rafael pyton

On any Sunday, the racing people experience the orgasmic bliss of winning or the bitter disgust of losing. But come late autumn, on any Sunday both the wins & the defeats are even more dramatic and sensational. The one coming out on top will be king of the world, and the first loser will have to concede that a whole year was spent risking your life for nothing. It’s a cruel game…

…but Nicky from Kentucky can play it. Say hello to 2006 MotoGP champion Nicky Hayden, a man cool enough to ride with the number 69 on his bike; also a man fast enough to beat the ultimate god of roadracing, Valentino Rossi. What a year! I know I say that every year, but it’s just that every year of MotoGP has to be “what a year!”

And to Dani Pedrosa of Spain I will say only this: you were lucky this time, but keep ‘er steady next year. I don’t want you to become my next Alonso.
Done and done, MotoGP simply rules. Why is there not a global law in place to force people to watch it? So many of you would be in The Hague right now… HAHA!

The second part of mosport weekend is dedicated to babyface Mikko Hirvonen, who today, in Australia, became the first man in ages to win a WRC rally other than ol’ Grönholm or Loeb. Mikko is thus also the last in a very long line of Flying Finns packing rally wins. I hope he won’t be the last - and I hope it’s not his last.
At the same time, congrats to invincible monsieur Loeb, another well deserved championship crown. Respect, and ooo la la; that won’t be the last - but I do hope he has the good grace of “sharing” in the future.

Next one up on the WRC calender, NZ. Be there, or be …… [word with six letters, starting with s]!

Go For(d) it!

This is about the culture of the future - here today. I’m speaking Playstationian, with a Grand Theft Auto dialect. Tell me if that last sentence did not make much sense to you? Ok, sorry. Let me start from the beginning.

First there was light, then there was electricity… and then video games. I climbed aboard on the bottom floor when Sony released a box of magic called Playstation. If you wanted to talk to me in 1997, you could find me in a flatmate’s room at St Georges Circus, London, playing the original Gran Turismo when I should have written sharp essays on blurry stages of European history.

[Pete, the Playstation owner and flat neighbour, was hospitable to the extreme, and never showed me the door, even though I beat the snot out of him on Turismo every single time. Pete was Birmingham-Indian, and had an Indian name none of us could pronounce - which is why we all called him "Pete". He also had the worst Brummie accent you've ever heard... but his curries were great!
Anyway, university students from Pakistan to Portugal tried to take me at that racing game, Gran Turismo, but no one could. You have no idea the respect I bore at the Student Union bar... and the amount of free pints it got me...]

With such a splendid start to the new coming of video games, it is no wonder I have stayed with Playstation throughout the years. Here I still am, at 32, eagerly awaiting the Playstation 3 console. While waiting, though, there is always the good old Playstation 2, and Grand Theft Auto: Liberty City Stories - which is the latest edition of absolute entertainment; the Grand Theft Auto series. Excuse my lengthy prelude…

… but when your grandkids ask you what changed the world, you will have to mention Grand Theft Auto III.

Starting from GTA III, it was never the same, and all the better for it. Suddenly you could do everything; free roam, baby. Here was a game that had it all: endless ways of killing people brutally, superbly crafted plots of underworld stories, wonderfully entertaining handling of vehicles ranging from bicycle to jetpack, acidly funny radio stations complete with DJs, and culturally astute era-music, terrific sub-plots, celebrity voice-overs, smashing casting of all imaginable characters, hookers, hustlers, why, it was a movie that starred YOU… no, it was another dimension of LIFE - with little law and order, and absolutely no consequence… and you could reach it from the couch in your living room!

We have yet to see the sociological ramifications of GTA III… but it would be ill-adviced to underestimate them.

GTA III was followed by GTA:Vice City, which still remains my favorite - a Scarface/Miami Vice pastiche that completely nails the atmosphere of the 1980s; perfection seldom comes closer. After GTA:Vice City came GTA:San Andreas - bigger than ever before, a marvel of game programmer verve. It has to be played to be believed.
As a stopgap for Playstation 3, and to keep guys like me happy, the good people at Rockstar Games recently released GTA:Liberty City Stories on PS2.

Of course I bought it, a couple of weeks ago. More than thirty hours of late evening hardcore gaming later, and I have a 100% completion - as I have in EVERY other GTA, starting with GTA III. That takes a lot of obsessive determination, and a serious case of “playstation thumb“, I tell you.

[Now, before you think I'm a slacker and a nerd to boot, I have to say that I rarely play - it's usually only the latest of Gran Turismo, or Grand Theft Auto. That's hardly one console game a year; add to that, perhaps one PC game per year. But as far as wasting time goes, few ways are better. And none is better than Grand Theft Auto.]

The future of culture. Mm-hm. Protest all you like, but it is.

