rafael pyton

I need to ask, have you seen the Dudesons Movie? The four Finnish lunatics scheming to get seriously hurt in the most inventive ways possible? Why, it’s a riot to watch. And I hear it’s hitting it big in the States…

Know this; The Dudesons were at it before Jackass, the American program which blew up this “if-you-gotta-be-dumb-you-gotta-be-tough genre” worldwide. I am not at all surprised; this genre was made for the Finnish people. In this country even the normal have a streak of madness bubbling in their white potbellies.

This is evident in a wide spectrum of Finnish literature – Seitsemän Veljestä, anyone [Seven Brothers]? Brrrr. Also, try many of the recent Finnish movies ranging from Häjyt to Matti Nykänen… plot usually going along the lines of screaming obscenities, getting drunk on something disgusting, wrestling a bit in the forest, screaming some more, while being as viciously ugly as it is humanly possible… yes, sounds like fun, but despite the odd laugh it is always mega-repulsive in the end.

I have always wondered what possesses them to scream all the time? I hate it. So beastly, so primal, so vulgar.

Indeed, despite this magical madness that we possess, there has always been a dire, dire, DIRE, lack of charisma. Any akankanto [carry a bitch on your back-competition], saappaanheitto [rubber boot-throwing competition], suojuoksu [swamp running-competition] and ilmakitara [air guitar competition] serves to confirm this.

No, I was sadly not making up any of those.

Along comes the Dudesons, also extremely Finnish in every way, but this time there are hidden hints of coolness and charisma. Their English is rather square-shaped, but they have all the will in the world. Besides, some of the cast from Jackass [they are big fans] make appearances, particularly Steve-O, the man with the world’s best laughter. Hä-hä-hä-hä-hä!

This is what I call embellishing the Suomi-kuva [image of Finland]! Of course, there is a fair deal of stereotype-strengthening, but all is well and done in good spirits. Go ahead, give the Dudesons movie a shot, and try not to puke while you laugh. Jukka & Jarppi and the gang would prefer you buy it on dvd, but I, hrm, hear you can find it on the internet.

One particular scene lodged in my brain. One of the Dudesons are jumping a huge ramp on a highly tuned Suzuki PV [haha!moped of mopeds] into a lake. The guy breaks his leg badly. Then they film the operation, and the ensuing x-rays. It all seemed too familiar.

[Of course, I went double the height, and landed on frozen ground, not water. I broke, no I exploded, a lot more than one meager bone. And my x-rays would freak out anyone… maybe I should buy them from the hospital and publish them here? Think they are 5 euros a piece…]

Hello and good evening, welcome to the hungry hunt of mediocrity. Andy, renowned social critic and personal friend of Freud, has again put on his most acid hat; today’s article will introduce the duality of pop culture, concentrate on the lower end, and first and foremost, question the ongoing morbid fascination with talentless people.

TV is at once the best it’s ever been, and the worst. At the high end of the spectrum we have series such as Entourage and Sopranos, at the swamp end there is Survivor and Big Brother. Normally, I wouldn’t take the foul words of Big Brother in my mouth, or even type it on my computer – cry, Orwell, for they know not what they created – but since the whole of my incomprehensible country is talking about the latest episode, I figure I have little to lose to the rest in status of dignity.

The craziest thing, but as I was flipping through the channels yesterday, I happened to run across highlights from that particular episode of Big Brother that has everyone talking today. As it involved sex, I lingered for a little while… here is how it went down: Apparently they drink quite a lot on Finnish Big Brother – quel surprise, but it’s admittedly clever TV strategy – and we all know what happens when King Alcohol enters the picture; people cling to each other. The sounds of deep throat kissing made me sick, but I had to ride out the storm now. So this pair went to bed, made out a little, and the girl passed out! This is where it should’ve ended, but the guy – obviously still damn horny, wouldn’t you be – kept on fiddling and fondling – no penetration [intention?] – until he was interrupted by the director of Big Brother. This is when I changed channel, vowing never to return.

The next day he was thrown out, I hear, and now the police are looking into the case! Gee wiz, I’m stifling d’oh’s so hard, that there is risk of implosion. It may not be too clever to try to fuck a passed-out girl on viewer-heavy TV, but the proportions are definitely out of whack with the world!

