rafael pyton

My grandmother died today. I cut my visit in Tallinn short and returned home. Give me a break and allow me to tell you the story of my dear mommo.

There are others who went to better schools, spoke more languages, knew more about current affairs. But none of anyone could match her sheer heart. It was truly the size of the sun, and made out of pure gold.

You ran the largest farm in the area. You cooked for an endless number of workers. You never missed a beat. I don’t think I have ever seen anyone hustle up a pot of coffee as fast as you. Your warmth became legendary; even the poorest, most down-and-out bum happening to walk through the door - always open! - could look forward to a kindness not made anymore.
There is no mystery to why you and grandpa were surrounded by masses of people at all times. They loved you for a reason: you loved them first.

Every time I saw you, you gave me something. Had I not been there - on the receiving end - for the past thirtyish years, I would have thought generosity of this kind an impossible cliché. I dearly hope I gave something back. God, I really hope I never ever failed to wave you goodbye as you always came out to the balcony to see me off - that was our thing.

I held your hands only a few days ago, while death already walked alongside you. Tiny and shrunken as you were, I did see peace and courage in your eyes. Perhaps you knew something, perhaps I can guess what it was…

If you get out of life what you give, you had the richest life of anyone I can imagine - which means the next one will be even better. You knew it. I know it now. And you certainly deserved it.

Sadly, this world is considerably worse off without you.

Miss you, mommo, I miss you so, and it tears me apart to wave goodbye for the final time.

Instead of sending postcards and singing carols, it would simply be far too easy to blog a christm… wait a second! Too easy?! Now what on Earth could be wrong with that? ‘Too’ and ‘easy’ must be the best combination of words there is. Thus, I shall proceed in due proclivity.

An outrageously berry christmas to you. Yes, you. The ones I love and hold dear. The ones with whom you get by with a little help from. The only ones. The best ones.

“Finns de någo snälla barn här?” Make sure your reply is affirmative.

Yowsa. Here we go again: the kitchen is calling my name. Post-haste; gotta chop, baste, generally slave. But in final words, may I urge you all to go out with a bang - the bang of your bellybutton popping from tucking into too much pig?

Spent another weekend in Tallinn, where I engaged in my favorite sport: Girlfriend Spoils Andy.

First, she surprised me with tickets to the biggest freestyle motocross event in Scandinavia, due next summer. “Backflip!”, I shouted. Then she took me karting. We had the track to ourselves, and a splendid action sequence duly followed - I was elated to find out that I can still turn it on & up despite my achy-breaky feet. Next up, an arm-stretching session of Nintendo Wii action. Oo-eee; more on this later. The pampering proceeded as we hit town for an evening out. Being treated to dinner and movie - American Gangster - is always, always, a highway to happiness.

You’re too good, darling. [Please don't stop. Hihi].

The thread is barely red, but it leads here nonetheless: Wii, huh? I hear many extol the virtues of the little white machine. Having finally sampled the delights of the wacky Wii remote, I feel I must accompany the praises - yes, ’tis good fun, not to mention more addictive than heroin.

Whoa. I sense conclusions drawn. Oh no, not me: I still prefer the mighty PLAYSTATION 3. In fact, this shiny black jewel has occupied space under my TV for quite some time now, and I find it not hard at all to suggest that it kicks wee Wii ass and wins all video wars. Why, the PS3 is a galactic starship compared to Nintendo’s Cessna.
Indeed, many a red-eyed night has been spent at the warp-drive helm of high-resolution Dirt:Colin McRae. This, of course, may very well be the biggest difference between Wii and PS3: Wii is a bubbly social event, while PS3 is the lonely-sad but high-strung hour of shaving a durned tenth off your dawggone best lap time, dinggit.
Hmm. In case that did not come out right, try this: Whereas the Wii is a laugh, the PS3 is virtual reality, misery and ecstasy - and I never was one to walk the middle road.

