rafael pyton

A certain statue in Tallinn represents freedom - but what kind of freedom, and who would you choose? Pest und cholera; Hitler or Stalin?

While chatting with my favorite Estonian, I came to realize something. Almost a third of the population in Estonia is Russian. Quite; A THIRD!

I certainly know what my famous professor at The Centre For The Study Of Democracy would have said. See, he was the first - yes, first - to predict the banana split of the Soviet Union on grounds of multitudes of ethnical diversity. Nationalism, he would have started… Indeed, Soviet Union, Yugoslavia, Israel…

Just scaring you. Just leaving a trail of open questions and insinuations. Still, food for thought: 1991 has long since passed - the Russian third is clearly not going anywhere.

This means that people will have to “get along“. And we all know how well people are at doing that…

Socialism:

You have two cows. You give one to your neighbour.

Communism:

You have two cows. The state takes both and gives you some milk.

Fascism:

You have two cows. The state takes both and sells you some milk.

Nazism:

You have two cows. The state takes both and shoots you.

Bureaucratisism:

You have two cows. The state takes both, shoots one, milks the other, then throws the milk away.

Realism:

You have two cows. You hate getting up early to milk them. You hate to shovel cow shit.

Idealism:

You have two cows. You get philosophical and smoke weed. When you remember you had two cows, it’s too late.

Surrealism:

You have two giraffes. The government requires you to take harmonica lessons.

Surrealism, part II:

You have two lobsters. You call your mother with one of them.

An American Corporation:

You have two cows. You sell one, and force the other to produce the milk of four cows. Later, you hire a consultant to analyze why the cow has dropped dead.

The Arthur Andersen Model:

You have two cows. You shred them.

A French Corporation:

You have two cows. You go on strike, riot and block the roads because you want three cows.

A French Corporation, part II:

You now have three cows. But you are still rude to them.

A Japanese Corporation:

You have two cows. You redesign them so they are ten times smaller and produce twenty times the milk.

A German Corporation:

You have two cows. You re-engineer them so they live for 100 years, eat once a month, and milk themselves.

An Italian Corporation:

You have two cows. You have no idea where they are. You decide to have lunch.

A Swiss Corporation:

You have 5000 cows. None of them belong to you. You charge the owners for storing them.

A Chinese Corporation:

You have two cows. You have 300 people milking them. You claim to have high bovine productivity. You arrest the newsman who reported the real situation.

An Indian Corporation:

You have two cows. You worship them.

A British Corporation:

You have two cows. Both are mad.

An Iraqi Corporation:

Everyone thinks that you have lots of cows. You tell them that you have no cows. They still invade your country.

A Welsh Corporation:

You have two cows. The one on the left looks very attractive.

An Australian Corporation:

You have two cows. Business seems pretty good. You close the office for the day and go for a few beers to celebrate.

A Finnish Corporation:

You have two cows. According to a study by the UNDP, they are the most developed and least corrupted cows in the world.

A Finnish Corporation, part II:

You have two cows. But you are too drunk to milk them.

A Kiwi Corporation:

You have sheep.

——————

[Source: part GQ Magazine, part yours truly]

It is no secret that I have a penchant for pop music created in the 1980s. Maybe I have listened to Emotion 98.3 on Grand Theft Auto far too much, but every time Cutting Crew just died in your arms tonight, or Foreigner wants to know what love is, I find myself smiling sideways, tingling in strangeways.

When music is reduced to the bare bones, it only serves to fulfil one task and one task only: to make you feel good. Forget about degrees of technical difficulty, originality, political messages, historical or cultural values - no goosebumps, no GO!

I am an easy lover. I heave hips, I shake shoulders. And I believe that:

You only have one moral purpose in life, and that is your own happiness.

That was certainly the case in the 1980s, when those in a position to do so, certainly maximized their own happiness in many different ways - often at a cost to others, often artificially. Be what may, I look fondly upon the era. Take 1982, for example. The Porsche 944 was a yuppie favorite, and A Flock Of Seagulls released their first and best album, also titled A Flock Of Seagulls.

