rafael pyton

On midsummer’s day
a virgin falls prey

On midsummer’s day
our laughter is greatly gay

and so on ad nauseum, during a three-day journey to the edge of madness, the place where good times reign supreme, and the sauna is hotter than Satan’s own. Once again, the best midsummer stories are the ones left untold, and the best pictures are the ones you take with your eyes.

What happens in Nagu, stays in Nagu.

Yes, a natural habitat - MINE; among…

…haphazard heights ubiquitous undulations dignified developments filibustering formations authoritarian amplitudes macho magnitudes dilapidated dips swarming shapes acoustic areas groovy gorges creepy cracks hooligan holes eastern embellishments coordinated crevices vulgar vulvas drunken declines moribund mountains flabbergasting falls corrupt canyons voluptuous valleys corkscrew cliffs diapositive details bowlegged boulders fucking fords fraternal fiords trespassing tunnels clandestine caverns holy hollows roaring rivers eventual estuaries respective ridges provocative pinnacles scarlet stones wanton waterfalls hamburger hills ripe rocks complicated clefts diplomatic depths glorified graves flaming forests outlandish outdoors sledgehammer silhouettes frivolous flowerbeds pastoral palisades redundant ravines therapeutic treetrunks souvenir structures paramount panoramas bewildering bays lithe lakes incurable isles miscellaneous midlands turquoise territories dreamy domains especial environments melodramatic milieus and… such a sea.

Splendid and magnificent. Why complain about this track? They could run around an abandoned airstrip for all I care, as long as I see some racing - and I got me some at the Brickyard. Yes, I got me some! Yeehaa! F1 belongs in the USA.

There was never anything to do about the McLarens, except hoping they would smack into each other. But I’ve tried that before - it never works. And as long as Hamilton pisses all over Alonso, I’ll take it and bounce with it. Hey, I’ll say it again: the first rookie world champion ever!

What left a little to be desired, though, was the performance of the Iceman. Fastest lap, eh? Great, glad the speed is still there, but… the next time, try to string 73 of those together, maybe we’ll get to hear Maamme laulu again. I barely remember how it goes.
I have no idea if Ferrari put some restrictions on Kimi racing Massa at the end, but it doesn’t really matters - what I want to know is, why on earth did they put Kimi on hard rubber from the start, when he only had fuel for three more laps than his teammate? Tell me, before I start screaming conspiracy!
Well, whatever Ferrari had in mind, Kimi blew it at the start, where he lost two places, got stuck. Strategy; it’s a bitch. Ross Brawn may have been ugly, but he seems to have been worth his considerable weight in a decently noble metal.

For most of the race, I was cheering on Heikki Kovalainen, who is coming into his own, along with Renault. Next step: beat the Bimmers fair and square, add Massa misfortune, then a bit of McLaren of old; hey presto, podium! Yes, in the words of Paul McCartney: “I’ve got to admit it’s getting better…”

In fact, I was as pumped as Pharrell Williams today, who watched the race from the pitlane, next to Hamilton’s father. [Kimi also had a guest: Teemu Selänne].
More of this, please. Like a nice Sunday drive; perfectly enjoyable. And while we always want more, sometimes we just need to bide our time.

Until we die.

Or until the next race.

I don’t think I’ve ever watched so much Formula One in a week before - and it is only Saturday! I’ve certainly dented the couch with my delicious butt; every single practice session and qualifying, not to mention all kinds of surplus pit talk. Talk about getting your money’s worth… [the rest of the PlusTV package is bogus, by the by].

Or not. I imagine some people would prefer crucifixion to such a rigorous diet of hard rubber and racing fuel… but to each his own. And it’s not like I’ll do this before every GP - I am just conducting an individual experiment of how much Formula One one man can take. Quite a lot, it seems…

This time, we are in America, the land of - whatever I write here, would be a tired pastiche; well, America, the land of Americans, and through the looking glass, Indianapolis. [I have always had a secret passion for cities that end with the suffix polis - how strange is that?]