Fine. I’m being dramatic for the sake of it. Anyway, just you wait for the new GTA & GT; Wii? Wats dat? Oh, and the other day I watched Casino Royale in Blu-Ray, spun by the PS3. Without exaggerating too much, I will describe it as spiritual. Blu-Ray heals the blind, baby! I can see, I can see!

[X-Box. What the heck is this X-Box? Sum kinda porn collection?]

Hello there, how are you today? You don’t say? And did you know that you are exchanging pleasantries with a man who was taught to snap necks and squash eyeballs? That is with my bare hands, mind - I am even better with a large knife or an assault rifle.
Read this face. You know it is true. I am a killer, and I’m coming for you.

No, I’m not. Not anymore. I finally got my papers back from the armed forces of Finland, and as of this month, I have been released from ALL duty during peace time! YIPPIEKAYEE!! Certain cause for celebration! My motorcycle legs are actually good for something!

No more crawling around in the woods, taking orders from high-ranking but low-self-esteemed sociopaths, no more millions of push-ups and cleaning toilets with toothbrushes, no more sweaty tents where men are stacked like sardines and snore like pigs, no more freezing your nuts off in a hole in the ground during the darkest of hours way out in the middle of nowhere.

To be fair, in retrospect I miss it, and I certainly owe them. I was butterfingers, but became a block of granite. Green Berets Of Finland, bouya! One of these days, I will regale you with what I had to go through to get the golden eagle and the green thing on my head, but for now, make do with this:
Back in spring ‘94, when the time for the oh-so precious green beret award ceremony finally came, there were only about ten of the toughest who had passed all the torture and tests on first attempt.

TEN, among a whole bloody brigade.

I was one of them.

We strutted like peacocks to the envy of everyone. For awhile there, we owned the world.

Would you like to get a bantam glimpse into my most private room - the bedroom? Yeah, thought so, you curious buggers.

Most of you will not have witnessed the sorry state of the before-picture. Safe to say, it has now undergone a transformation more dramatic than Gregor Samsa [the guy who turns into a big insect in Kafka's Metamorphosis - you knew that, of course?].

It is now fit for a prince - I certainly sleep like one here. Speaking of royalty, this very bed hails from the presidential castle in Helsinki, and I like to think that there is no telling of what kind of romp and rumpus that has taken place in this bed before me - seeing as the bluer the blood or the more power you hold, the kinkier you get.

This is an impression of my own taste, and I am utterly pleased with the funky blend of old & modern. It feels special to embrace night in this room, and that is the only and finest outcome I want from a bedroom.
This is the sweet satisfaction of a renovation gone well that’s speaking; the best back-patting is the one you do yourself.

Sleep tight tonight, dream of white light.

Early Sunday mornings were invented for this, and not for hangovers, as many believe. And when I for the first time in weeks spotted some blue among the grey, not to mention the odd shiny ray, I knew that it was time to scare the shit out of the gentle people who live in the forests.

The Porsche bellowed to life and begged for more. It was time to make up for neglect, to stop pussyfooting around the puddles. Certainly, December in Finland is not what it used to be. Well, who wants to be cold, anyway? Great g-force grip two weeks before Christmas is easily preferable to cross-country skiing.

It is hard to understand how lucky you are, when you are too close to something. But only a spit away from my door lies an abundance of awesome driving roads. Names such as Fagervik, Snappertuna and Fiskars [just to name a few] do perhaps not hold the same cachet as the Stelvio Pass and Mille Miglia, but on these roads you can find corners that will make you want to marry your car. I’m telling you, if did Fagervik in a 911 GT3 RS, lewd acts would inevitably have to follow.

Fagervik is also the one I went for today. What a blitzkrieg bop it was! A rippin’ ribbon of smooth black that curls and crests like a two-year old drew it, devilish Fagervik tempts you to go faster, faster, crash. These days of eco-terrorism and too much traffic, to have a piece of Nordschleife in your back yard, why, it is a priceless bliss to be blessed like this.