[Frames from GTA:Liberty City Stories - ign.com]

The best things in life are remarkably often simple; the same rule applies to design. Sometimes it’s so simple, you wonder why the hell you did not think of it yourself. Thus, simple suddenly becomes clever, funky, cool and cutting edge. And you become a consumer, because you like to associate yourself with those adjectives.

This red Lego block above is my new external hard drive: the LaCie 250GB Brick, designed by a French genius that calls himself Ora-Ïto. I bet he played with lego blocks when he was a kid… I sure did. In fact, did you know that I’ve been to Legoland in Denmark three times? Trust me, I know lego. My entire childhood was built on those solid blocks. I had a whole room full, and I’ve built houses, cities, worlds! Great worlds, that I lived in!

So you see, that’s why I now store back-up files in this big red piece of Lego. Just say no to drab gray boxes. When a hard drive can make you smile just by looking at it, you know it’s right. I even imagine my music, pictures, novels, videos, feel better now…

But what an era! I get downright misty - amazing, considering that Michael Schumacher has been a thorn in my side since 1991. That is all of my adult life, my friends. During that time I learned to hate a team I had always loved. I have agonized over his luck - or lack… of mechanical failures, particularly compared to drivers I preferred. I despised the way he used to run his fingers like a conductor to L’inno di Mameli at the tallest step of the podium. His sportsmanship was at times questionable, and I disliked his ruthlessness - although I secretly admired it. I was driven to the brink of insanity by the way he stole win after win that, I adamantly thought, belonged to my Finnish drivers. I still get the shakes thinking about this particular podium: Schumacher on top, Barrichello in second, and Ralf Schumacher in third. I loathed your manager Willi Weber - what a putz. Oh, and the ill image of you in that red wig in Suzuka is seared into my brain. Well, I hated everything about you, to tell the truth. I was probably jealous.

I have sinned.

Michael, friend, I forgive you for everything. More than that, I owe you. It’s been a privilege to have seen you drive - to which I include one live performance, in Monaco, of all places. I’m sorry I laughed maliciously when you hit the wall on lap one that time. You know, what I want to say is, dankeschön. For the memories.

Happy holidays, great man.

To the race in Brazil, then. All Ferrari. First of all, however, let me say that I fear Kimi’s bad luck has already spread to his next car - witness Schumi’s misfortune in the last couple of races. I cry conspiracy! But at the same time, it is heartwarming to see the Ferraris so amazingly fast. Fickle me: I love Ferrari.
Kudos to the winner Massa; a Brazilian in Brazil - what a sweet candy for him to suck on come the long cold winter. Ok, the winter is not so cold in Brazil… and the race belonged to good old Schu.
Did they crank up the power of his Ferrari, or what? He flew past people left and right, and maybe above, I don’t know, he was so fast it was blinding. A question, or three: did Fisichella tear up his rear tire with his spoiler? Was it intentional? And had the devious minds at Renault perhaps sharpened it up a little before, just in case? [I'm so funny]

Be what may, I couldn’t think of a better finish to a glorious career, than to give it all, balls to the wall, and put on a show never to be forgotten. From a shredded tire and last place, a mile behind, to just flatten the loud pedal like that and almost reach the podium - I am in awe, and it tingles. Michael, Michael, Michael. I say your name three times, like I can’t believe how gutsy you are.

You never give up.

You got Fisico back, too. He was probably shitting his pants when he read the mirrors and they turned red. Spaghetti break when you apply pressure. The Iceman didn’t flinch, though. He raced you hard and fair, and left one millimeter of air between the cars. In so many ways, how immaculately fitting for that to be the last ever pass you make in Formula One. Whew!

Sorry, I have to say it: I don’t want you to quit!

—

Yeah, I hear there was some other guy who won some sort of cheap championship. But who the fuck cares?

It had to happen. Starting from next year, live Formula One is no longer free of charge on national TV. That will be 10 euros a month, making it 80 euros for the whole F1 season, thank you very much. Well, suck my cock. I hope you choke on it.

I’ll pay fuck all! Do you hear me, MTV3! F U C K - A L L!!!

I will watch RTL next year. Heiko Wasser und Christian Danner, hier komme ich!

[That is just a temporary solution, thou. When Finland goes digital in August 2007, I imagine RTL will drop out - which probably means I will have to pay for some lousy package just to get RTL back. Every way I turn my head and scream for help, I do get hands that reach out, but they all clutch a hefty bill. What can a man of priniciple do? I refuse to pay for Formula One. Do I have to force myself upon friends every time there is a GP? I'm sure they will be thrilled, when I come knocking at 4 AM for the Australian GP... PLEASE, give me advice. I seem to have gotten myself into a b-a-d addiction over the years; is there any way at all to watch Kimi clinch the 2007 championship in a Ferrari without having to sell ass on the street?]

