rafael pyton

Closed the door to the monastery, momentarily, and went for a quick spin to Karis over the weekend. In simple phonetics, the occasion was pee-eii-arr-tee-WHY? Cause I gotta! One does not last long on a beautiful view alone.

I move to recalibrate the last sentence; ersatz: non-negative.

Anyway, I am not writing on beauty, party, or the parts of it that I can remember [they were great, though!]. No, I am writing about my darling youngest brother. I would give my life for him. Without blinking. Without asking. Without thinking.

This said, sometimes he drives me salted nuts with the MOST lackadaisical regard - ever recorded in the history of humanity - of the all-encompassing order and impeccable structure of things. In other words, we share blood, but I clean up the puddles.

You haven’t the faintest idea, have you, of what I am yapping about? But once you see the picture, you will experience a very veritable lightbulb. You might also notice a warm smile spreading over the old leather-ball. Why, you will probably even feel comically sorry for one of us.

Which one? One thinks there is a place for everything. And a compartment for every tool, lubed to perfection. The other one thinks there is every place for a thing. Dirt? Huh? What dirt?

I laugh about it now. Look, hear: ha-ha. But on Friday, I had to quickly close the garage-door, and go down into the basement to chill my boiling heart. And… while I was there, I sorted out electrical cables that “someone” had “magically” entwined into a nigh-impossible mess…

Still.

I wouldn’t have him any other way.

I am over the moon. Hell, I am the man on the moon. In something that can only be described as a miracle, the fish have returned to the Nagu shores!

About a month ago, the last time I cast my nets, in near-vain, I came up empty-handed. Nothing surprising there, as zero edibles has more or less been the status quo during the last three to four years.
But! Lo! Just recently, I heard a rumour circulating in the village harbour. “Fish“, the bearded men whispered, “you go fish now.”

I scoffed, and made the have-you-been-drinking-sign with my hand.

Still, on the way back, I put some cash down on two new nets. The same evening, I got them wet. And in the morning…

27 sea bass, 4 flounders, and 1 delicious pike-perch!

I don’t know whom to thank. But thank you from the depths of my stomach. Can’t wait to fish more, and try out recipes!

The seagulls thank you too. In not the slightest of exaggerations, at least a hundred birds appeared from nowhere like they always do, just dropping out of the sky the second you so much as think fish. The Mountain Of The Seagull certainly lived up to its name yesterday. It was like a scene out of a Hitchcock movie.

In furious despondency and despair I spend many a Sunday afternoon - the same afternoons that always begin with great expectations, high anticipations, hope and the light of life.

F1 is a cruel mistress and a lousy tease. Someday, I will dump the bitch, and not before I fist her face, excuse my French. However, until that day comes, I do wonder why I keep setting myself up for the fall. And why does the fall have to be so steep?

You have just been tantalized. This is what reads on my pit board as I race past on my sofa. My charge sputters to a halt.

Another Ferrari breakdown for Kimi, and the TWENTY points that was served on a silver platter became 0. Zero. Zero taste, zero sugar, but with maximum bitter disappointment.
I will now declare the championship over, again. Joinks. Let’s relive the inevitable build-up towards the next inevitable fall.

It is very hard to live in constant fear of the next mechanical gremlin!

I have vented. In any other sense, the racing was spectacular. From this side of the screen, I love changing conditions and slithering cars; for once you get an acute picture of driving, hard. The invisible rails disappear, and mechanical surgery becomes fight club. I have also come to enjoy the Nürburgring track - you can bank on the first corner to provide wheel-to-wheel high definition entertainment, and the quick esses in the mid-section put on a magnificent display of the violence of speed. Nürburgring far surpasses the new and neutered Hockenheim, for instance.

Pause for second ventilation. It is now obvious to me that Lewis Hamilton is getting preferential treatment. During the race, he broke rules wherever he turned, and… nothing. Not even a drive-thru.
Why was his car the first - and only - to be tractor-assisted back onto the track after he stuck it firmly in the gravel? There was a cluster of at least FIVE other cars in the same pit of gravel. Why, I call it outside assistance. Those who justify this stunt on grounds of safety are wrong - the tractor that helped Hamilton was almost hit by, I think, Liuzzi, making it a very dangerous operation first and foremost.
When you lose control of your car and get stuck, you are not supposed to magically re-enter the track by air and continue as if nothing happened. It’s because he’s black, you know… [sarcasm].

As compensation, I hope the FIA decides to punish the spying thieves at McLaren later this week. Bring out the gimp, and the cat o’ nine tails.

Drinking; it’s better than blinking. And… I just can’t get enough, I just can get enough [melody: Depeche Mode]… of Bonaqua sparkling water with a hint of wild raspberry.

My name is Andy, and I’m a Bonaquaholic. Every time I crack open another of them one and a half litres of life, and get a whiff of the wild raspberry release, I feel so new and spirited. It is like getting born, then having a shower.

Ooh. The bubbles enter my body, gently pricking my soul, tenderly teasing the inside of my skin, moisturizing - no - making sweet and sensational love to my very vital organs. Aaaah. Like, AAAAH. Fizz. Wild raspberry fizz. How did we ever manage without the raspberry fizz?
Alko? Bah!
I foresee the imminent day when I refuse to breath if there is not Bonaqua Wild Raspberry in the refrigerator.

