barcelona, might even catch a game at Camp Nou. The very next day I get back, we go off on a lovely vacation - Kauai, Hawaii, 2½ weeks. A friend of ours has a house there, so Madli and me and another Estonian girl will lap sun and beach and ocean.

And I will sing, “underneath the mango tree, my honey and me…”

Our retarded chant rang out over the unkept surface of lakes, “Kiiii-mi Räi-kkö-nen, KimiRäikkönen!” The engine sang back. Harder, we heard, ripping at its lungs, harder, we heard, revving and rioting in its cage. Hear. Hear. Where. Where. There!

And Kimi flew into sight, into corner, and out onto flight! He spat rocks at us, then disappeared almost before he had appeared, left us in a dusty haze. We loved it. This was not your ordinary F1 driver. From our amazing ant-riddled and mosquite-frequented inside apex vantage point, we had just come about ten centimeters away from being touched by the mirrortips of a driving god, and our response was animal alike; cackling like hens, grinning like hyenas, we butted heads like bison and went woo. Fucking WOO! “Did you see that!!?”

Rallye! Or ralli, as it is spelled in the land of the bravest. You gotta love it. Let the furiously posing poseurs choke on their crackers and champagne. Us ugly barbarians are not made of silicone. We’re steel-shitting people without manners. Unruly, epileptic, loud - give wide berth, display warning signs.

That was this summer. And now we hear that Kimi Räikkönen has fired lousy Ferrari, and moved onto cooler pastures. Open the gates, the iceman is coming to rallyetown! I’m so thrilled I want to butt heads again!

Now, I usually predict that Kimi will win every race of the season. For 2010 I predict he will not win a single race. But a wheelman is a wheelman is a wheelman, and I stick my dick out on the line and profess roundabout a fourth after the fearless frog, babyface Hirvonen and the Latvian gangsta. You may laugh now - but I nearly touched his mirrortips in a tight corner somewhere in the big forest up north. I know things. Fourth. Ok, fifth. As a best finish. After all, he up and ended on his ear in Jyväskylä… like so:

Parting words: Ralli is adventure. I’ve attended the Grand Prix in Monaco, sat on the balcony across the McLaren people, been hosted by loveliest Rykiel girl. It was nothing like this summer. Ah, I feel an anecdote coming:

We were somewhere around Barstow when, no, in fact, I picked up my lawyer Dr Gonzo at the airport. He had, in turn, on the airplane, managed to pick up a blonde girl with humongous honey melons. I nodded in kind approval, and the three of us drove straight from airport to Jyväskylä. Here, miss Unbelievable Boobs steps out of the car. You may think it was because she didn’t want to sleep with two strangers in a small car way out in the forest. Who knows? We missed her and her big bumpers already. Anyway, we pressed on, Gonzo and me, gps:ing our way out in the forest - until we got quite lost. It is late. Dark. We drive for what seems like miles along tiny gravel roads, half expecting some Mäkinen to suddenly come over the bend at full tilt. In the middle of nowhere, we spot some signs that indicate that there might possible maybe perhaps be a rallye in the area. As my lawyer, he advises me to follow these signs. We do. For long awhile. Just before we think it is a prank and we’re being led to Russia, we find the stage and the adjacent camping/parking area. Admist much hurrah we park our chariot next to fellow anoraks. Some people are on the better side of intoxication, and play bad music in loud fashion. We brush our teeth in Beck’s, and fold the chairs back. I don’t know about Dr Gonzo in the passenger seat, but the quest for sleep in the driver’s seat is like being questioned by the CIA. Well, Gonzo already snoring. I feel like slapping him. Some goon outside decides to, uh, train for tomorrow’s race. Yes, he is wearing his hat like a farmer. You may also suspect he is a bit unstable on his legs. And you’d be right. He climbs into his frightfully battered red Sierra. The “car” has the biggest damn auspuff anyone can imagine. You could hide a horse in that exhaust. The sound it makes is naturally just what you’d expect from a diameter like that. He proceeds to do some donuts. Some other morons of same sordid tribe cheer him on. Soon he is racing back and forth in the field among tents and cars. I am completely petrified every time I see the Sierra headlights coming for our car. He manages to miss us. Many many many times. This goes on for hours. Did I already mention how impossibly easy it is to hear the car? Lawyer sleeps like a baby. My eyes have never been wider. At one point the donkey in the Sierra drives off. I praise the lord for finally answering my frantic prayers. But he’s back in five. Probably went home for more Kossu. The donuts continue. Around 6:45 the halfwit gets tired, and parks in a ditch. I fall asleep. We wake up at 7:00, when my alarm clock rings. Time to Rallye!