Got bored looking at my visor-less helmet, flicked out my VISA, ordered a new one from the USA; the mailman woke me up 8 AM this morning. Later, after a little applying of stickers and some screwing motions of the wrist, decided to juxtapose a little bit.

To the right, the 1960s era potty my Dad slapped on his head to terrorize the racing tracks some 40 years ago, riding heavy metal broncos like BSAs and CZs with decent power but suspension only by name. Yep, it must be true, what they say: “Back in the day, men were made of iron.”
Suddenly you understand the real meaning of the old saying - you would simply have to be iron, were you to crash and burn in one of these buckets. Note the taped duckbill visor and handpainted number - all the rage in the sixties. Wonderful. Dangerous.

Of course, they didn’t bust out the gravity-defying jumps we do these days, where a twenty-meter leap without wings merely feels a bit nice in the belly. We’ve come a long way, baby.
To the left, then, is one of the still best and most expensive helmets in the world, the Shoei VFX-R. This thing is so good it extends life - if you wore it every day you would probably live to be more than 200 years old. Just like Dad’s potty, the VFX-R is wonderful. But while safe, my helmet is also very very dangerous, in quite a different way…

Doesn’t it look like it’s going 200mph while standing still? Sneak your head into my Shoei, and you turn into a ferocious predator. Oh yes, you do. Every time. Claws come out of your fingers. Other people start to stink of fear. The taste of blood, not your own, in your mouth. Growl in pleasure. The devil is riding shotgun, you high-five him.

And you love it.

Some posts are mundane, others hold a certain personal value of importance. This one falls in the latter category. Today I received the last reply from the five or six publishing companies I sent my Egomania manuscript to back in late May. None of them want to publish it.

They are bastards. I laugh when I write that. It doesn’t really bother me that much - thank God, because I thought it would be the end of the world, actually. He’s lying, you think. No, I’m not. The reason to why it does not bother me, is that Egomania is still far from the finished article, and I would not want to see it on the shelves like it is.

There are a number of inherent flaws I need to solve, however. The main character is not a man you are supposed to feel sympathy for - but apparently he is not disgusting enough to induce hate, either. Aha. I was not quite aiming for hate, though; more a mixture of pity and curiosity. It’s a satire, remember, not a vicious man, only a degenerate mind. This is where I fail, according to the publishing companies’ readers - identification is vague. Ok, point taken, and in due time I’ll try to adjust accordingly.

The book is also somewhat fragmented. Don’t I know it - I wrote it from 2000 - 2006, in bursts. Working life sucked out my creative juices like you can not believe: the first third was written during my last year as a university student in London, the last third in two months last winter when I got back on track after my moto accident… that leaves five years for the middle part!

Other flaws: I must stop being so fucking flashy and brilliant - they said brilliant, not me - with the language, and cut down on adjectives. What I find beautiful generally demands too much of an effort to read for the average guy. That’s sad, but the stupid consumer’s buck is king. I acknowledge this - the fix is easy, too - although reluctant.

Fine. I wanted to be honest. Now comes the bragging - the spiteful needn’t read further, haha. Matter of the fact is, they think I’m pretty good. In fact, one reader - of the biggest Finnish-Swedish publishing company in Finland - called me a genius. HELL YEAH. Because I am. My burning drive is awesome to behold… you’d think I made up that one, yes? No, didn’t.
The list continues: they note the Kafka-esque situations I create, they appreciate my inventiveness, they like my fire, speed, enthusiam, etc etc.

Egomania may be a tough sell, but it is not dead. It is wicked and kicking, full of mad life. I just won’t touch it for a while - another project interferes…

I am thrilled and happy that some of the readers took time to write lengthy critique. Thanks, and… better to be a flawed genius than no genius at all, I say.

But I’m way ahead of them - as of last week, I completed the first third of my NEXT novel.

More on that later…

I have a logo fetish. In my opinion, without a terrific logo, whatever you represent becomes secondary. Associations are as important as first impressions; with the logo they both come together to form the picture in your mind. And that picture rules your slave-mind with a horse-whip.

A good logo should embody strong symbolism, be clear, clever, and have a design philosophy. I despise contrived logos, and I pity the foolish MNCs who fork out millions for McKinsey consultants to do market research and come up with something so vague and pale it resembles the armpit of a ghost.

Others get it right. The logo of Love Records certainly fill my face with glowing glee every time I pour my eyes over it. Admittedly, it is rather bold, but such great guts deserve admiration. Marvel at the 1970 creation of designer Harry Manner, the logo of obscure Finnish record label LOVE RECORDS.

O Great Leader, here’s a magnificently pedicured foot up your ass.

I went to a beauty salon for a full-blown deluxe pedicure yesterday.

Ah! Divine! DI-VI-NE!