Indianapolis, then, is the home of the legendary Brickyard, where men that fit the realest description of men have raced for a hundred years. Sadly, the F1 guys only use a bit of a turn of the famed speedway, and the rest of the F1 track is slow and finicky, but USGP is still a magic combination of big letters to me.

Live practice sessions are at times worse than school TV, but you do notice things you’d otherwise miss. Driving styles, car characteristics, and other tendencies & details, things so miniscule you might as well start analyzing golf swings. [Are we having fun or what?]
Other stuff are more obvious, though, like the way Lewis Hamilton went out on his first ever timed lap on a circuit he’d never driven on before - and promptly set the fastest lap, even though the practice session was half an hour in, and others had circulated it in anger.
And the way he kisses the wall while flat out through the oval onto the main straight, searching for those last itty-bitty fractions of seconds… oooh, I faint. I just faint.
The kid’s got guts, there is simply no buts about it. These are the rare things that make Formula One what it is; the best drivers in the world in the best cars in the world [and the most boring personalities in the world in the most irrelevant configurations of cars in the world.]

No, they don’t “only go around in circles.”

To top it off, Hamilton snatched the pole from Alonso. I have never seen such a pale Spaniard in my life, as he sat in the press conference and tried to explain why he is losing to a rookie. I feast on his defeat like a hungry vulture.

Again, I was disappointed by the Iceman. Unfortunately, it was painfully obvious that the Ferrari was a bucking bronco compared to the surgical instrument that is the McLaren. Of course, you know all about what I think about this dramatic reversal of great power… yep, those three dots say it all.

A definitive highlight came in the shape of Heikki Kovalainen - he kicked ass in his lousy Renault, and will start the race from row number three, as sixth. Keep the faith, because teammate Fisico was tenth.

I am ready to watch the GP. But would the real Iceman please stand up, please stand up?

I may be a bit late, but then again, I was never live by the screen. Here in Nagu, I don’t have cable TV, which means I don’t have RTL, which means I don’t have live F1, only dead F1. And… you only notice how much you miss it, when you don’t have it anymore.

[The biggest reason is, naturally, that I can not stand the commentator who does the summaries. Goodbye, horsemouth Matti Kyllönen, and good riddance. You know, from a tactical business view, the best thing MTV3 ever did, was to hire Kyllönen to do the their summaries. Neither Macchiavelli nor Sun Tzu could have done it better. No wonder people are fleeing in hordes to MTV3MAX - they pay to NOT have to listen to Kyllönen on regular MTV3!]

So, yes, despite my harsh words and never-evers on the subject of Pay-TV last year, today I drove to the nearest R-Kioski, and paid - paid! - to be able to watch F1 when it takes place. But did I pay to be able to see Kimi’s Ferrari get passed by Takuma’s super Super Aguri? Did I pay to be able to see Heikki Kovalainen start from last? Did I pay to be able to see McLaren never DNF.

No! I paid to be able to see Kimi win, Heikki podium, and McLaren DNF. One word: Indianapolis. Hrm. As long as there is hope, there is reckless stupidity.

But before we get to the bricklane, there was Montreal. And things always happen in Montreal. The tarmac is dirty, the barriers are close, and they speak French there. Ok, the last quality may or may not have anything to do with it?

As it happened, it was the best race of the year. No, not because of the crashes and spin-outs and pace-cars and assorted brouhaha, but because of the simple fact that there was a fair deal of overtaking going on. I think we have found the final answer, gents! The dirtier the track, the better the racing! Draw conclusion, and get to it!

Still, let me wager you only saw the crashes, though. And indeed, when Kubica left earth for a while at 280 km/h, I thought he died and went to catholic heaven before Matti Kyllönen had finished his long loud row of voi-voi-voi-voi…

Thankfully, later it transpired that all Kubica got was a headache and a sprained ankle. Amazing! This was the most horrific accident in F1 ages, and the man barely suffered a scratch! Karma-Kubica! I couldn’t help but think why I didn’t get some of that back in late 2004? Sounds like the gods play favorites to me…

… but since there are no gods, there is no mystery here. Kubica was ricocheting around in a modern carbon fiber cocoon - as long as you hit things at a low angle, you should survive. Had he stopped dead at the first wall, on the other hand… let’s not say it.

