rafael pyton

El Presidente of Venezuela, big blabbermouth Hugo Chavéz, has done some good things for the poor in his country. Fantastic. Still, his so-called bolivarian revolution is more anti-USA than pro-socialism, and sometimes it manifests itself in the most acutely funny actions…

True, as in no joke: Venezuela is moving into a timezone of their own come December 9th. The clocks are moved half an hour backwards. President Chavéz has justified this on grounds of, among other things, the current time zone system being an American sanction…

*chair-tipping pants-wetting kill-me laughter*

Politik-Polis says: Once you buy into conspiracy-imperialism, you start seeing ghosts everywhere.

Actually, it was in the news yesterday, but I was busy playing the station that comes suffixed with 3. Eventually, my social conscience made me feel guilty, though, and this morning I could no longer ignore the stink of the world. Don your gas-masks or deal with it; I chose to deal with it.

In Sudan… why, when you begin a sentence like that, you just know that nothing good can follow. Really, when was the last time you heard something uplifting about Sudan?
Quite. So, when British teacher Gillian Gibbons lets the 7-year old kids in her class in Khartoum come up with a name for their new teddy-bear, Muhammed won with the vote of 20-3. In case you don’t know, Muhammed is a very common name in the islamic world, and not only you-know-who. In fact, some of the school-kids in same class went by said name.
A cutely innocent event, you’d think. Some parent didn’t, and ratted out the teacher to the Sudanese authorities. It is a crime to mock the prophet in muslim countries, a fact that is lost on no one these days. And even if the hapless teacher to-be-whipped had no intention of doing so, they will punish her nonetheless. Just to be on the safe side, I guess.
They are amazingly eager to perform justice in Sudan, it seems. Apparently their judicial system simply have not had time to bring the Darfur genocide into focus just yet. Well, it’s only one of the largest crimes against humanity ever. The wrong name for a teddy-bear is pretty important too…

In Saudia-Arabia… yeah. A 19-year old woman was jailed to get 200 whips for getting gang-raped. There is something not right with that sentence, don’t you think? But it is correct. She just happened to be in the wrong company at the wrong time; id est, was seen with a man that was not related to her. For good measure, the seven rapists gang-banged her male friend too…
Now, even considering the considerable clash of cultures here, it does not seem appropriate. I am not even questioning islamic law - a pointless task - no, I am questioning the inconsistency of the Saudi-Arabian judicial system. The judges hold all the power, rules on witness remain in shambles, and on far too many occasions attorneys are not even present during the hearing. To finish it off, two judges are highly likely to pass two different judgments on the same crime. But don’t you go dreaming about an overhaul in the nearest 300 centuries. That would be far too optimistic…

In China… cough. They continue to baffle me by killing their own in a black cloud of dust. Did you know that only a hundredth[!] of Chinese city dwellers have clean air? Let me repeat: 1/100 have air of the kind that is safe to draw into your rather precious lungs.
Out of the world’s 30 most polluted cities in the world, 20 are in China. People are dropping like flies; due to pollution about 750.000 chinamen and women die prematurely every year. But hey, when you have people like flies, you can afford them dropping like ones, too, I suppose? Can’t stand in the way of the economy now, can we? And that is why you built 2 coal power plants per week[!] last year…
Perhaps I need to speak your language: would you realize that these health issues are already costing you, China, 100 billion a year? That is 5.8% of BNP. Now, I don’t want to spoil your party, but methinks these figures are only going to rise…

Politik-polis, the caped crusader, was here.

“Made in America” was the 86th and final episode of the HBO original series The Sopranos. Uncross your hands and say amen; it is the end of an era. Before HBO and Sopranos, TV was shit and we did not know better. We used to watch Baywatch and Beverly Hills 90210 and not feel one bit ashamed of it. Sick. Let us pray that we won’t have to stoop so low again.
At the moment, the little screen [50", hrm] has never had it so good, and we owe it all to the New Jersey mafia family. Suddenly, you didn’t have to go to the cinema to see cinematography. Without Sopranos there would never have been, among so many more, Entourage, Sex And The City, Rome, et cetera ad infinitum. The mere thought of a non-Sopranos world is simply too painful to imagine.
Obviously, reality TV is a huge threat to quality - quality in every possible sense, from script to lights, camera, action - I can only hope that most of us will vote with the remote.

I Like Ike! Vote With The Remote!

Anyhoo, as one of the few who had the superpower-esque patience to wait for the last episode to come on TV instead of downloading it from the net meant that I only watched it yesterday. Somehow, I felt that it was the proper thing to do [rich words, I know], although, it has to be admitted, I was on the very verge of giving in to temptation last week, when the towering inferno that was the next-to-last episode aired. Indeed, it was the longest seven days…

Then, for the 86th and final time, the magnificent opening anthem by Alabama 3 rang…

You woke up this morning
got yourself a gun
Mama always said you’d be
The Chosen One…

Hubba. The song never fails to instill acute anticipation. It was on, game on, for there was lots to do in little time - one very short hour. I was thirsty for blood, I was hungry for violence. Phil Leotardo, the fucking cunt with only half a forehead, man, couldn’t we all wait to see somebody pop his angry ass?!