The headlines are full of it, bigger and blacker than ever. Why? Because a nobody did a morally dubious thing to another nobody. 0 + 0 = 0. This raging nothingness of nobodies is raining on me from an invisible cloud, and I don’t like it one bit. Even if it is only 15 minutes of fame, you used to have to be special to become a star.

Who watches Big Brother? I’d love to see some demographics. Are they rednecks, poor and dumb? Bored upper class? Level of education? Do they read books? Are they the same people who watch the soaps? I need to know, so I can understand this phenomenon. And then trash it some more.

But, more than who, the question is obviously why? Why does anyone watch Big Brother? I watched a minute of it and was appalled. As entertainment value it is zero. Big Brother contestants are goldfishes with nothing to contribute to society.

Now, I’m sure there are numerous dissertations that throw psychological light on this social experiment – but I want short answers.

Is it because they, the viewers, can identify and relate? They see themselves? They want to make fun of strangers? They want to make fun of themselves, in some perverse way? They are peeping Toms – they can look, experience, but without the mess of actually living it?

Whywhywhy? In terms of good acting, red thread, decent story line, beginning-middle-end, beautiful lightning and camera work, sound, additional effects, it sure as hell offers as little as yesterday’s piss.

Shit, what is happening to people? IRC and Big Brother are changing the world – and I am not at all convinced it’s for the better. I can’t even get a decent laugh out of it.

For us moto people, the Motocross Des Nations is the summer olympics slash world cup of mx. Although an annual event, it’s bigger than the bluewhale to me. This year, last Sunday, the moto-world war resumed in Matterley Basin, England, and was expected to be something out of the absolutely extraordinary.

Yes, the 60th edition of MXdN was going to be the FINAL showdown of Ricky Carmichael, the GOAT [greatestofalltime] from the USA, versus Stefan Everts, the King of Europe, from Belgium. That is ‘final’ as in the last time ever these two greats were to meet… ever ever ever! For both men, this was their retirement party. Sadly, RC got injured before the event. The battle, though, was still on, and the press was still pumping with hype. Now it was James Stewart against King Everts. Frankly, I thought James was bagging this one. Despite the accomplishments of RC and Everts, Stewart, while prone to crash heavily, is often the scary-fastest man on Earth.

I was wrong. Silkysmooth Stefan Everts won the battle, easily winning both his motos. Team USA, however, won the war on points consistency. Congratulations, USA, for taking home the coveted Chamberlain Trophy for a record 17th time. But a good slice of the day belongs to Everts; what a way to finish off the career of a dream! Happy holidays, good man - you are a legend now. But I for one would not be sad to see a special comeback for next year’s MXdN… please? RC too?

the score::::::::::::::::::::::::

1. USA (15 points)
James Stewart (2-2), Ryan Villopoto (3-2), Ivan Tedesco (6-9)

2. Belgium (22 points)
Stefan Everts (1-1), Steve Ramon (4-5), Kevin Strijbos (11-33)

3. New Zealand (35 points)
Ben Townley (5-3), Josh Coppins (6-8), Cody Cooper (17-13)

4. Italy (37 points)
Antonio Cairoli (10-1), David Philippaerts (7-3), Cristian Beggi (16-??)

5. France (48 points)
Christophe Pourcel (4-7), Sebastien Pourcel (15-7), Yves Demaria (19-15)

6. Great Britain (55 points)
Tommy Searle (40-9), Billy Mackenzie (13-10), Carl Nunn (12-11)

7. South Africa (59 points)
Tyla Rattray (9-5), Avis Wyatt (11-36), Neville Bradshaw (18-16)

8. Spain (67 points)
Jonathan Barragan (14-6), Carlos Campano (23-10), Alvaro Lozano (20-17)

9. Estonia (69 points)
Tanel Leok (12-4), Aigar Leok (16-13), Juss Laansoo (27-24)

10. Finland (78 points)
Jussi Vehvilainen (8-20), Matti Seistola (17-14), Antti Pyrhonen (19-DNF)

[Look. We made it into the top ten!]

Global warming is wonderful, short-term. It’s the end of September, and what am I doing? Watching the water glitter and flutter, adding to an already deep skin-bronze, that’s what I’m doing. Yep, it’s 25 degrees out here in the Finnish archipelago of Nagu, and sweat is running from doing nothing but reading something glossy in the sun, while Marvin Gaye occupies the background and the squirrels go nuts over pine cones. Ah, the eternal sunshine of the spotless mind.

