rafael pyton

Had some friends over for Zinfandel during the weekend. Somewhere along the line, my brain hiccuped and I suggested we watch teenage movie Pledge This. We did.
None of us came away decent. In fact, we are scarred for life by idiocy. See, this movie will dumb you down so much it is frankly a miracle I’m still able to tie my shoelaces and remember a third of my pin number.

Earlier, Pledge This was known as the movie with the lowest ever score on IMDB. Since, it has been eclipsed by something called The Hottie And The Nottie… but still… if you know how to spell, and cherish this capability, avuouid itt.

Paris Hilton is in Pledge This. You may have thought she had no talent - you had no idea how kind you were to her. [If you must, try the "documentary" One Night In Paris instead...]

Now, one may wonder why I “acquired” the movie for free in the first place? Well, sometimes when you arrange wine-slash-movie nights, you prefer to catch up on the latest gossip instead of gazing at moving pictures. At other times, you’re so engrossed by the plot you get annoyed by the mere sound of a single popcorn hitting the floor. Safe to say, this was the former option - and why I always make sure to carry a small selection of cheaper titles in my movie archive. Yes, that night we just wanted something on the screen to point & laugh at, something to interrupt our ape chat.

Oh, we did laugh. But it was an uncomfortable sort of laughter, the embarrassing kind, groan-like, as if you felt horribly ashamed of the world that managed to produce this piece of anti-culture. Try rolling your eyes for 90 minutes - that’s the toll it takes! It definitely drove us to drinkin’ more and faster than de rigeur.

In retrospect, I’ve come to the conclusion that the only positive effect Pledge This could ever have, is if aliens return to earth to claim us as the slaves they have been training us into since they taught us to build pyramids - but happen across this movie - and swiftly decide to leave for another couple of thousand years on the pretext that we’re not quite there yet.

And I’d have to agree with them; we are certainly not quite there yet. Fact, it feels like we’re never going to get there, where it ever will be, because I think we’re going backwards.
When I was pre-moped, we liked Porky’s. Back then, the tit jokes were slick, and none of us suffered any ill effects. Apart from for the rest of your life dreaming about finding that ever-elusive peeping hole into the girls’ locker room, of course.

What, pray tell, connects the recent Kenyan violence with 30 years of Afghan war, Gaza unrest, European colonialism and French revolution?

The answer is young men, lots and lots of young men. Researching the demographics of trouble areas past and present, a superfluous amount of young men are most always to be found. Throughout history, a major surplus of 15-29 year old men have led to unrest, coup d’états, civil war, and terrorism.
Such is the theory of the YOUTH BULGE, by Gunnar Heinsohn. In my opinion, it is a brilliant new theory, one I wish I’d stumbled upon when I was chasing my Masters-degree at The Centre For The Study Of Democracy. My own essays always blamed poverty, ideology and religion. How pedestrian they seem now!

Far from boring you senseless with all the important details, it does not take much to realize that young men is a demographic pressure above and beyond any other of those ol’ pyramids we fooled around with in school.
Most men from the age 15-29 are weak in psychology, hot in blood, and lax on thinking. They are out to prove themselves, testing boundaries, seeking alternatives in making complete asses of themselves while actually believing the opposite is taking place. Nothing could be easier to manipulate and brainwash than a young man. Yes, I was once young forever too.

Young men may not necessarily be the cause of conflict, but they feed on it. Gunnar the German makes a strong case for it, with matching numbers. Usually, wars end because the birth rate drops - in other words, peace-talks begin when the warrior count is down. It has been calculated that risk of unrest grows when the percentage of young men from 15-29 climbs over 30% of the whole adult male population. As it is, for the sake of comparison, Finland is at 24%, with 1.7 children per woman. The Gaza Strip is 53% young men, with 5.9 kids per woman. Afghan women have, on average, 6.8 kids. I won’t even comment on Africa. [Once again: every single place on earth with trouble has a youth bulge.]

Did you ever wonder why many of the armed struggles never end, even though they constantly kill each other? Sure is a sad day in the history of mankind, when you learn that they don’t die fast enough. Or grow up fast enough.

Speaking on the behalf of young men, we always knew we weren’t clever. But I never realized we were this stupid.

T-t-testicles…

It was an uneventful race, where the best man won. I like those - because it almost automatically means that there is a Finnish dude on top. So, behold the prevail of the evil ICEMAN, the most unflappable man on earth. He is a mountain of coolness, a knife-killer, an institution of speed, and all other sorts of totally great-sounding praise to boot. Heck, I’m not afraid to admit he fills me with adoration bordering on gay.
The season has thus been restored to rightful architecture, with the construction of podium being Kubica in second, and third man yet another Northern soul, none other than Heikki Kovalainen. Yep, that’s how we drive up here: better!

I can not wait to sift through the British media - miracle man Lewis Hamilton is not the religion after all. A sect, tops. It pleases me to no little effect that McLaren teammate and so-called number two, Kovalainen, beat him in both qualifying and race. You should have known that we don’t play second fiddle in this country.

Ah, national pride. What a splendid source of chest-puffing!