All hail technology. Senna in 1994 would be alive today.

In the end, the new one, the Black Senna, got his first notch on the steering wheel. There are so many more to come. Hamilton drives like a machine; fast and flawless, lap after lap. I am simply forced to admire him, although I occasionally still see him more as a clinical product of Ron Dennis than a man of spirit and soul. Time will tell. But as his ego grows, he will kill and spit fire. The new world champ, guys. Ain’t it obvious, after all?

Alonso is already crying.

And so we come to the final act, sanity barely kept intact.

When under the influence of heavy monotony, you must let your mind wander in further freedom than a German nudist, or you’ll soon notice how mind-numbing and body-murdering the labor in question really is. I kept my game in check by setting off semi-schizophrenic discussions in my head. Such headtalk can easily be triggered by just about anything, like a rollator-pushing old man walking by, or a moped burning down the street with a poorly packed muffler.

Frankly, you need not know, but when you really - riilly - let your mind wander away from the body, incredibly strange plots usually follow. Plots too strange even for this blog - and that is strange - but as long as the body tirelessly performs what I have dragged it up on the roof to do, the stranger is usually the better.

I shall leave it at that. But in headwriting sagas, the roof got renovated from start to finish, with the finish being a lovely light blue-grey shade called Savusauna that I found after ruminating through huge piles of color charts at the local K-Rauta. A few metres of roof later, it sort of striked me as the color of the Lamborghini LP640 they revealed at Geneva in 2006, sans the yellow ceramic brake calipers, but if you don’t know what I’m talking about, don’t worry. All that matters is that the roof looks absolutely fetching to me. Fet-ching!

Also, I chose this color with an eye on changing the appearance of the rest of the house in the future - but you will have to wait for that. Next year, perhaps, if I have worked up enough juices - I am rather drained at the time being. Come what may; I am slowly turning an old tired house nagged by the force of time into mansion-esque ol’ glory splendour.

Wuell wuell, *rubbing hands together*, perhaps I’ll get some writing done now. I have not written a word since the end of March, and I hunger for my mistress like I’ve been locked up la-la-la long in Sing-Song.

I am back for more like Rocky 4. And if the first stage was nasty, so was the second one. In fact, they all were, but you already knew that. Anyway, rewind to any other day in May, and watch…

First, the hardware store recommended a steel wheel Bosch brush that could scare Herr Krueger. I duly connected said apparatus to my ever-lovely Makita grinder, and… after I had used it for ten seconds, I was sure I was never coming through this alive. The steel brush was so big and heavy that it made the grinder feel like it had a life of its own - compared to the life I gave it through my arms and hands and fingers. I could barely hold on to it. In the next ten seconds, I clipped my knee with the grinder at full pelt…

Just because I have a high tolerance for pain these days doesn’t make me immune. That hurt like HE-E-ELL. Less than a minute had passed since I started, and I was already ready to give up.
Give up? Oh, you don’t know my name. Somehow, I just stuck to my guns, put my head down, flipped the switch in my brain, and eventually the days started flying off the wall. [Whence last post's pics.]

A New York Yankees hat, eye protection, green army Peltors over my ears, air filter face mask, full climbing harness with carabiners and all kinds of bells and whistles, Shift motocross gloves, heavy-duty navy blue Diesel pullover and dark blue H&M working pants, Adidas Superstars. Man, I even wore buttpads… do you have any idea how sore your butt gets when you slide down ladders on it day out and day in? Un-real-ly sore!

Finally, I turned off the grinder. Believe it or not, but only twice more since day one did I cut my knee or thigh at full blast… which meant I was pumped to start washing. Should be a walk in the park after this, I reckoned… but after ten seconds… oh, you know the drill by now. Yes, I soon noticed it was just as nasty as the grinding. To bounce around on the roof with a big bucket of foul ammonia water, sweaty rubber gloves and a hand brush was not my idea of fun. I can not remember how many times I lost my temper with the intertwining ropes and garden hoses and…

Still, somehow… yesyes, you most certainly know the drill by now. I hand-washed the whole god damn roof all by myself, and lived to tell you all about it. Time to paint.