You can keep London and Paris; I’ll take Karis. And an old Porsche 944 in Guards Red. So many make life complicated for themselves. Yet, man is a simple animal. He does not need much to think that life is superfuckingmagnificent.

The winter is English. It’s Mindy windy and Wayne rainy and dirty Harry, and… I’m itching to go for a law-breaking countryside ride… but it would make the car horribly grimy. By George, I have not been able to drive the 944 in weeks! Arghh!

During dark days like these, one must find comfort in different ways. Resting your eyes on something beautiful always does it for me, and what we have here is the group-sex of images; racing Porsches of yesterday’s years. It is, in fact, like sneaking a glimpse into paradise. I truly imagine that this is exactly how it will be.

And God shall appear to hand you the key. “917K?” he will assume, in deep barytone. And he will be right. Gods usually are.

Marcus Grönholm has left the building. Thank you for showing the rest of the world how us Finnish-Swedes hailing from the cock of Finland drive a car; faster and more furious than just about anyone. 30 WRC wins speaks for itself, as loud as a broken Ford exhaust over Ouninpohja.

They say you began your career ripping it up on motocross bikes. You were pretty good, before you busted your body. Ah, it happens to the best of us. So, you added another pair of wheels, and promptly tore it up in the ranks of rally. I remember following your career, crossing fingers. Yep, fast as shit you were, yet, nobody ever gave you a chance. Perhaps you crashed too much. Well, you did.
Finally, you gambled everything - the family farm, the shirt on your back - and drove the wheels off an old Toyota in The Thousand Lakes. The guys at Peugeot took notice.
It was about time. Soon, you were world champion. Double. My, you’ve come a long way from that farm in Inkoo… actually, you never left it. The others move to Monaco or Switzerland. You stuck to your guns, paid Finnish tax. I never saw anything like it. Safe to say, you’re ONE of a kind. Allow me to offer an abundance of respect.

BLESS THE BOSSE.

[Now, who's gonna battle the frog extraordinaire? Jay-Em Latvian Gangsta, that's who! See you in Monte.]

Yesterday [on my name day...], at the appropriate age of 69, the dirty daredevil legend Evel Knievel passed away. And while none of us thought he would live anywhere near this long, we all also know that he will be around until the end of time.

He inspired millions of kids - including a dreamy little dandy called Andy - with his barely believable motorcycle stunts. The concept of jumping buses on a dirt bike must have been invented by the gods, and Evel was the one they chose to provide the entertainment. It’s like he knew it too, because Evel rode the ragged edge everywhere he went.
Every time he bit the ground, death stood on the sidelines clutching for him. But he always got back up, left death nothing but defiance and fuck you.

Evel Knievel was the original two-wheeled hero and the first ghost rider. The modern freestyle motocrossers may go further and more upside down, but Evel strutted his stuff on a dog of a damn Harley; a barely rideable beast with the kind of suspension your grandma’s bicycle has underneath its saddle… you just try to land on the other side of the fountain at Ceasar’s Palace on a thing like that.

I have always admired men who show disregard for pain and fear; the fear of pain. They are a breed of broken bones apart, a fact proved by the others who think they are plain stupid. But they are not. They are, actually, far more insightful than those others. They did the math, decided it was better to live MORE than to live LONG. That is not a punk song; it is accurate information based on arithmetic expression.

More and long might just be the hottest ticket, though. I hope mine is paid for already. Evel probably bought his on credit, but his train came through nonetheless - despite Snake River Canyon and countless of other desperate dances with the grim reaper. It is testament to the great American spirit and his status as the toughest sonofagun this side of any side.

No guts, no glory, no story. Busting big and breaking bones is what it’s all about. Hallebloodylujah. Hallebloodylujah.

My eyes mist up as I watch him wheelie away into the sunset.

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