I can easily imagine the cocaine in the glovebox, and the song I Ran turned up to ten on the cassette player. Sunset in Miami Beach. Blowjobs, big hair, and the word ‘modern’ in every sentence. Dude, don’t you just want to get up and go?! Don’t you just?! Flat out, arm out! 1000 km/h! Sieg Heil! Screaming “I’m immortal until I die!”

——————

*Thrill laughter* This was a musical review, by method of associations, of the album A Flock Of Seagulls by the band A Flock Of Seagulls. Steal or buy; they are absolutely marvellous. And so is the contrast from the last post - ah, the cute irony of a guy listening to I Ran when he’s stitched up like that.

Hell, there ain’t no gloves in this glovebox… Oh, the Flock just FLIES!!!

And I ran
I ran so far away.
I just ran
I ran all night and day.

I couldn’t get away.

A laptop fits the lap as well as a lapdancer. Hello, I’m back, love me, love me, say that you love me. And to everyone who does, the operation went reasonably well, but was rather heavy to handle and over four hours long. All in all, with the amounts of poison they were pumping into me, I was without feeling in my toes for almost nine hours.

I’ve seen better days.

Let’s shrug it off like Rocky, and take it as a challenge, though. Indeed, I’m making rapid improvement by the day - mostly because I hate my wheelchair with a passion - and I have already stopped eating painkillers several days ago. Frankly, I had some bad moments the night after the operation, but since then, I’ve clamped the pain in a vice. After all, I am used to the sting by now; two and a half years of it makes pain your bitch to slap around.

Top marks for the hospital of Herttonäs, by the by. The staff was friendly, and service was smooth. The icing on the cake was another patient in the same room that you could actually share sentiments with. I’ve spent enough time in hospitals to build an empirical case arguing that ninety-five percent of the patients are freaks or hicks or both.
Gratefully, my new friend OJ and I got along marvellously, speculated about futures unknown, watched Old School on the telly, laughed at Will Ferrell. I really appreciated your company, OJ - many thanks for helping me out so much, and I certainly hope your shoulder will be fine.

Official Speech: I would also like to take the opportunity to thank everyone who sent me supportive messages and took interest in my condition. You know who you are and I always remain faithful.

Now, a pretty reference for your eyes, straight out from the latest Mary Shelley. Ah, Frankenstein, my kindred soul!

Life is hard and then they cut you up. You may put that on my tombstone. But don’t the lines make a nice U-turn down by the ankles? I have two more long slices along the sides, so if you want to add them all up, I have a number for you: almost HALF A METER.

I’ve so seen better days.

It is now 5 AM. I am off to get exec… I mean, operated. Moon me soon.

Yesyesyes, with three different winners in three GPs, the F1 season is shaping up to become the tightest since television - but I don’t want it to be tight and exciting. I want my main man, the Iceman, to snow on everyone else. Really, did you ever hear the Schumi supporters complaining that the German won too much?

Congrats to Massa; the win saved his skin as equal driver’s status in Ferrari. Tiger Woods did another righteous job - soon no one will remember so much as the eyebrows of Fernando Alonso - the so-called McLaren Number One.
Ooooh, the glee; it tastes like peach and honey!

Speaking of El Spaniardo, the highlight of the race in Bahrain was when Nick Heidfeld zapped Alonso with a spirited move around the outside of a bend. Schööön! I will never forget Herr Heidfeld’s name and face from now on. I promise.

But I will forget all about the Renault team - and that sadly included another forgettable performance by the probably soon to be kicked out of the team and thus forgotten Heikki Kovalainen. Translate ‘Kovalainen’ into English, and you have ‘tough guy’. Get widdit. Yeah, the car is shit - but you are a Finn. You just push harder.

Goodbye, hello, bring on the European rounds, yes, those with heritage, soul and painted pit chicks. Who wants sheiks in the sand? I want minks in Monaco!
For me, the season starts now. Home turf, sweet home turf.

Tore down a balcony in three quarters of an hour. Built a balcony in three days. Note the understated elegance, the lack of crossbars and other disturbing clutter, and how it is crafted with a careful hmmm - of hundreds of screws, only four show. God is in the details no one can see.