Sadly, I was also sure Tony Soprano would finally meet his maker - killers usually die - call it television moral. HBO, bless their gutsy souls, did not take the easy way out.
Mixed feelings stirred inside my blender of a brain as the episode went black and the credits started running. Was this it? The next-to-last episode would have made a grander exit to the series, was my first impression. However, having had a night to mull, I can see the beauty of “Made In America.”
Leotardo bites it, thankfully, but the final episode is all about the last scene, where the Sopranos family gather for dinner at a diner. The end is left wide open; clues to what might have happened next go in all directions. One could not miss the Godfather suggestions. Was Tony going to get hit? Prosecuted? Prosper? In retrospect, I guess I was rather infuriated when they cut the scene in the middle, but my teeth were gnashing from love. I was bidding my farewells to one of the finest stories ever created, and I just did not want it to leave me.

Salute.

Now what do we do? Cry. After that, we can always go out and buy The Sopranos Family Cook-Book. My little brother already did; I intend to borrow/steal, and make nothing but Italian food for the rest of my life.

One more paragraph; at the beginning of the final scene in the diner, Tony Soprano flips through the jukebox, chooses a band. It is Journey - Don’t Stop Believing, and it is the BEST BLOODY SONG I know at the moment. For emotional kicks, listen to it when you read this post. I know I listen to it [on repeat] as I write this post.
Oh, the goose and its bumps; I fall to my knees and hoist both hands high in the air. Armed with two lighters, I flick, they burn.

Live forever, Tony Soprano.

Some are better at this than others. Prime proof is this ludicrously awesome video commercial that you will see if you click this here link that says FLASHDANCE! Oh, you will know, if you remember the scrumptious Jennifer Beals. All hail the 80s. I say, ALL!

Naturally, if you sell Kia, then you better be good, too. And he is. I would buy one. In a flash.

Hello, hello, are you homo sapiens enough to own an environmentally gentle, economical and responsible car? Yes, I think you are, and look no further. More than that, look deeper, right into those round little eyes of the VW Polo. Aww, ain’t that the cutest thing?

Imagine! All of this could be yours! Act now! Automotive autonomy is mere money away - mere, indeed - only 8, only for you.

Buy-me-buy-me-buy-me-now…

Earlier this year, my darling girlfriend Madli gave me a particularly nice present: front-row tickets to a Bryan Ferry concert. I could hardly wait - but I did, and I did, and I waited, and I waited, and last Friday, at the Soviet relic of Linnahall, Tallinn, the concert finally took place.

I will, but I should not need mention how great it was. This is Bryan Ferry, after all. He could stand schtill and schtumm, and I would write glowing reviews. As it was, he both moved and sang, and looked ever so slim, stylish and sensationally sleazy.

Before we get to the concert, the shortest of interludes - since a strangely suspicious feeling arises inside of me: you may not actually realize how awesome Bryan Ferry is? My my, shame shame.
Perhaps I ought to remind you that this is the man himself behind the legendary Roxy Music, a band with a plenitude - and I mean pleni - of pearls on the Rolling Stones’ 500 Greatest Albums Of All Time.
Perhaps this info does not move you at all? You’re bored and need something a touch more tangible?

Above you see the album artwork to one of the better albums in existence; Country Life [1974]. I see you looking; now that I have your undivided attention and your immediate understanding of the impeccable greatness and sexy shit of Bryan Ferry & Roxy Music, allow me to end the interlude.

To the concert, then; here we are now, entertain us. Front row, with a little dancing space in front of us right before you touch the stage… OH you bet - we seize the opportunity as soon as Ferry starts rocking. The guards do not intervene. Paint a perfect picture: for the next one and a half hours, with the odd break to cool my feet, Madli & I dance while Bryan Ferry sing - to us only, it seems! - only a meter or two away.

In angel English; it is fucking A-M-A-Z-I-N-G! And when the old Roxy Music hits come on, I just fall to pieces in the best of ways…

Late that night I park my car
Stake my place in the singles bar
Face to face, toe to toe
Heart to heart as we hit the floor
Lumber up, limbo down
The locked embrace, the stumble round
I say go, she say yes
Dim the lights, you can guess the rest
Oh oh catch that buzz
Love is the drug I’m thinking of…

Ah, to think that Jerry Hall dumped Bryan Ferry for Mick Jagger… what a bitch.

Woke up in America. A sick loser shoots eight. I verify my geographical location by looking out the window. Finland? For real?!

Everyone is blaming the internet, I read. They are wrong. I think it was the school bullies. In my experience, it is always the school bullies. Will they ever learn a lesson? Will they never.
Anyway, it is too late to speculate; it is too late for eight, and all we can do is wipe the blood out of our minds like we always do - until it happens again. Sigh. Because it only takes one, and there is always one, and it always happens again.

Plain to see, I feel rather depressed with the way of the world today - and for all the wrong reasons. To be frank, I was not particularly shocked by this school massacre. I read the morning paper with the thousand-yard stare. I was jaded, not angry, only disappointed by the bleak history of humanity hell-bent on proving its ever-steadfast course of impossibly irrelevant destruction.
We all know what is out there, but we can never quite see it before the first shot.

Most are good, some are bad, a few are beyond repair. To those who malfunction, I have a message that most everyone wants to forward but dare not:

Go ahead, shoot yourself. But let the rest of us live.

But, in the meanwhile, let me introduce you to a couple of my new friends - Micky & Moppel. Cute, aren’t they?
Micky happens to be the most famous dog in Estonia, and he also likes to snuggle between your legs. Then again, who doesn’t?
Big cat Moppel, on the other hand, is mostly known for eating and eating and eating, and seeking refuge in your big bag of clean clothes, turning everything to hair. Lots of hair.