There is one ugly spot on the horizon, though. Literally. The government, bless their incompetent tomfoolery, is planning to build lots of wind power plants in the archipelago… Wind power plants! In the archipelago! Do you know, that one wind power plant is as tall as a 40-storey building?! Oh, they’ll just blend in… Translation: they plan to visually pollute, no rape, the most beautiful place in Finland, if not the whole damn Earth! I just faint!

In the name of global warming, of course, we need to act. That’s what Al Gore says. I understand - I try to understand - I try. Ok, let’s say we all have to make sacrifices - wind power is green, thus good, the consensus seem to be. But then you go and read that the target for combined megawatt production of the wind power plants in Finland in 2010 - that is including the potential destruction of the Finnish archipelago - is to reach 500 megawatts. Aha. 500 megawatts… how much is that?

THAT IS A LOUSY ONE PERCENT OF TOTAL ELECTRICITY CONSUMPTION IN FINLAND!!!

Is it really only me that thinks that ruining the extremly sensitive and completely unique mosaic of sea and stone with these horrid white 80 metres tall freakshows is not worth doing for one damn percent? It just can’t be. I am already completely overwhelmed and overpowered by the thought of the government even contemplating this. I. Just. Don’t. Get. It.

I am trying so very very hard to understand. Ok, let’s say the idea of wind power is so fucking irresistable to the gutless zombies of the government, that we absolutely MUST have them, even if they only could produce one (1) percent (%) of what we need. So, go ahead and build them somewhere else in Finland! There is far too much land here to have to destroy the best we have. I’m sure the wind blows elsewhere too.

What I have said here should make sense, no matter what kind of an idiot you, they, are. So why could it happen? Sadly, one can never underestimate the idiocy of idiots. But I promise you this; if they build them, I will become the new Don Quijote. I will throw my lance in the hearts of these beasts. I swear I will. Bolt for bolt, rotor for rotor; they are going down.

I was the only guy in class who liked writing book reports back in elementary school. Picking up on that thread, here is another one. There are books, then there are books - this post concerns the latter category, and the novel in question is ‘Lunar Park’ by the only and lonely (at the top) Bret Easton Ellis.

But before I get there, a digression; all summer I struggled relentlessly to decipher a brick by one Andy that is, gasp, even more famous than me. Andy Warhol’s ‘a: a novel’ took me two months to go cover to cover - I have never yet quit in the middle - and left me more expressionless than the invisible man.

24 hours of incoherent ramblings, recorded on tapes, and transcribed into a ‘book’… the result is 500 pages of amphetamine language [including all the misspelled words - because Warhol found them 'adorable'.] Yet another result is a promise to myself never to open this thing again. This thing, or: A piece of interior.

Exhausted and wasted on the other Andy, I searched for sanity at the Ellis residence. Sanity - Ellis? Oh, irony. But if I was also searching for a literary event and mad excitement, I found it.
Read in two days of feverish fervour and ferocity, Lunar Park is a trip into a writer’s mind and how it warbles on the edge of, on one side, grim reality, on the other side, horror fiction.
It is partly autobiographical, partly a therapy session about the dead father he had hated so much, partly an attempted escape from the demon of one Patrick Bateman, partly about family and how to stay clean but not wanting, really, failing, wildly.

On my bookshelves you can find every book rockstar-like Ellis has written so far; on my all-time writers’ top10 he is ranked 5th; his third novel American Psycho shocked and sodomized the whole world; yes, when Ellis takes time from rolling twenties into tight straws and writes a new book, I go and buy, simple as that.

Lunar Park is interesting, unnerving, complex, wonderfully cool, entertaining to the hilt, and completely mega. I went through the scales of emotions - I was scared witless, I wanted to be him. Gee, you need to buy it - and while you are at the book store, buy all his other books too [in English!]. If you haven’t read the earlier works, you won’t get maximum satisfaction out of Lunar Park, and stand a lesser chance of understanding him - like the title line to this post.

The living legend of Ellis has once again grown fatter. All I hope is, “this is not an exit.”

- scrawled in big red letters, naturally.

About an hour ago I watched a program on TV concerning miracle survivings - in this case, falling from a great height and not going to the other side. Most of them were parachute jumpers, meaning they fell from a far greater height than my lousy 10 metres or more so. [Yeah, just see how lousy +10 metres is, when you stand on the roof of your house..] Can you believe, one girl fell from 1000 metres - lived to walk and talk and play the fucking violin.