Only it was not time to paint yet. I still don’t understand why, but every spot I had already gone over with the grinder was peeling again at the edges. PEELING!!! THE PAINT WAS PEELING!!!

I would have thrown myself off the roof, but with my luck, I would have survived the fall. And then I would’ve just had to climb back up to try again. And for that, I had no strength left.

There was only one thing to do. Go over the whole roof again, this time with a little scraper. A little scraper in a tired little paw. Imagine! Oh, I had had it. Yet, I did it. No one can accuse me of being a quitter.

Remarkably, no stomach ulcers. What does it take to get them? I am just asking. What in heaven’s name does it take to get stomach ulcers?

Character for sale, by the way. Over the years, I’ve built up quite a mountain of it…

Time to paint; the first layer. Rostex Super, an expensive thick-flowing soup that killed the little I had left in my wrists after the grinding & washing. And, because I am such a fiercely stubborn pedant, I did not settle for just painting the bare spots; I painted the whole roof with Rostex Super. This thing will last forever… look at it! HAHAAAAA!

Rafael Pyton will return in Uomo Universale 3.

White, black, and a streetcar named Desire.

I call this one “Stairway To Heaven“…

Ah, Andy’s escapades on the roof are slowly but surely - uh, slowly - coming to a close, and I want to shout it out loud, let it e c h o o o. Thus, I have decided to publish a short series of snapshots that will depict the slaving process from naked and bleeding all the way to the shiny tuxedo. This is the first of the series, and you are cordially invited to witness it.

This brief series is called Uomo Universale for a distinct reason. See, there are many things I take pride in, but very few or none give me as much satisfaction as mastering arts that have nothing but a HUGE GULF in common. Take the odd group of writing & riding motorcycles & playstation & handiwork as an example. Personally, I think this is a completely wonderful combination, and according to professional opinion, I am very good at all of them. Yup, very good, they say. [You shocked?]

There are always those who get ill by the merest whiff of braggadocio, but here’s a big up yours to you, international signal included. Naturally, I am under no illusions of being a modern Leonardo Da Vinci - altho I’m pretty sure I could take him on a dirt bike… but I have been working extremely hard lately, the end result is turning out lovely, and it’s filling me with burning feelgood. I am not about to get shy about it!

Particularly when circa no one said I could do it.

But I am doing it.

And I remember. Since the accident, I’ve been under severe pressure from various sources, even family members. The house is too big for you, they said. You can’t take care of it. We are going to sell it. You must move.
But I had nowhere to go. I was coming in and out from operations. I was not alright. The only place I’ve ever wanted to call ‘home‘ was under threat, and amidst it all I tried to piece together the shattered fragments of my life. To say it’s been hard, is a momentous understatement… this place is, and has always been my anchor.

And I remember, vividly. I kept saying I will and can take care of this house, but no one really wanted to believe me. Everyone just “knew” what was best for me. It beat me down, and I couldn’t even defend myself. When I last summer cautiously tried to step up to the plate, and suggest I will strap myself to the chimney and paint the roof, it caused such vicious sneering it still hurts inside when I think about it.

“What’s that fool thinking? He can barely walk!”

Well, this fool was TWO WEEKS OUT OF A MASSIVE FOUR-HOUR OPERATION ON BOTH LEGS when he first set foot on the roof. This fool overcame VIOLENT TRAUMA-INDUCED VERTIGO by staring it right in the eye. This fool did something ALONE that took my dad a couple of strongmen to accomplish 20 years ago.

Huh? HUH?

The roof was in a bad state; borderline salvageable. But I scraped, I sanded, I bit my teeth and scoured and scrubbed. I put in ten hours a day all May, with the only daily break being fifteen minutes for lunch. I’ve been relentless; I hope these pictures show at least a fraction of the effort I’ve invested.

Sure, Da Vinci was great. But I am the lizard king. I can do anything.