rafael pyton

“Småkusin“, alternatively “syssling“, is Swedish for second cousin. And there is an army of us out there, or at the very slightest, a strategic division… anyway, heard persisting rumours all summer that such a gathering was in the planning stage, but I always thought it would come to nought. I’m so glad it didn’t.
Huge expression of enthusiam for EVERYONE who helped put this one together. Thank You.
All I had to do was to turn up and brandish my fancy new beard about, eat and drink and sing and dance and take lots of blurry pictures. That’s what I do.

Pictures, yes. Despite some of that late August darkness, these made the cut, toed the fine party line. If I may be so bold [hrm] as to speak for die ganze Gruppe, I think everybody had a jolly good time. And if anyone wonders why I’m in most of these pictures… it’s because I’m so damn good-looking.

Jokes aside, la familia is a gorgeous bunch, and I’m happy to be a part of it. Imagine this, second cousins: that none of us would even exist now if it hadn’t been for a lil’ sweet hanky-panky of ancestors Hugo & Anna Sandholm a looong looong looong time ago…

In the September issue of the British Gentleman’s Quarterly, 50 more or less prominent men were asked to nominate the ‘manliest’ song they know. This is the result, with the addition of my own lethal candidates at the end.
Uh, if you’re a woman, take it as a great opportunity to peek into the minds of men. Hey, who knows - maybe you’ll figure us out someday. In the meanwhile, play some air guitar.

Kill & destroy. Random order:

1. Untold Stories, Buju Banton ['Til Shiloh, 1995] - Tony Parsons, novelist
2. It’s Not Enough, Johnny Thunders & The Heartbreakers[LAMF Revisited, 1984] - Bobby Gillespie, Primal Scream’s main man
3. Sabotage, Beastie Boys [Ill Communication, 1994] - Jimmy Carr, comedian
4. Start Me Up, The Rolling Stones [Tattoo You, 1981] - Boris Johnson, MP
5. Mack The Knife, Bobby Darin [Beyond The Sea: The Very Best Of Bobby Darin, 2004] - Chuck Palahniuk, author of Fight Club
6. Hell Yeah, Neil Diamond [12 Songs, 2005] - Christian O’Connell, DJ
7. Crabsody In Blue, AC/DC [Let There Be Rock, 1977] - James May, Top Gear Presenter
8. We Can Be Brave Again, The Armoury Show [Waiting For The Floods, 1985] - Christopher Brookmyre, crime writer
9. Layla, Derek & The Dominos [Layla And Other Assorted Love Songs, 1970] - Sir Paul Smith, fashion designer
10. Whole Lotta Rosie, AC/DC [Let There Be Rock, 1977] - Craig McLean, journalist
11. I’m Coming Home, The Spinners [Mighty Love, 1974] - Jonathan Lethem, author
12. Sympathy For The Devil, The Rolling Stones [Beggar's Banquet, 1968] - Chris Ryan, thriller writer
13. Whiter Shade Of Pale, Procul Harum [Whiter Shade Of Pale, 1972] - Donovan, pop icon
14. There Is A Light That Never Goes Out, The Smiths [The Queen Is Dead, 1986] - Rob Da Bank, DJ
15. This Guy’s In Love With You, Herb Alpert & The Tijuana Brass [Beat Of The Brass, 1968], David Williams, comedy institution
16. It’s My Life, Bon Jovi [Crush, 2000] - Dylan Jones, GQ editor
17. My Way, Frank Sinatra [My Way: The Best Of Frank Sinatra, 2002] - Alan McGee, creationist
18. Born To Run, Frankie Goes To Hollywood [Welcome To The Pleasuredome, 1984] - Johnny Davis, journalist
19. Immigrant Song, Led Zeppelin [Led Zeppelin III] - Jason Barlow, editor of CAR Magazine
20. Ready To Fight, Negative Approach [Total Recall, 1992] - Thurston Moore, Sonic Youth singer and guitarist
21. The Passenger, Iggy Pop [Lust For Life, 1977] - Henry Harrison, Mystery Jets rhythm guitarist
22. Seven Nation Army, The White Stripes [Elephant, 2003] - Will Young, pop idol
23. Three Wheels On My Wagon, The New Christy Minstrels [Cowboys And Indians, 1964] - Tony Christie, crooner
24. Revolution Blues, Neil Young [On The Beach, 1974] - Ron Liddle, GQ’s bad behaviorist
25. Vision Thing, Sisters Of Mercy [Vision Thing, 1990] - Adrian Deevoy, songwriter and journalist
26. Independence Day, Bruce Springsteen [The River, 1980] - Billy Bragg, bard of Barking
27. Cool For Cats, Squeeze [Cool For Cats, 1979] - Jamie T, singer-songwriter
28. Eye Of The Tiger, Survivor [Eye Of The Tiger, 1982] - Sway, rapper
29. Do Wah Diddy, Manfred Mann [The Manfred Mann Album, 1964] - Jon Snow, Channel 4 Newsman
30. I’m Straight, The Modern Lovers [The Modern Lovers, 1976] - James Murphy, aka LCD Soundsystem
31. Father And Son, Cat Stevens [Tea For Tillerman, 1971] - Tom Chaplin, Keane vocalist
32. Morning Dew, Tim Rose [Morning Dew, 1967] - Stewart Lee, comedian
33. Supernaut, Black Sabbath [Black Sabbath Vol 4, 1972] - Chuck Klosterman, author of Killing Yourself To Live
34. Prime Mover, Zodiac Mindwarp & The Love Reaction [Tattooed Beat Messiah, 1988] - Paul Henderson, GQ Health and Sports editor
35. At Last I Am Born, Morrissey [Ringleader Of The Tormentors, 2006] - Charlie Porter, GQ associate editor
36. Wooly Bully, Sam The Sham & The Pharaohs [Wooly Bully, 1965] - Simon Napier-Bell, pop manager-cum-memoirist
37. If I Was Your Girlfriend, Prince [Sign O' The Times, 1987] - Kurt Wagner, Lambchop frontman
38. Mannish Boy, Muddy Waters [The Real Folk Blues, 1965] - Teddy Thompson, folk singer
39. Just Like A Woman, Bob Dylan [Blonde On Blonde, 1966] - Tony Wilson, Factory Records founder
40. A Man Needs A Maid, Neil Young [Harvest, 1972] - Alex Bilmes, GQ features director
41. Run To My Lovin’ Arms, Billy Fury [Best Of Billy Fury, 1967] - Bob Stanley, Saint Etienne
42. Wild Horses, The Rolling Stones [Sticky Fingers, 1971] - Christopher Bailey, Burberry creative director
43. Against The Wind, Bob Seger [Against The Wind, 1980] - Bill Prince, GQ deputy editor
44. My Love Is Like A Tire Iron, Ted Nugent [Intensities In Ten Cities, 1982] - Robert Chalmers, novelist
45. Mushaboom, Feist [Let It Die, 2005] - Alex Petridis, Guardian rock and pop critic
46. I Want You, Elvis Costello [Blood & Chocholate, 1986] - Danny McNamara, Embrace frontman
47. Love Removal Machine, The Cult [Electric, 1987] - Simon Mills, GQ social editor
48. Kill All Hippies, Primal Scream [Xtrmntr, 2000] - Alan Donahue, The Rakes frontman
49. Try A Little Tenderness, Otis Redding [Complete & Unbeliveable: The Otis Redding Dictionary Of Soul, 1966] - Rick Moody, author of The Ice Storm
50. Losing Hand, Eddie Boyd [Blues: Southside Chicago, 1966] - Nick Mee, GQ sub-editor

+ Five songs by Rafael Pyton, wannabe writer and recreational dreamer.