Since no one believes in God anymore, they scientifically managed to explain how you survive falling from a great height. It has to do with: (a) the position you land in, and by extension, body roll, (b), how much you weigh, (c), the ground you land on, (d), terminal velocity and possible friction in the air, and so on.
In my case, I have now learned I dissipated so much energy by shattering my lower legs and ankles to such a bad extent that the rest of the body escaped relatively unharmed. [In case you wondered, the girl that fell from 1000 metres got away with lesser injury than me, including the blackout I wish I had - but I remember everything...]

Fine. All I’ve said so far matters very little. What shook me, and I barely noticed it for the first half an hour, was how it affected me. In the second half of the program I started feeling nauseous; however, I couldn’t turn away or switch channels - the disgustingly intriguing show had me riveted to the sofa.
In the end, I watched all of, how could I not? But when I got up to cook dinner, my knees suddenly buckled under me. I got up again all dizzy, and my whole body shivered, my hand were shaking and I felt sick and weak like a newborn Bambi.

I’m a tough cookie, and trauma is not in my repertoire. Yet, this is the worst flashback I’ve had in over a year - I thought I was over them already! I REALLY HOPED I was over them! But no - highly unpleasant. Several shots of stiff brandy was needed to write this post. I’m angry and disappointed - particularly since I’ve been working hard on overcoming one of the side-effects of the accident, vertigo, this summer.

I just thought I was over it. FUCK!!!

On the other side and end of the planet, down in Christchurch, New Zealand, you’ll find my middle bro Micke the maori, doubling as the marketing man for a company called FX Bikes.
They manufacture these extremely funky babies of adventure, distilling all the best traits of motocross/pit & fun bikes/trail & trial/mountain bikes, to come up with the essence of what could very well be the perfect tool for… well, you name it. Because it has it.

It’s so lightweight you can pick it up and carry like Paris Hilton carries Tinkerbell. It’s so nimble and agile you can slash and wield like you’re a samurai and the FX is your Hattori Hanzo. And ouh yeah and a smilie, it’s powerful enough to make you go ooeeeee into a watery ditch.

[Note to marketing department: Yes, Metal Mickey, you may use the above lines in your next pitch or press release. Triple-quadruple your sales!]

What we have here, then, is the new Urban Assault Weapon for the avant-guard wo or man of the city. This is just what you need to free your neighbourhood from the pest of skaters. And trust me, for I’m an authority on this matter: a city is merely a motocross track in disguise!

Did I say urban? Why, it’s even better as a Rural Awesome Ripper. The winding path to paradise just became a lot cooler - why walk there when you can ride? Sunset sightseeings always taste the best when it’s done from the seat of a bike.

All together now, with feeling: “I WANT THE BIKE BELOW.”

It’s been a good week. I won 47,20€ on Lotto. Heikki Kovalainen signed on for Renault. Kimi Räikkönen grabbed an awesome pole on Saturday. F. Alonso was left with nada at the end of the Monza straight. M. Schu is finishing off his year in supreme style - I’m choking on respect for the unbelievable überman. And just in… the fantastico Ferrari press release, drum roll, please: Kimi Räikkönen signs 3-year contract with Ferrari, worth a lo-lo-lo-lot more than 47,20€.

Dancing. To that drum roll, and all the roly poly.

The race report; usually a row of Z’s, one after the other, when it comes to the Grand Prix of Monza. Somehow, this legendary track has produced a criminally large share of snoozers. Today, not the case, not in the least. Deep down I may I have guessed that the speed of the silverMac would not quite be enough, but I always live on hope and as long as there was pole, there surely was hope.

So very long john to the rest of the pack, indeed. Except for that one guy, always nipping at your feet. No matter how hard Kimi threw the Benz into the corners, that guy was right behind, sniffing the funny fumes. Yup, that’s Old Shue up your tailpipe, who else?

-> I’m not sure what this says about my persona, but I feel it’s more important to see Fernando Alonso NOT win the championship, than it was for Kimi to win this race.

[["Over to you, Dr. Frasier." "Thank you, Andy. As we can see, this disillusioned savage inhabits the role of the martyr, surrounded by a hostile environment and a distinct lack of love, and can only get motivated by Macchiavellian methods. He uses his favorite driver as an extension of his own ego, and tolerates little or no discrepancy, unless it can be manipulated to fit in his own devious and sick schemes. The most common diagnosis for such hatred is a deep-rooted fear of.." "Hrm. Thank you, Frasier, that will be all for today."]]

