rafael pyton

A laugh and a half later and the lads have been burning the fossile fuel again. This time from the waist-hugging cabin of a shiny 2006 BMW 320; me and my friend Viktorinox were on a myth-busting mission to find out if Beemers really are ‘the ultimate driving machines’, as the ingénieurs from München so proudly state in their commercials.

Gentlemen, start your engines. It is DSC OFF-time! And what do you know - it is true. 50:50 is where it’s at. The front wheels bite, the rear comes along at any angle you want, and it is simply up to you to do silky smooth circus tricks. It’s so easypeasy I could juggle three oranges while doing this, all day long. Man, I bet my bottom dollar I could take Nick Heidfeld on ice… why are you not answering my calls, Quick Nick?

Note: It was not me who wooeee planted it firmly in the snowbankie… had not the ol’ farmer appeared from nowhere, we would still be digging… hihi! (Just messing with you, Viktor. It’s part of the game).

Today it is raining. Enjoy; this might be the end of the winter bend.

It is with deep sadness in my heart that I report death in the family. My TV gave up the ghost yesterday… I am lost without it, lost like a feather in a tornado. I wander the streets aimlessly, mumble incoherent words ohne sentences, and burst into sudden tears at the most random of places.

I am pulling some legs here - but only just. It died - but did not quite go all the way to television heaven. (It is only a couple of months old, being repaired on guarantee, and should be fixed in a week or so).
My LG 44″ DLP TV, which I affectionately call “the black monolith”, has corrupted me completely & thoroughly and for all eternity ever more. Imagine how spoiled one can get; I’m now forced to use a decent modern 28″ widescreen Philips - BUT it feels like looking down at pitiful ants from the top of Empire State Building!

There is no return. Size matters. You never know how amazing it is until you have a big one in front of you. In the future, all my penis extenders will be triple digit.

When the event occured I did not have the time to drop the line, but the topic itself has kept me quietly smiling away the days lately. Then yesterday I limewired ‘Hard Rock Hallelujah’ into my iTunes library… and I am still smiling. Not because the song is good (it is not bad), but because they are so durned pretty and cute.

This is Lordi, the band who will represent Finland in the Eurovision song contest - and hopefully in the final, too. Many lovers of schlager (wow) up here have been rather upset about it, ranting on about how shameful it is for our country to send this creature to this fine and traditional institution of music…
Well, I’ve heard enough “Finland, zero points” to last me a lifetime (sorry - I actually watch the Eurovision sometimes… great, there goes my image, in one fell swoop…), and I think it is high and dry time to give the establishment the finger. A real monster finger, long nail and all, up yours! Lordi is just what we need to rock the kitschy dancing boat of feely-feely über-gay schlager, the worst kind of music there may be.

If Lordi manages to slaughter his way to the final with the gurglingly over-guttural ‘Hard Rock Hallelujah’, I’ll be cheering and kicking ass going for the win, from behind my monster mask.

But, but… is it art? Why, my dear, it sure is. Proudly presenting Jackson Pollock’s Number 8 from 1949, cut and glued into a glorious backdrop tapestry for my words - the good, the bad, and the really beautiful.

I’d like to thank my technical department (MPY, bro) for carrying out my wild guggenheim wishes.

Then, let’s just lean back and wait and see how long it takes for the Pollock estate to sue me…

The most important page is under construction, and is going to grow like the belly of a truck driver in the next following days. I have only one word for you:

I [aj]

You are cordially invited to follow the progress. Figure it out…

I wasn’t even going to write anything, since I couldn’t really find anything nice to say. Butt, butt. To think I got up early for this. You know what I am talking about. It happened on TV, so therefore it is true. Before I had time to blink, Kimi was out. Just a bit later, Nico joined him on loser street, shame avenue, rue de la crap, boulevard of broken technology.
Then I started praying for a monsoon to sweep the rest of the cars off the circuit. Of course, my connection with God is usually off-line, and that failed too. Not even my most evil voodoo and bleeding goat heads did anything of importance, so eventually I had to settle for turning my brain off and watching the sweaty French cars win.

Why don’t they just hand the championship trophy to Fernandez Alfonso straight away? Then I could just relax and take it easy one race at a time, instead of feeding on anxiety until, say, late summer when he will clinch it anyway.
I am happy for Fisico, but what I really want from him is to give up his seat to Heikki Kovalainen at the end of this season.

I am also playing with the thought of Kimi going to Renault, simply switching places with Fermento Albino. If you read this, Briatore, you have my support. Bring your biggest checkbook, thou. And your best champagne and the finest lap dancers…
As for you, Carlos Ghosn, don’t even think about pulling the plug on Renault F1. I know you read my blog, Ghosn. Don’t pretend you can’t hear me! Don’t make me come down there!

In conclusion I will just say that I’ve conducted tremendous research to figure out what ‘Malaysia’ really means (mal in French is bad), så varsågod, I have translated it for you: Bad Part Of Asia. Feel free to add ‘Very’ in front of it.

(For the millions of malay who read my blog: I love your country. Hello, Djakarta! How are you doing!)