Forever tiny little Scarlett is not tiny little anymore. Just little - because she is about to turn one, yes, a whole year, on Sunday.
We’re celebrating in big style in Tallinn this weekend, but too-excited dad got too excited in advance, and got her the coolest birthday gift any little girl could ever want - a motorcycle! (Her mum thinks I treat her like a boy… pah! Nonsense!)

As you can clearly see, she was way over the moon about her little Suzuki. (Dad too, by the way…)

Then we made major bike-sounds together. The house was shaking!

And then she fell over, and learned her first lesson about bikes. They are dangerous. So we cry a little. And then she climbed back up. Lesson number two about bikes. They are irresistable.

Voom voom, little Suzuki, voom voom!

Today is my first father’s day for the rest of my life;

My pride, shine light into November night
My love, set fire to winter’s misty mire
Little darling Scarlett, the tale untold’d be dark and cold

I wrote a letter to a friend in Frankfurt. It was about SAAB, the car brand that inspires more feelings than any other. In fact, a recent study confirmed to show that SAAB owners have the highest level of psychological involvement with their cars.
[My friend is in the market for a Porsche, but having secret desires for SAAB, and so...]

“… it confirms all my longstanding beliefs in the magic of SAAB. As you well know, I cut my teeth in SAABs. The first one was a green 99 Combi Coupe, with the edgy black sunrack on the rear window. I drove the wheels off it. Literally. First snow + summer tires + no fear = inevitable doom/badaboom.
The next one was a black 900 EMS. Went some too, pumping out about 122 hp… well, it was enough to put down long single lines of rubber residue on the Karis tarmac.
Looking back to youth, I did far from appreciate the quirkiness of SAAB. The understeer was so heavy it gave me wrinkles. The handbrake braked the front wheels, making cool handbrake manouvres completely impossible. What’s worse, I found the SAABs utterly ugly and boring and ancient, not something for a hot young thing to be seen in. Such are the matters only too important when you’re young.
Soon, I graduated to a Fiat 600. The chicks dug it.

But, that special SAAB feeling never left me. In those childhood years, I formed a bond with the brand, one I’m absolutely sure would not have happened, had I ran around in a brown Datsun Cherry with filthy cigarette burns in the back seat. These days, whenever I see a particularly well-kept SAAB, I salute the driver. It makes me smile fondly when I think about them searching for reverse to get the key out…

I’ll leave the GM period out here. When you talk about SAAB, you think of Stig Blomqvist hustling his 99 into the corners of the Swedish Rally. If you’re older than me, Erik Carlsson på taket would spring to your mind. And does the word, I mean code, ‘Turbo’ means anything to you? By the gods, Sonny Crockett should’ve sported a white 900 Turbo in Miami Vice in 1987!

Having been raised on SAAB, there are odd side effects that will stay with you for life, one being that you absolutely must hate archrival Volvo. If you have been a SAAB driver, going to Volvo makes you a traitor of highest mark, and the penalty for such treason is no less than death.
Obviously, when you have SAAB in your blood, you also have an obligation of being hip, creative, and a bit mad, with Artek furniture in your home… a bit of a polo-neck image, sure, but in the best of ways.

Is the 96 the coolest car out there at the moment? Having grown up, it is no longer the joke it appeared to me when I was a kid. It is a classic, if there ever was an image to define the word. You can still pick them up for next to nothing here - but I’ve noticed that the prices are skybound in Germany. In any case, I think you’d be the toast of town in Frankfurt. Among all those generically black or silver Audis, Beemers and Mercs, an orange 96 is the allmighty!