51. Finlandia, Jean Sibelius

My grandfather did not fight for this country for nothing. I’d do the same, as long as Finlandia was on constant loop in the background. Bring it on, Bolsheviks. I’ll take you all.

52. Kickstart My Heart, Mötley Crüe

“When I get high, I get high on speed… always got the cops coming after me… ooh, are you ready girls, ooh are you ready now, ooh yeah, kickstart my heart, hope it never stops… years gone by, I’d say we’ve kicked some ass… ooh yeah, I’d say we’re still kickin’ ass… my heart, my heart, kickstart my heart…” It’s primal. Some of the best things in life are.

53. Love Missile, Sigue Sigue Sputnik

Who am I to be this choosy? ALL of Sigue Sigue Sputnik’s songs make me feel like a He-Man in a world of Pee-Wees.

54. No Surrender, Bruce Springsteen

“We busted out of class, had to get away from those fools. We learned more from a three minute record than we ever learned in school… we made a promise we swore we’d always remember. No retreat baby, no surrender…” Aich. The damn goosebumps are exploding again, and my eyes grow misty. Burn rubber in a big V8, because… I really must get away from all these fools.

55. Paradise City, Guns N’ Roses

By the time the first note has gone, I’ve lost complete control of myself. And… I become a man.

-

[Please. Feel free to participate on comments page with personal flamethrowers of man-songs.]

I still tend to call it the 1000 Lakes Rally, instead of WRC Neste Oil Rally Of Finland. Somehow, it rings more romantically. Nostalgia is a tremendous treasure of the mind, you see.

Despite the fact that there are a number of wonderful sports vying for my tender attention - Motocross, MotoGP, Formula1 - rallying, or WRC, has a solid life membership to this same superexclusive cluster called ‘elite & sweet sports that raise Andy’s already dangerously high level of testosterone‘.
And what we have here today is notch numero SIX on the wheel of long lanky Marcus “Bosse” Grönholm, our local boy and bestest driver in the world - if Sebastien Loeb does not read my blog.
So count ‘em. That is sechs as in the nearly beastly number of gravelspitting sidewayssmoking bumperripping trophygirlkissing wins in the Rally Of The 1000 Lakes, the only Grand Prix of the WRC.

Grand Prix, mais oui. Because on rocket stage Ouninpohja 2, according to Ford’s telemetry, Bosse kept his right leg locked and the loud pedal clocked for a whopping 46 seconds straight! Yelp! Gulp!
DO YOU REALIZE!!!
That is flat out in top gear for 46 seconds, on loose gravel, over crests, while killer trees whizz by the windows, only tying the car up a little with dabs of leftfoot-braking in long sweeping corners, but NOT lifting! Not lifting… I almost faint. This rally is not for the weak of heart and smalls of balls. Bosse, I bow for your sixth.

That is also sechs as in the same number of rally wins legendary Markku Alén has carved up in Martini-colored maximum attack mode on the same rally. Not bad to belong to the same club as the Italian Finn… of course, the golden Hannu Mikkola has seven. Hey, emulate a bit of Audi Quattro turbo whistle if you know what I mean. I’ll give Bosse another year plus one, thou, to lay claim to the royal throne of rally kingdom.

Ah, speaking of the great Maximus Alén, there is a new kid on the block that goes by the same surname; his son Anton Alén. What more, it also looks like he’s got a bit of that same need for speed - he won Group N in Jyväskylä. Watch out.

And peace out.

I watch a lot of movies, I read a lot of books, I listen to a lot of music. Trinity of culture, I like to call it - and also a never-ending and impossible battle to stay the day, not fall behind. Still I do, though.

A very good friend of mine recommended A Love Song For Bobby Long to me a long time ago; see, the movie came out in 2004.
Well, there I was, strutting along the aisles at Citymarket, looking for basil and baloney, when I stopped at the dvd section. I won’t buy anything, I said to myself, like I always do.
Later, looking at the receipt, it was confirmed that I’d just bought four new films, one of them being A Love Song For Bobby Long.