Could it be the last day of proper winter today? If so be, I won’t be sorry, since I am a hippy child of the ever-shining sun. But before I bid farewell to Father Frost, I have also recently enjoyed some of the best things His Coldness has on offer. Ah, water in its hardest form… ICE. It is not just good in drinks, you know…

I ask of you, what is the most fun you can have with your pants on (not including motorcycles)? Well, it must be driving a car as hard as you can on a frozen lake! It just must be!
Earlier this week a rumour was circulating that the semi-legendary iceracing track on Kjulböle lake was ploughed and in tiptop condition, and I was not late in seeing for myself. Safe to say, the last three days I’ve been paying extended visits to the track, honing my best ballerina craft, busting out my fabulous Finnish flicks. Left, right, left. Boot it. Watch the scenery unfold outside the side windows. Laugh like a madman because you feel like God, corner after corner… until you stick it firmly in a big vanilla snowbank.

Iceracing demands the right tool for the job. I used to own a screaming scalpel Fiat 600 that painted circles around every damn Opel in sight, but my baby is gone (godspeed), forcing me to settle for anything rear-wheel drive. Luckily, little bro JP has medicine; right outside these walls sits a huge blue deluxe time machine, glorious and phat.
Sound the bugle: A Volvo 740, prince and pride of Scandinavia. More barn door than scalpel, it nonetheless swings in fashion… and in soft comfort… like you’re just sitting at home on the sofa in front of the tv twisting and pushing, twisting and pushing. Uh yeah, when you swing out that kongo booty of the Volvo, no one can pass you. There is simply no room left on the track…

Obviously I have amused myself so royally these past days I’ve almost felt like I’ve been living in Buckingham Palace. Today, when really burning the fossile fuel and revvin’ the nuts of the Volvo (if JP reads, I have treated the lady with silk gloves!) trying to shave off those last few tenths, I really went through the snowbanks and deep into the white unknown. Twice. I’m glad I was packing a snow shovel… yes… I’ve done this before. It is so much easier to dig a car out with a Fiskars shovel than to do it doggy style.

So, what I want to say is, on the eve of spring, hoorah hooray for winter.

It strikes me as odd, but many have wondered why there is a big tear running down my brooding face on the opening side of my website. Having thought about it more, I guess there is deep symbolism hiding behind it, instead of that turquoise tear just looking incredibly cool (or corny, kitsch, perhaps even a bit Roy Lichtensteinish…)… as I first thought… hahah…

Lessons in metaphysicism:

1. I am a man of a melancholic disposition. It is a fact I embrace, however. My raging dark side is but a place to sleep well in.

2. I am a man of unfortunate circumstances. I have long suspected I am paying my dues for the absolutely perfectest childhood.
In recent years I’ve lost my father tragically, and far too early. I almost died or had to spend the rest of my life in a wheelchair, and even though I fought back, I will suffer pain for the rest of my life, and have had to give up many things I loved and lived to do.
Little things are no less important; my dear little brother moved all the way to the corner of the earth, as far away as you possibly can get, to the la-la land of penguins. I quit my swimming-with-the-sharks offshore banking job in Brussels, which was supposed to make me filthy rich.

3. Happy people have boring stories. Yes, they do.

Don’t call the suicide hotline. If you have to call someone, it should be the sarcasm hotline. I am at peace with myself, and probably a lot happier than most. I just don’t fake it. Now, since you feel uncomfortable reading this, and we don’t want that oh no we don’t, I will slice the tension with the sharp knife of comic relief.

4. The real reason behind the idea of that tear comes from my friend Donald Duck, a.k.a. Kalle Anka, who still comes visiting once a week, and we always have a great time together at the dinner table. That tear is nothing more that a chatterbox, a balloon. It is a release, a bladder. I am pissing (tear) out my stories that I have experienced, seen (eye).

Please be my guest and go “Aha… so that’s why.”

(5. I do think the tear looks cool… (cue manic machine gun laughter!!!))

Blistering barnacles, has sandy Bahrain ever seen such excitement before? Sure, the ’sideburned’ Spaniard won and Ol master Shue took second, but the man made of unmeltable ice came from 22nd to 3rd in a furious turbo charge, using most of the field as slalom flags or even bowling pins, in the process serving up a delicious meal of real Finnish ’sisu’ for 57 awesome laps. The hard way is the only way we know up North…

Sugarsweet honeypie and a fly, I suddenly look forward to the rest of the season… to think that I was despairing only yesterday! How can my faith flutter like that?

There is another Frequently Flying Finn (you heard that expression here first!) in the field, mind you. He does not speak Finnish, but who would want to anyway? He drives under a German license, but that means as much as a snowflake on my feverish forehead. He lives in Monaco, but doesn’t everyone?
No, what really matters is that he came from the loins of none other than the Keke Rosberg. So, hands off! I hereby rightfully claim him as one of ours! Classy Nico Rosberg posted the fastest lap of the race in his first ever grand prix; yup, he has certainly inherited daddy’s right foot. And that is one ooh so heavy he-a-vy foot.

Frank is gonna have to fight for this one. Nico’s future is so bright I go… aaah… blind…

And don’t you know that this season is just like the other one, except that it’s even more like the one before. Yes, it is F1 again, the season breaks anew. I love to hate it, but I watch every damn race like my life depends on it. Kimi goes out for his FIRST lap of qualifying. Something breaks at the rear, the wing flies off, a wheel bends underneath, he dragges his lousy tricycle back to pits. Kimi will start the race in LAST place tomorrow. Meanwhile, Ol Shue is at it, busting out some of that magic running-on-the-ragged-edge and nabbing the pole - his 65th and equal to the incredible record of one A. Senna. Respect!

I think I like the new qualifying concept, thou. But I haven’t quite made up my mind yet.

Kimi + Ferrari = please, please, please.