When Kimi had to pit for the first time, Same Old Shue stayed out for a couple extra laps, sitting on the throttle through Lesmo, Ascari, Parabolica, the whole holy way. All she wrote, the red Ferrari nose out in the fresh air of the lead, and all remaining angles covered. Kimi kept him honest, but… no sport is about honesty. [Clever wordplay. Geddit? Geddit?]

In the meanwhile I was intensely enjoying the lame showing of the enemy, for Alonso was at one point outside the top ten. But slowly my curses grew louder, as the kitchen doors opened more and more. Suddenly he was third, and the sweet malicious pleasure was all gone. Long forgotten was his [admittedly wrong] qualifying penalty from yesterday.
Sometimes, though, if you want something really badly, it happens. A cumulus cloud of white smoke kissed Renault ass, and if you look this way, let me put on a sarcastic pantomime to show you how to count the points haul for Alonso today: *see two hands… oh no, they’re clenched, as fists…*

Instead of Alonso, the lowest spot on the podium was taken by newbie Kubica, the Polish guy in the rocket-driven BMW. This is quite astonishing, actually, considering the fact that they don’t have cars in Poland, only horse carriages! *little finger in corner of mouth, innocent mug*

There he was then, Old Shue on top for the last time ever in Europe. At that very moment, drunk on adoration from the screaming masses, he probably had second and third and fourth and fifth thoughts on his decision to retire after this season. ‘Cause it must have felt sooo gooood…
Don’t let it get to your head, but I will probably miss you when you are gone, Old Shue. You’re not quite done yet, though. Please, be a bastard and win the championship too. Simply couldn’t bear it if the Spaniard snatched it again. Until then…

Cut, edit, and bringing me neatly to the biggest thing since the moonlanding: Kimi Räikkönen inherits the best seat in the house, the Ferrari numero uno, thus becoming the Pope for all of us who are less Catholic and more Combustion Chamber. That’s what I call religion, baby!

To think that I haven’t been able to like Ferrari since the #27 of Jean Alesi, 1995. Gasp. It’s been a long time coming, but it’s going to feel like home. Welcome, Kimi. I’ve been expecting you. Your biggest fan, the resurrected tifoso Andy. FORZA!

You need to know that I already have a Ferrari key-chain.

Wonderful! Wonderful! Heikki Kovalainen signs racing deal with Renault F1. I say: one down, an Iceman to go. This year went down the deep drain, but 2007 is going to be a platinum smash hit. I can feel it in my creaky bones.

Thus, Heikki becomes the 8th F1 driver from Finland. Not bad for the little Northern country that could.

I almost died on 27th November 2004, in a ultra-violent motocross crash. Since then, I haven’t touched a motorcycle. But I still have that crazy itch in my hands, and it just won’t go away…

Last Sunday I got back on two wheels, if only for a moment, and if only on board a fat cruiser. But when I felt the sweet wind in my face and the deep rumble in my heart, I knew I was home once again. God, how I missed this place. I was lost for too long. [sigh]

Thanks to the darling Lågbacka boys and their big and beastly Honda Shadow cruiser, I took to the road. Yes, it’s a far cry from the vicious wars of the racing tracks and the mx missiles I tasted for almost twenty years, but baby steps, baby steps.

Apprehensive at first, and can you blame me, but do you know what?

It’s both spinal & spiritual; my hands reach for the grips, fingers on the clutch, the left foot clicks, I don’t think, I rev, I smile, I forget and remember. That’s right, I forget and remember. It means: I have a lot to forget - but even more to remember.

In the time it takes you to blink, I’m powersliding a heavy cruiser like it’s second nature. And it is; say what you will about me - but I know how to ride a bike. Any bike. Tenderly, in anger.

I’ve lived in motorcycle celibacy for nearly two years, and felt like I was betraying the colours of my soul… suddenly this silly ride comes along and buys me some time. What’s more, a whole lotta confidence. Sure, I see the bright-red DANGER signs flashing, and the bounce in my step is no longer, aber… the damn diamond sparkle in the eye is back. It can only spell trouble.

Ah, it scares me. But by Jove, it thrills me.