It is built of pressure-treated wood, which means it will still be standing when I listen to When I’m Sixty-Four by The Beatles, when I’m sixty-four. It also means it must remain unpainted for a year. White, I guess. However, the reason for this picture is not Handy Andy propaganda; there is a tiny-cosy story behind it.

When you look at this picture, what strikes you first? The new balcony? The tall birch? The creamy villas of my neighbours? The view to the bay? The stillness of the world?

If I rewind the watch about twenty years give and take, there I am, standing in the picture, on the old balcony - the one Dad built. Ah. I see it now, I see myself.
That is a lame haircut, little Andy. Well, who the flop cares when I am wearing a Knight Rider t-shirt to go with a pair of blue jeans, patched white at the knees.
Then I hear country music. Loud and lots of it, the twangs of guitar and achy breaky hearts, the beats of the boots and the tip of the hats. The pulse is coming in from down the bay, brimmed with crowd-pleasing sounds, littered with applause, dotted with the odd yeeahaa. I direct my senses, taste the air.

It is the Country Cavalcade!

And do you know who is performing?

- JOHNNY CASH -

Yes, during the more desperate ebbs of his career, the legend came to Karis and sang by the bay. Sadly, at that hour my musical taste had yet to be perfected, so the whole experience remains a non-memory that I am frantically trying to find. But the man in black was here, and I was there, on the balcony, taking it in. If only I had known - if only I had not been as moronic and blissful like all children are! Damnation, eternal damnation!

But, fact of the better matter is:

I stood on the balcony, and Johnny Cash serenaded.

Green, green grass of home.

Eat crow and get fat. Pee in my pocket and shit in my boot. Lah-di-dah. Who do you blame when the harvest turns out meagre? The gods. Quite; you might as well breath for nought.

What happened? Why is McLaren running like their pistons are made of diamond? Why did the Ferraris lose their speed in three weeks? Why is Kovalainen still sucking? Why is Renault so slow, why is McLarens so fast, why is Ferrari no longer on top? Why was this not this the case last year? Why, dammit, why? I demand answers!

Shit in Sepang is not big in Japan. I shall blame the gods, too. Breath for nought, but why not? Yes. Why not?

I will undergo heavy operations on 16.4, as the time has finally come to get rid of my cyborg parts. Normally, removal of strange metallic objects from the body is relatively straighforward, as you just make tiny holes for a couple of screws. But when they are done slicing me apart, and zipping me up, I hear they will build a Boeing 747 from the parts they extract…

In fact, my accident had caused a dramatic spike in the price of titanium on the stock markets in November 2004.

Hehe.

With only a little more than a week left before I yet again return to a life of ceiling-staring, I am apparently getting nervous. I say apparently, because I don’t feel nervous at all - well, you will soon understand what I mean.
These two operations will take the tally to TEN; I can safely say I should know the drill by now. Did you for example know that, if you get the needle in your spine, you are allowed to listen to your iPod as they hack away at your legs?
Pretty cool… I usually ask for something nice that makes me sleep, though. I don’t find it too appealing when your limp body jerks around on the cold table as they use violent force and heavy weaponry on the bone - it simply doesn’t make for a good iPod listening session, even if you have Sound Of Silver by LCD Soundsystem on the player.

But I was talking about not feeling nervous - not yet. However, my subconsciousness has different ideas. Remember, last time I was due for an operation, I had a similar dream of teeth falling out - touched the subject on Back To The Grim Butcher - well, the white teeth are rattling again…

This night, I dreamt I was roaming around the sidestreets of Rome. It was dark, often too dark to even perceive where land ended and air begun. Shortly, I found myself crawling on all fours in catacombs, through tunnels. It was hot-hard work, and not something you’d do in vain, but somehow I felt absolutely sure that I was going somewhere important. When I saw some starry skies again, I noticed I was in the Vatican. Quite logically, in front of me was a church, which I felt compelled to enter, along with a big crowd of darkly dressed Italians, walking in silence. However, amidst the crowd, I got the sense I was sneaking into the church instead of merely entering. The stern eyes of the priests watching the flow of people certainly confirmed this, but no one did or said anything.