If you succumb to the charms of SAAB, the car will be your friend unlike anything. A Porsche is a Porsche, they fill you with huge lust and gleaming eyes. SAAB is an unknown entity for the unsympathetic and the unschooled. But those in the know, they will wink and say good on ya. So will I.”

By the votes of 9-8, the disgraceful HUS management is closing down the Ekenäs/Tammisaari maternity hospital. HUS is a powerful hospital conglomerate of Southern Finland, and the Ekenäs maternity hospital is under their “jurisdiction”, so to speak. The man(agement) has been trying to do this since the 1990s, and the only reason it took them so long, is that the Ekenäs BB, as we like to call it here, is commonly known as the very best maternity hospital in Finland.

Ekenäs BB was the first in the country to receive the status of Baby Friendly by the World Health Organization. The lovely women of Ekenäs BB have long worked hard to develop innovative quality and family values. The hospital is known for giving breast feeding top priority, and they have advanced views on non-medical painrelief. It is a place to feel safe in. They not only welcome the mother-to-be, but the whole family to stay for the whole experience, and they do not just throw the mother out the following day. Their reputation preceeds borders, as rich Russians and Baltic families come here to give birth.

On a personal level, I was born at the Ekenäs BB. My brothers were born here. My friends were born here. The children of my friends were born here. Even though my daughter Scarlett was born in a private hospital in another country, it was my wish for her to be born here.

The dark question remains - why did they close it down, when it so clearly should have been treasured and awarded instead? If the reasons remain fuzzy to me, it is probably because they are. Who gives a fuck about economy when the well-being of children is at hand? To go and destroy this precious baby culture, built by lots and lots of love over a long period of time, makes my blood boil.

You don’t have to look hard to find rampant jealousy. The hidden rage many Finnish people harbour for the swedish-speaking minority, for one, as the Ekenäs BB was one of the few places left were you were treated to both official mother tongues.
The Ekenäs BB was run by women for women, which also certainly helps to explain why it was so dearly loved. The male majority of HUS, it appears, on some level, were unable to come to terms with this.

The little people have been fucked over again. There is simply something inherently wrong with the world, if you have to run it like a business.

Thieves.

Before walking there is bungy walking. Scarlett tells me it’s like walking on the moon. And then she bounces around to make a point of it. It looks like fun. Makes you wonder, do they make these in full size?

Another photog, another angle. And another face.

Pusi-pusi.

Sure’s cool when there is enough hair on the bopping mop to make a mohawk! Say, is that the new member of the New York Dolls?

“Coz I’m a punkrocker, yes I am!”

They say you should start early. Little motorcycle ace Scarlett climbed atop daddy’s big bike. And behold - just like her dad always does, she immediately reaches for the throttle…

Brum brum bruuuuuuummmmmmmmmmmm!!!

You blink, and the leaves are yellow. But you can always delve and dive inside your brain to find the sunshine again. Yes, ooh there, that’s a good spot…

The beginning of my vacation was the opposite of what I had been expecting; a combination of a wet slap in my face and a deep stab in my back - but begone, it went all beautiful from there.
My little family of three had the loveliest-dovliest time in the glittering archipelago. The very best friends have come and gone, we’ve travelled, we’ve partied, we’ve picked blueberries in the forest underneath the seagulls that go ka-kaa, ka-kaa. We’ve smoked a lot of fish, we’ve sweated in the sauna, we’ve been swimming and surfing and disappearing along the twisty roads to the thrum of the Ducati twin and the rush of the wind. Oh, so long sweet summer, sorely missed already in September.

September schmeptember. Let’s party like it’s June and July. Here’s Scarlett. She might be growing as fast as Jimmy The Giant, and singing as loud as Maria Callas, and crawling at the speed of Usain Bolt, but she still fits into a tiny tub of water.

And the same from a bird’s - or dad’s - perspective. Ho ho hoo. I must smile. Because I love my little troll.

Verily, verily, verily. So long sweet summer, sorely missed already in September.