I’spouse I purchased the movie in question for three reasons: the friendly recommendation, the dialogue - meaning the many wonderful literary quotes the cast throw around in boozy fashion, and… Scarlett Johansson is in it. Yeah yeah yeah, fell in love again. Dammit, Scarlett, don’t do this to me. Don’t be so freaking beautiful. Don’t be so sexy in that tank-top. Don’t hurt my feelings by denying all my marriage proposals time and time again.

Humble apologies, huge amount. I act like a teenage girl… allow me to redeem myself with a lil’ sumptin-sumptin report:

Her mama having died, Pursy (Scarlett) returns to her childhood home in New Orleans. To her surprise, the run-down house is occupied by Bobby Long (John Travolta), an alcoholized ex-professor in literature, and his ex-assistant and protégé Lawson. The troublesome but lazy days go by in a great haze of whiskey & vodka, and citing the finest lines of the finest books ever written. Big easy music is coming from horns and strings, and Lawson is working on an eternal bio-novel on Bobby Long’s life… but. You will see.

Even though John Travolta is in this movie, don’t let it put you off - this is not Battlefield Earth. The ol’ dimple-chin is in great form in this melancholic but eventually sweet and oh-so wonderful and hearty story. The proof is the moistness in the corners of my eyes as the final credits started streaming.

And having watched it all alone, I didn’t even have to pretend there was something in my eye…

The legend of American daredevil Travis Pastrana continues to grow unabated, like a forest fire in summer Russia. If you’ve never heard of him, I IMPLORE you to do your research.
Yeah, ok, FINE, but don’t say I didn’t warn you when he’s on everybody’s lips even here in Europe and you just stand there looking dumb and saying “who?” like you can’t spell ‘sucker‘. Me, I firmly believe he is the closest you can get to a real superhero in this world. Yo, Spidey, go home and digest flies.

This time in Los Angeles, the latest annual edition of Summer X Games went down in history as… uh, don’t tell me you don’t know what X Games is?
Sigh! I’m surrounded by selective ignoramuses - guess I just have to come to terms with the fact that I am me and you are you and there is not a single thing I can do about it.
The Summer X Games is the equivalent of the Summer Olympics, only that it takes place annually and involves cool sports. You may sniff the high sky and call it ‘marginal phenomena‘, but I personally predict that X Games will become bigger than the Olympics.
A couple of generations more and you’ll see; the young always make the rules, the old merely implement. And don’t we know that it ALWAYS starts on the streets of America, like it or not.
In other words, my words, while you were watching Keskisalo run the 3000m steeplechase, I witnessed Travis Pastrana shake hands with the grim reaper and come back to talk about it. ‘Larger than life‘ finally has a true meaning: simply Travis.

Open up and say aaahhh…

Aaahhh indeed, a d-d-d-double back-flip on a motocross bike, first time ever landed in competition. Not sure if such ‘marginal phenomena’ registers on your scales of emotion, but I have my heart in my throat, in my mouth, between my teeth, when I think about it.
At the same time, you need to know that I’m not a big fan of freestyle motocross - I prefer the hardcore purity of racing - but when someone masters rotation and gravity and the odds and ends of life on a dirt bike, I sit up and take notice.

It will all end in tears, of course. The bar has been raised, and when the rest of the freestyle world is forced to react, someone is bound to land upside-down. There is only one Travis, and he is blessed with supranatural talents… I almost wish he’d stop opening Pandora’s Box like this - and get away with it. But I love him, just like everyone else. Did you know that his competitors prayed for him as he attempted this jump? That is true FAMILY.

[Hrm. I suddenly notice I keep my hand on my heart].

