rafael pyton

Sunday. Uuh… there is nothing sunny about ‘Sun’day. I foresee the future where I will put together a petition to change the name to Badday. How people use this silent space in time to get up early and go to church I will never understand. I don’t want to, either. Because, Saturday night is the time of the devil, and come morning you pay the price for those amazingly awesome dance moves you were busting out while the law-abiding citizens were sleeping… Jacko had nothing on me yesterday. Nothing, I say. Watch out for those hands. They fly. And how.

So I was wondering the other day what the brouhaha was all about and I said to myself that something has to be done and indeed that is what I did when I downloaded the new ‘it’ indie band The Arctic Monkeys who are outselling just about everyone right now in Europe and then I just parked my ass and cocked my ears in anticipation and… and… I didn’t like it very much at all and in fact I think they are overrated and so much so that I forced myself to go another round on iTunes but it did not help at all and I got all hot in my head and just deleted all files that had anything to do with the Arctic Monkeys and this only proves one thing which is obviously that the only good apes are The Monkees.

Si si, man, I kinda cooled down, you know. Needed some sweet music for these ol’ trumpets that stick out the sides of the ol’ mug. Yah know what I kicked back with? Otis Redding, the one and not ‘only’ because that word is plain too cheap when talking about good Otis.
Right, the source to this treasure was my coffeedrinking pianoplaying littlest bro, a mad musical snob who made me listen to Otis until I had to give in and admit that I’d been a criminal for ignoring the r-r-raw soul man. Now Mr Redding is a regular in my iTunes library, or the hall of fame as I call it. Brothaman, I don’t care which album of his you listen to, just go bad & wild. But make sure you throw a big party in your brain when you listen to his version of Satisfaction (I Can’t Get No)… ooooh boy here we go… feet start paddling… arms rowing… I can’t sit still… Otis is taking me places right now… Aye canta getta nouu… saaatisfaaaactjon… oowwww!!!

Sometimes you feel like a pinball, going back and forth and up and down, every hit a slap to your head. Badabing badabong… you know the song - present in the shape of 5 cents about climate change, the personal demon of this planet.
Those who research this subject are called scientists. But there is nothing scientific about the research results: a zillion of different opinions scattered like my sneeze particles. While one argues that climate change is a huge scam by ecoterrorists, another one states clear evidence of the next ice age, rapidly approaching. What am I supposed to do? Go into a blazing panic, or sit back and… chill?
Let’s assume for a second that there is some sort of climate change going on. Certainly it would be pretty nifty to have some idea of what the devil is causing all the fizzle? Well, count my damn sneeze particles again. That is how many different theories there are. Hope all that talk is not just… warm air? I’d really want to start believing in something concrete soon enough, otherwise it may all just turn into religion.

In the beautiful meantime, listen to the release of methane on a field near you…

Karis is the New Jersey of Finland. Just like Bruce Springsteen, I was Born To Run. He wanted to escape along the Turnpike, I wanted to hit the 51, never look back. Baby, I was boo-oorn to run. I ran to London, Stuttgart, Brussels. But just like The Boss, I still live in my blue-collar hometown. And while I hate it, I also love it. First you run, then you return. In the long run, perhaps the ‘born’ part is stronger that the ‘run’ part?

Just when did absinth go out of fashion? Was it right after Moulin Rouge came out? Has the green fairy died and gone to AA?

I remember the late 90s in London, when the tipple in question became legal again… If ol’ Hemi and VanMan Gogh sucked down the green stuff, I knew I had to do it too. For the university student, there is something completely irresistible about the combination of ‘bohemian’ + ‘artist’. We were hanging out in a dark club in Soho and I was browsing the booze list, sporting the bored look of coolness, when my eyes suddenly tripped over the big A. Not a whole much later was I leaning over the counter, looking up and down the long ebony legs of the girl mixing it. I paid £10 for that one, ooh it was never as perfect. Soho night turned muddy and the cheeks went all apple.

Now, however, I have a bottle of Hill’s Absinth from Prague that has been gathering dust for years. I serve it now and then to unsuspecting guests, but I can’t seem to find people crazy enough to empty it. I invite anyone over to my place to have a go at it! No… strike ‘invite’ and replace with ‘challenge’!

in the streets, underneath the stones
like insects, the words hide
at once I morph into a tamandua tetradactyla

-

(and you wish you knew what the hell that is…)

The smell of blood hit my nostrils like a fly suddenly zooming in on a big pile of shit. 53% - 47% according to the latest gallup in the second round of the prsdntl election. There is hope after all. I hath spoketh. And voteth. Vive la bourgeoisie!

“Lennä Nykäsen Matti, lennä… tule elävänä takaisin”. Last weekend I went to the local premiere of the Matti Nykänen movie - like the rest of the Finnish people I guess I wanted a few cheap laughs on Matti’s tab. The story of his life is a goldmine: world’s best skijumper on a neverending bender, turns singer, turns stripper - along the way, everything that can go wrong… you know it. But you can only throw so many tvs out the windows before you start shifting your ass in the seat. The film is pathetic, mostly because Nykänen’s life is so pathetic. A victim of circumstances? Indeed - but only because of his own chronic stupidity, forever to be unmatched by another human being as long as there is life.
God, I really hope the second part of his life turns out well in the end. However, I have an eerie feeling a long and quiet life is not in his repertoire. Bless you, Matti. I really laughed when you drove that lawnmover into the lake…

The cruelty of it. I’ve seen my own personal sweetspot in hell. It is Kenneth Branagh in Celebrity, and Paul Giamatti in Sideways. If I over the years morph into one of them, or a combination, do fire a gun in my direction. Multiple times. Until klick klick.
Wait… not if I drive the Aston Martin Kenneth’s character drives - then you must let me live. And if the polymorphously perverse Charlize Theron is in the passenger seat - why, then you must absolutely let me live.

The latest savage attack in the relentless crusade against the hunted smoker has hit the headlines here in Finland: ban smoking on balconies? Now I have really seen it all, and it is so much more than I can take. Man, the world is obviously spinning out of control. By the byway, I am not even an active smoker, altho I like to think that I look like Clark Gable when I light up at parties…
Black-lung Panthers, we need to stand up and shout: “Jesus smoked too!” ( and some say he drove an SUV…).
Apparently the angry mob of fascist prosecutors think they will face instant death when catching a whiff of cigarette smoke dancing through the midnight air. For those I have composed a special poem that comes straight from the deeper regions of my animal heart.

Mthrfckr
Mdfck
Martha Focker
Moloko Vellocet
Mahatma Ghandi
Malaga Brother
Moped Mam
Hihi!!
Moped Mam…

(shit… started gigglin’)