rafael pyton

Strange things happen when the sun comes out, when spring is in the air, when the butter and the fly becomes a butterfly. Poets sharpen their wits and feather pens, and young boys feel an uncontrollable urge. But not only that; at good times like these, I always feel the need to build something.

This time I’ve been renovating my writing room. If you were one of those who used to come around back in the day and throw darts in the big yellow house on Centralgatan, spare me a kind thought. Not all of you used to hit the dart board all the time… I’ve finally come around to fill the millions of small holes in the wall! Frankly, I thought I was going to have to tear down the whole house just to rebuild that wall, but I am looking at my handiwork right now, and it is so clean, ultrawhite, perfect. It looks like a Colgate commercial. (Nothing beats patting your own back after a job well done).

After sanding the putty for days, and then painting my head dizzy, there is peace and harmony in this room. Aaaaaaaah. The DIY-man strikes again!

The strange Sunday ritual of self-flagellation continues. Oh dear, what a drag. I am talking about Formula One - or rather, the world’s most expensive queue driving & formation forming. Not counting the opening lap, did anyone notice a single bold overtaking manoeuvre during the Imola GP? I sure did not. Maybe I wasn’t looking hard enough? I’ll make sure I bring my looking glass the next time…

I only titled it a ’shuffle’ because I like the sound of the word. I do tricky stuff like that sometimes. Do you know, it sounds much like ‘waffle’. But, really, the meaning of ’shuffle’ is not present here; I’d go as far as to suggest the cars stayed very much ‘unshuffled’.

I am now completely convinced I could win a F1 grand prix in one particular three-cylinder 1.2 liter Volkswagen Polo Trendline - if Sir Bernie the bionic demi-god lets me pull the holeshot. Then I could just keep the car in the middle of the road, check my mirrors, and amuse my brain with soft thoughts of dousing the podium babes in champagne. You see, they can not pass me!
No matter how slow the car in front of you is, the curse of modern F1 is the impossibility of overtaking. I watched Fernancy Albundy nip at the heels of Ol Shue for probably 30 laps, but I knew that the distance between the two was as irrelevant as the cup of tea I did not have this morning. Praise the lord for motorcycle racing…

Still, since I stupidly and stubbornly watch every F1 race much like the fool who waits for Jesus to return, I feel that something should be done. Something should have been done ages ago, of course, but despite the multitude of moaning, nothing has yet to come of it. Well? What can you do? Moan more, naturally. When in doubt, moan.

Take note, you useless FIA sack of scheisse, and implement. Implement! I hereby offer, gracefully and completely gratis, my solutions to fix the Castrol-bleeding patient:

- ban the god damn ad boards… sorry, I hear they call them ‘rear wings’.
- bring back the phat slicks.
- stop fucking around with the fuel-loads. You run qualifying on light, and before the start of the race you put enough soup in the tank to finish the race. Basta. Pronto. Strategy drives me silly! Is this an accounting practice, or a motor sport? Come on, people. Let’s sign petitions. Let’s put Ross Brawn out of a job.

Should that not work:

- nitro button! You are allowed to use it once a lap…
- punish drivers severly (revoke superlicence, dock pay, shoot them, I don’t know) if they do not perform at least three passes during the race.
- let me (and not boring Hermann Tilke) redesign some of those circuits, particularly Imola. I will bring back the jumps…
- hire me as a driver - I promise you lots of overtaking action… (wow, if there ever was an opening for a cheap shot).
- make me the president of FIA. Read my lips: no new taxes! Ups, that was my other speech…
- spice up the cars with some Bond gadgets. I miss you, old Q.

Voilà, now I have done my duty and good deed of the day; I have moaned in a manly fashion. Besides, it is part of a man’s psyche to badmouth FIA, vehicle of faschismo. It is pavlovian. Yes, it is. I personally think that talking insanely ill of FIA should be made part of the curriculum in school. Yeah, would ever I excel in that… straight A’s and no B’s, buddy.

Yes, there was a race at Imola this afternoon. The sounds of engines kept me awake. A tidy golf applause to old champion M Schumacher, who managed to position himself in front of my target for hate, Ferblundo Algore. Swell steering, Ol Shue! You are still the man. I bow my head in shame because I am so unworthy.
More importantly, Ol Shue, you finally nabbed the last record in the history books all for yourself. 66 pole positions. Is that the new number of the beast? I’ll call you later, dog. Anyway, if I could just semi-control the white-walled river of words for a few more minutes (Great beginning of sentence… Sorry. I’m trying, for god’s sake, I’m trying so hard, but the words just come and come, invade my mind, penetrate my personal space, violate me forcefully, they just come and come and there’s no ducking, dude, I take ‘em on the chin and spit ‘em out here, like this!), I’d just like to say that you, Ol Shue, are now the best ever, and there is no denying it. Uh. That was very hard for me to admit. You know, I don’t like you, Ol Shue, never have and never will, but at least you can count on my respect. That crap ain’t cheap, either. You are the big chief. You are the long-fingered thief. Go on, grow old with me, keep on keeping on, stealing away the wins (especially from the Spaniard. He’s evil & up to no good).