Dammit, beautiful Bonaqua. You mesmerize me. Is there opium in this?

Alko, Alko, Alko. Such a dear enemy. Such a hateful friend.

For those who eat mammoth in caves; the Finnish state controls most everything about alcohol stronger than 4,7%. Think monopoly, think alcohol; think license to print money in the name of, probably, national security.
But more than that, think this: should you get the urge for something stronger than regular beer, you are well out of luck if there is not an Alko store near you.

Spending the summers in the archipelago like my surname is Kennedy, the closest Alko store has always been 50 kilometres and a yellow ferry away. Yes, that is a total of 100 kilometres and two ferries, unless you set camp at the store.
It is quite a considerable nuisance - I say nuisance, but I mean panic - when you suddenly notice the wine box is feeling rather light, and the spurt is less than vigorous. You usually have two choices: go for the vintage bottles that you always seem to store but never find the occasion to open, or drive the long mile under the influence of mutter and swear.

Certainly, the summers have always included a great deal of planning, most usually along the lines of too much is never enough. Really, you never know when thirsty friends will stumble by, do you? On that, one must also take into consideration a very interesting but utterly inexplicable occurrence - the archipelago makes people a lot thirstier than normal. Strange, innit?

HA HAA. Can you tell by the tone of my laughter that something akin to a divine intervention has taken place? Like ta daa? Good. Because you’d be right.

They opened an Alko in Nagu!

The booze pilgrimage is over. Goodbye, panic. So long, anxiety. Farewell, fear and loathing.

Yes. Yes! Yes! YES!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!

Now that I have your attention, let me point out that the Iceman won again. And dontcha just know that the competition is beginning to get the chills? In fact, I bet they’ll soon start wearing chinchilla. [God, I am so funny.]

This time, in unprecedented fashion, I was cheering on Alonso. Urgh. I felt extremely uncomfortable writing that sentence… but what matters is that Kimi has now, in two races, taken eight large bites of chocolate.
In case you are less than fluent in Pyton, that means that Kimi has gained eight points on Hamilton in the last two races. The season I already declared over, is not.

In the immortal words of John McClane, “yippiekayee motherfuckers“. No amount of spying and cheating can stop this juggernaut. We - me and Kimi - are coming from behind, hard and fast. The rest can only wait on all fours for the inevitable to take place.

And the Mumm shall flow.

*madcap laughter finally fading, fading.. erupting!.. fading, fading…*

By Sofia Coppola, naturellement. Some like, some don’t, and then there is me - I adore. See, I’ve even gone so far as to defend her role in Godfather III, making me the only person on the planet to do so.

While her papa is a rather well-know guy called Francis Ford, no one could have tipped a future in film for Sofia; certainly not after Godfather III. But oh, wrong, so wrong.
Little did the venomous critics know - hope they liked the taste of crow - that she’d soon be the DIRECTOR of Virgin Suicides, Lost In Translation, and now, Marie Antoinette.

Sofia Coppola is a genius and I only hate the fact that she is married…

Marie Antoinette may not have received rave reviews from everyone; again, some schmoes don’t get her at all. I think I do, though, if I may lay such claim myself. Amazingly, the last thing I’d want to watch is another moth-bitten historical costume drama. They always get them wrong - by trying to make them “right”. Rigid period lingo, gruesome over-acting and fake melodrama, anyone? Every time. Illness in every cell.

Marie Antoinette is the rarest of the breed: a historic costume drama so fresh I can smell citrus and strawberries. Music and language from our time, Versailles like it was, Kirsten Dunst as lovely as a cherry tree in heat… uh, I mean bloom. It is an intoxicating blend; I can sniff it all night long. While running naked through a dewy forest in the morning. Sucking on mints. Holding a tulip.

I am a fan of beauty, the warm light, some strange ambience. And forgive me for saying so, but isn’t there a bit of Kubrick in Marie Antoinette? If you have seen Barry Lyndon, you’ll know. Let there be magic light.
Ah, but the music, indeed - the soundtrack to Marie Antoinette is so cool, it could have been picked by me. Really, is there higher acclaim?

Historical accuracy? There are documentary channels for those kooks. This is film - ART; the only responsibility is the velocity of fabulosity. [Does it not sound good?!]

France was glorious. Then, at the very end, almost as if completely ignored or forgotten, the nasty peasants show up, all hungry, badly dressed, and tastelessly poor. You know, there is one single ugly frame in this film - Versailles, after the ugly peasants have passed through. Gold and baby blue turns grey. Rarely have I seen a better closing shot.

World order has been established once more. A Finnish man is yet again fastest. 6 is 6 and 9 is 9, while night turns to day, be here, stay.

Am I now to believe that Ferrari is yet again the supreme force? Yes! I am! McLaren is on their knees. Alonso is in tears. My sofa is taking off like a bat out of hell. The year starts now. Not soon. Not shortly. Not in the near future. Now.

The championship is alive. I felt its heart pound, I saw its legs kick this Sunday afternoon.

Thus, the last edition of Circuit de Nevers Magny-Cours has been run. I won’t miss the dreary place - although it has to be said that the last GP certainly made up for some agonizing memories.
Good riddance, rural France. But don’t give up making champagne… I’m going to need lots of it for the second half of the season. Woohaaa!