Well, that’s not all, peeps. I bet you didn’t know this either, but Rally Racing is now part of the ever-growing X Games. Among the participants were Colin McRae, and… obviously, none other than the incomparable chosen one that also goes by the name of Travis Pastrana. The boy is talented - will you finally hear me when I say he beat Colin McRae in the final?
Aha. An ear or two pricked up. Yes, and I have more for you. In two years time or so, if still alive, Travis will most likely come to the WRC series to duke it out with Loeb & the flying Finns. Subaru is already eating out of his hand.
I for one cannot wait; Pastrana is the Messiah WRC has searched for so long, and there is no doubt in my mind he will transform WRC, inject it with personality, bring back the wild flash of the era of Group B.

Big predictions, I know, but I stand behind them. You heard them here, and I’ll demand my credit when the time comes.

A few years back, influential USA Today listed the greatest athlete of our time as alternative sports hero Shaun Palmer. You DO know Palm Daddy? Oh, I give up…
Today, I say that not only is Travis Pastrana a true-to-life superhero and a multifreak of gigantical talent, he is also the greatest athlete of our modern time. Period.

It started to rain as I was pouring cement, so I had two choices. Write a post, or watch Not Another Teen Movie on TV…

The real question is, what the hell do you do when you catch a pike? I usually throw them right back into the dark deep blue. They are unfriendly, untasty, and unmeaty. Sure, if you get a big one, you can fillet it, fry it in butter, add a bit of garlic. I even hear someone smokes them - I should try that. But today:

Pike baked in sea salt [River Café + Rafael Pyton]

1 nice predator-pike
2 lemons
2-3 kg coarse sea salt
Plenty of herbs & peppers & imagination
Extra-virgin olive oil

Gut the bastard. Throw a party for the seagulls. Preheat oven to 200 degrees. Put salt in large bowl and add a couple of decis of water. Stir to stiffen salt to damp-sand consistency. Season the fish generously inside cavity, stuff it with rosépeppers, rosemary twigs, whatever tickles your fancy. Cover base of large frying pan or baking tray with thick layer of salt. Place fish on top, pack remaining salt over fish, covering evenly. Bake for 20-25 minutes. To test, pierce salt with skewer and push into fish to the backbone, where fish is thickest: if hot, the fish is cooked. Remove from oven to cool slightly. Break off hard salt crust from top. Lift fish off salt base, remove skin from top side. Serve with lemon wedges and stupidly expensive olive oil. Gorge. Choke on bone.

There. Remember, real men catch it themselves. ROARRR!!!

[By the by, I did watch Not Another Teen Movie - don't tell anyone, but I thought it was hilarious. Besides, it was full of hot babes in various stages of undress. Somehow, that always works for me].

I’ve had the pleasure to know this well-bred gang for little less than all my life, and whenever we gather around to relate to the world, funky-funny things are bound to happen. Last weekend, crayfish party at my paradise place, and nothing has changed. God forbid it would ever change… because this is the time when I charge my laughter batteries.

I’m damn well aching to publish a million of the most outrageous pictures taken… but I won’t… I can’t. Or would you perhaps like to see two lovely ladies orally interviewing the two heads of a cucumber? Halt! No more information, and no more questions. What happens in Nagu, stays in Nagu. Take the good times as they come; the picture-show is in town.

This is what fun looks like to us, and you better believe I’ve been laughing like the hammer of Thor all weekend long.

There is gold in them hills.

And suddenly I found the place from where I intend to watch the probably imminent Judgement Day. When the rest of the world cries in panic and fear, I’ll watch the flames and thunder with a smile on my face, perfectly calm, knowing that I am where I want to be, and nothing else matters.

Ax and saw, hammer in my paw. A three-day stretch and the terrace has a Picasso face, finally I can just lean back towards whatever is behind me, and look, watch, see. Even hear, sense, imagine. The egosatisfaction tingles in my body, the spoon is empty of heroin.

And in case Judgment Day lingers long, not even old age seems like such a bad proposition anymore. Let’s do lunch here tomorrow, God. Bring some bread; the zucchini salad is on me.