But, in lieu of this cosy vis-a-vis, Ol Shue, let me be the first to let you know that I know that you lied yesterday. The reporters asked you what it meant to grab Senna’s amazing record. Your answer was remarkably nonchalant. You said that it didn’t really mean a lot. I was watching you, Ol Shue. You lied, man. Oh, you lied…

I am sincerely happy I was not in computer-proximity at the hospital, or this post would have contained nothing but the foulest swearwords you’ve ever seen or heard… and a couple of newly invented ones, no doubt. As it happened, my storming rage slowly turned into sore disappointment, then silently faded into whatever, I’ve seen this place before.

Why? Would you know, the operation was annulled. Too many nurses (that were supposed to assist in my surgery) had called in sick. I was kindly offered a new date: 10.5. Or, numbers translated to text: my birthday. Can’t wait to celebrate it in the krankhaus…

Most of the time I have no luck; at other times I have bad luck.

Off for a bit of surgery tomorrow, will be back supersoon (I hope).

In the quiet meantime, I won’t leave you empty-handed. Blink once, then move your attention towards I, under Pages. You will find that my so-called “profile” has grown yet again, like the Adam’s apple of a little boy inching his way into puberty…

It is li-li-listmaniaaah! More, More, Roger Moore! Cheaper! Harder! Better! All-New! Buy One - Get Everything Else For Free! Now With Mint Flavour! On special offer right about now, like the funk soul brother:

My Favourite comics
The Best tv-series
Damn Coolest cars ever

Go on, disagree with me.

The backmasking tradition continues, and blooms like never before. While there is nothing new about playing Led Zeppelin backwards, it has now been finessed to a shivering height. Is Stairway To Heaven really the Stairway To Hell? It makes sense, on some plateaux. You have to stretch your imagination a little - but, believe me, NOT a lot.

Some argue that the backwards version of Stairway To Heaven makes even more sense than the lyrics to the original version. I am not one of them. It may be more lucid, and infinitely more evil, but it obviously lacks the flowing poetry of the original (which, I like to suggest, is already far more ambiguous than some may think).

I am not very familiar with satanism in literature. Is ‘Satan’ Set, the brother of Osiris, who got so envious of him, that he cut Osiris in 14 pieces and scattered him around the world? Or is ‘Satan’ Lucifer, the fallen angel, kicked out of heaven; he who was the temptation of Jesus Christ? Be what may, he is still a fictional character, probably not in the position of moving the pen for Jimmy Page and Robert Plant.

It is another story alltogether, whether Page penned the song for ‘Satan’ or not, or what, (whatever curious reasons there are). It is said that the song was written in a haste; it is also alleged that Page spent countless hours working on different short soundclips, alone.
Truly mindbusting is the fact that there are complete lyrics both ways. The original version is one of the finest songs ever written and sung. How ironical then, that when the same song is played backwards, it manages to be the one of the scariest songs ever sung… and written?
I’d love to dismiss it as “coincidence”… but I am not quite able to do it. However, if it isn’t, it must be a work of immense genius… almost supranatural… just work your eightball a little on the odds of words compatible both ways!

The power of suggestion is amazing. The brain works in many mysterious ways. It is easily corrupted by the subconsciousness. In other words, if you are looking for devils, you will find them. My explanations; I can not do any better than that.

Don’t let your hands idle. I would LOVE to hear from you on this topic, if you dare. The backwards version can be found on the internet, try LimeWire, for example. Download it, listen to it. (Bare in mind: this is mp3. Vinyl would sound much clearer). Without lyrics, it sounds like mumbo-jumbo, with few words interpretable. But with the backmasked lyrics in front of you, keep your ear close to the speaker… don’t tell me later that it did not make you very veeeery uneasy… I just would not believe you.

I want you to swallow refridgerators.

Thanks to clever Mr Milner, here are the complete lyrics to Stairway To Heaven - Backwards.

Plaaaay backwards,
Hear why its sung here, oppositioner..
Allll on track, all arriving
They all sing, and they are one.
Shall I loathe you now, parishioner?
Oh hear Him, Christian within me.
It stirs my sin; the river,
Oh, she swells with our lousiness.
All my life will end for him?
We’re all out of signs,
I know I’m sorta shocked
To hear The Lord,
My God now will save me!
Oh I will n’er be saved,
Because I live with Satan..
One wish today;
That you’ll all pray for
Thee who will make it here late.
Pray now and you’ll see..
The ‘Lord’ turned me on,
But, oh, I was the shaggy fool..
Clothed in agony,
Lost at a height.
There’s no escaping it,
Nor his woes..
So here’s to my Sweet Satan.
The other’s little path
Would make me sad,
Whose power is faith.
He’ll give those with him 666.
And all the evil fools,
they know he made
us suffer sadly.
Ohohohoh…
“Family won’t get loose,
They’re offered me.”
Always soothes the worker.
Always will be as we know now
“I see ruins,” said he,
“the world they offered me?
Who wished the Lord’s fall?”
If we lose feather,
Say you’ll save me!