Once inside the church, I noticed I had something in my mouth. A stone, perhaps? At first it was uncomfortable, then it started to hurt. I tried to talk, but it sounded like Danish mumble. I can’t go to mass like this, I thought to myself, and started looking around for a private place, a toilet, somewhere to calm down. Soon, I spotted a staircase leading down into a basement. The walls were lined by stark dark mahogany, and the air was stale.

A small room opened up to me, lit by rows of naked lightbulbs above mirrors. I sat down in a chair by one of the mirrors. Two men, their faces covered in shaving foam, were shaving in silence, ignoring me. Ok, they can go about their business, and I will go about mine, I figured, and promptly put my fingers in the mouth, which was swollen and hurting badly by now. I grabbed ahold of something, but it was stuck, so I pulled and pulled, and suddenly, aagh… out came a freshly unrooted tooth, at least five centimeters long! Hideous roots! Ah, the mad angst, the throbbing pain!
But the mouth was still full of strange objects, so I continued to pull out two more teeth, aghast - and a pair of big lumpy dental braces, exactly like one I wore as a kid!
My gums were bleeding, and I was in a severe state of pain. The two men next to me continued to shave without a sound. I carefully felt the empty holes, where there once had been teeth, with my tongue; the wet soft flesh revolted me, and as I trashed around in repulsiveness, I woke up…

Huh? What? How? Help? Freak-me-out!

Dreams are always twisted, but this one was extraordinarily vivid and frightening, full of sordid symbolism. I dream happy; I am not used to nightmares. Do you know that I was still feeling the physical and actual PAIN of having pulled those teeth out half an hour later, wide awake in wonder!? That is TOO MUCH, TOO CLOSE.

The exorbitant power of my mind reigns supreme over my pitiful flesh.

I don’t know what to think, or dare to think, so I don’t. Let’s just casually assume that I may indeed be rather nervous about these operations?

There are three of the Pyy brothers - as the saying very well knew, good things come in three. And we are all petrolheads, but wearing somewhat different disguises these days.

The youngest of us, aka Lill-Oa, is the John Wayne of the bunch. No fuss, at his happiest when Merle Haggard is on the stereo and the speed is set on cruising.
Heavily influenced by the great wide open of Americana, he’s waiting for his huge Chevy to get ready at the shop.
Why does the youngest always need the biggest car? Some sort of complex, I’m sure… haha!
Anyway, this summer the young Duke will be seen elbow out the open window, V8 blubber beneath, wearing massive fake Aviators on his nose, taking in the gentle slowness of the horizon, and trying his best to steer his ship down the rolling road.

The oldest, and by far the wisest - said that to elicit response - is me, Andy. A flash bastard with a sardonic wit, he is the Don Johnson sans hair, the wannabe feelgood hero slacker passionhunter irregular guy with at least ten known personalities. And he drives an old Porsche that he loves to bits. In fact, he just came in from a feverish evening ride, which was prompted by the innocent-enough intention to only go out and lock the car for the night. Instead, he ended up zinging the tarmac from A to Z.

“Damn these wide tires! I can not find the limit!” he shouts, exasperated.

The man in the middle, aka Micke, left us to flee to New Zealand. He also eats lots of cheese. But don’t hold that against him; if you order medium rare you will never be disappointed, and that is also the case with middle bro. In fact, he has one-upped us all and gone and bought a motorcycle.
Not a surprise in itself - the Pyy brothers know bikes like birds know which way to fly, and Micke was my sparring partner for most of my twenty-year long motocross career. But this is his first street bike, and worth a second look.
This post was de facto going to concern this mo’sicle exclusively - you know, a few snappy sentences and a quick pic - but as so often happens, the wind blows my carpet… and characters were added, title was changed.

A Honda GB400 from 1988, specifically. A gloriously retro silver machine that looks certain to be a bathtub full of bellylaughs on a twisty road. I can’t help but be miffed about him not buying it a few months earlier - say, when I was visiting down under and aside. Dinggit, that country can design roads.

But, I shall take comfort in his helmet hair. Haha!

Photo taken by Burt Munro, uh, Micke, himself. More on MPY Designs.