And no wimps can bend the rules..
And no wimps can do..

Hunt next to the shore,
‘Cause they see all from there,
See here’s the news,
Who walks with mute grief!
Perhaps no-one found thee…
“Heavy, lift me out,”
Spake the Reve,
“Someday, failed, we’ll lose one line-up,
They’ve gotta leave forsaken.”

And no wimps can do..
And no wimps can do…

He, who say the lords
Thoth have our laws,
Maat must be superb. Mass is ended..
Over there,
He who should learn thee.
Any moot that serves by my sworn music,
I wish it with snow be shushed,
All for my mass’s sake.
Hear why its sung,
here, oppositioner, ohh..
He who should show
May make his show worthy,
To look, for us, odd.. sickly,
There’s one chance - take his show.
Hold thy head,
Hear why its sung here, oppositioner.
Who owns this earth built below?
Oh sweet Israel…

I said it before & I’ll say it again… and probably again and again and again, in the near future… original quote below is from my “politik-polis” post of Jan 14th:

“Swell. Iran goes nuclear. I suppose they need the energy, since they don’t have much oil… please turn on your sarcasm detector now.“

It appears that Romano Prodi has won the Italian election… by a peanut, the shadow of a telephone line, and a ray of sunshine. What I can make of this messy mud-fest is that it is nix enough to completely remove his opponent - yes, him, the ultracorrupt megamobster who calls people who vote against him ‘coglioni‘…
I can not see Forza Italia team up with L’Unione, so another election may very well loom and loom large. Shame. It may feel difficult to vote socialista, but there should be no breathing space left in modern civilized Europe for a slick whose hobbies include fabricating his own laws to keep himself out of jail.

(That one, Silvio, is for insulting Finlandia…)

It is snowing outside right now like there is something wrong with my eyes. It’s been so long since I last saw the sun, that I barely remember the shape of it. I look at my ghost skin, and sure enough, it is a whiter shade of pale. I have had it!

At times like these, we all need a little chin-up cheer-up. My friend and his lovely family went way South, found the shy sun. Sipping margaritas by the pool, they thought of me, and sent me this card. Hopefully it will cheer you up as much as it did me…

It is the year of the frog. Raining from the sky. One would think that seventeen albums of Serge Gainsbourg would satisfy most men. But. Not this one. No. Sirree. Punctuation is a weapon of mass destruction. And music sung in French is the total opposite…

…so I branched out and hit the heavens with little happy fists of lulu joy as I came upon gems like Charles Trenet and Georges Brassens and Jacques Brel, dusty treasures of silly accordion glee wooeee.

I always figured Edith Piaf brought the best rollicking ‘r’s to the table… but Jacko Brel is a rolling ripping rotund riot of the French ‘R’. His tongue must be alien. It is strrrrrruggling for its life to get out. ‘Dans le porrrrrrt d’Amsterrrrrrdam…‘

Breakdance my heart!

I have discovered Serge Gainsbourg! The world will never look quite the same again.

This is my second time coming into religious Gainsbourg belief. The first one was when I, as an easily impressionable young boy, heard ‘Je T’aime Moi Non Plus‘ for the first time. Uh ah… an important milestone on that rocky road of adolesence… you know what I am talking about if you have heard this heavy-breathing song. If not, please, do yourself a favour. Such wiz, such wit.

Je vais, je vais et je viens
Entre tes reins
Et je
Me re-
Tiens

However, and ’scuse my pun, this time I have penetrated his material in a deeper way… there is so much more to Serge Gainsbourg than that song - which also was his biggest hit in the States, where it, by coincidence(?), stalled the pop charts at number 69. How quaint.
As I was saying, before I got distracted, there is a wealth of even better Gainsbourg out there. I should know; I now have 17 albums that I hold close to my warm body. The dirty man of French popular music is a genius of a composer, producer and provocative performer. He was also the lover of Brigitte Bardot. Oh BB! (even her initials are sexy; full and juicy like plums) What more could you ask for?

Gainsbourg: a modern Baudelaire.

By all means, try ‘Histoire de Melody Nelson‘ and ‘Bonnie and Clyde‘. And I know you want to listen to ‘Initials B.B‘ and ‘Serge Gainsbourg and Jane Birkin‘. It seems sad and hard to realize that you really haven’t been taking out the corners in life before you’ve heard sweet la petite Anglaise Jane Birkin singysing the song ‘Orang Outan‘…

I fall in love. How I fall in love.