Melbourne, as the wiseness of time has afforded us, turns out to be a freak accident of circumstance. Ferrari is faster than McLaren. Bad luck in the form of those pesky three letters D, N and F is the only thing standing in the way of another c-ship heading my… I mean, Kimi’s way.
Certainly, soft-headed Ferrari teammate Massa is but a blip on the road. Zero points after two races to no one’s fault but his own will only increase his speed - of departure. The mill of rumors is working on Vettel, I hear…

But where is JJ? In the commentator’s booth, that’s where. Former F1 racer JJ Lehto is back not on but next to the track for MTV3 Max, dispensing us hard-paying customers with nutritious nuggets of insight. JJ has this cutely peculiar habit of Finnish-fying foreign words to fit his mouth - Rubens [Barrichello] is Ruupenssi, Michael [Schumacher] was Maikkeli, and so on. This time, however, he outdid himself, as he accidentally happened to refer to Lewis Hamilton as Lewis Hämäläinen.

How I laughed!

There was a time not so long ago, when this sport called Formula One was the most viciously tedious way to spend two hours on the couch. Some German dude was hellbent on winning, while the rest drove around in funeral procession.

Today, the sport is as never better.

Action sequences may not have unfolded according to the script - my script - in Melbourne, but there was not a grain of sand in my eyes as I tried to hang on to the slippery leather of the bucking sofa. Now, golden boy Lewis won, and I shall spill no more words on him, since everyone else will.
But the least Heikki Kovalainen deserved was second place. He drove a beautiful race, gave no ground, passed champions Kimi and Alonso at one or another point in the race, only to have the mistiming of the pace car rob him of glory. Well, X this in your diary: Heikki will be back for more. A lot more.

Oh, Kimi, oh, Kimi. From 15th on the grid to 8th in one lap - with a damn heavy car, on a track where overtaking is unreasonably tricky and risky - was a ravishingly rude god ride the likes of which are rare to none! Even Senna would have dropped a jaw. Mine fell so far I had to look for it.

In the early morning hour, the big house on Centralgatan was aloud with the sound of a man enraptured.

Eventually, with the added help of the pace car, Kimi soon sat in third with a shot at, why not, victory.
Tragically, while having run the ragged edge dull, it still managed to cut him in a splendid battle with fellow fastest-nation Heikki. I for one and two savored the moist action with the kind of pleasure usually derived from naked activities until the Iceman got racer’s disease and braked in his pants.
The battle was utterly unnecessary, however. A few sentences of screaming:
“Why did Ferrari not pit him when the pace car came out the second time?! He was coming in just as the pitlane closed, and had to turn out at the last second - they should have pitted him at the very next opportunity! No-o-o, instead they kept him racing hard on worn-out tires against the Macs for two-three nearly irrelevant laps, and the disaster that needn’t have struck, struck! Well, struck you!”]
Race already ruined, Kimi spun out yet again in another furious charge later in the race. Finally, the Ferrari broke down at the very end - Kimi must have strangled it with his throttle-foot, I suppose.

For once, it would be nice not to have to spend the year playing catch-up… but ok, let them run a little. We’ll reel ‘em in later. Have some fun for now, let your egos grow, build castles in the sand. This one’s on me.

Nick Heidfeld, whom I’m fond of not rating very highly, came in second today. Serves me right - but circumstance did guide him to very good effect.

Nico Rosberg was utterly Finnish at the Melbourne GP, the lil’ Keke claiming his first podium of his career. It sure is nice to have some spares, should Kimi or Heikki get bad-lucked.
De fantastic facto, it looks highly unlikely that a Finnish guy will ever be outside the podium this year! Ah, ’tis so peachy I can hardly fathom the succulence of the taste. When I visit the cellar of memory in the future, I will dust off 2008 as exquisite vintage.

Waiting for the primer to dry - this week’s project: laying big beautiful tiles of Italian stone on the floor in the entrance hall - I thought I’d use the two hours afforded to me for the preview. You know, THE preview.

Right from the bat, at full chat, make no mistake, two-ou-ou-eight will light up the very night. Should you not be of the Finnish persuasion, however, you are in for a such a freezing cold shower it will make your little wiener fall off and slip through the drainhole…

2008, in order of champ to chump to chimpanzee:

FERRARI;

Kimi Räikkönen: The Chosen One. The Racer XY. Kimi Kong. The quintessence of Finland shall win every round of 2008, soiling the record book with crimson.

Felipe Massa: Fast, but frail. The little Brazilian is fourth in 2008. Watch out for him in qualifying, though. He’s got quick feet and sweet fingers.

McLAREN;

Lewis Hamilton: The black boy you want to marry is in for shock therapy. Not only will Kimi Kong crush him, he will also get beaten by his own team-mate. His hopes rest on the [considerable] plotting & scheming abilities of McLaren.

Heikki Kovalainen: A breakthrough year in store for another of Finland’s finest. We will finally get an idea of his speed - and few will know what hit them. As the year wears down, he will eventually get the edge over Hamilton.

RENAULT;

Fernando Alonso: Sure, the Spaniard’s good - good enough to raise Renault past BMW. But will that be enough for him? Stereotypically, Latin men do not handle defeat very well. Embarrassing tantrums are to be expected amidst some impressive performances.

Nelson Piquet Jr: He’s got the name. But it’s wrapped around a snack for Alonso.

WILLIAMS;

Nico Rosberg: Ha. I almost wrote Nico ‘Rosebud‘. It might be a sign? Is he the plot device of 2008? It seems as though Williams have been hauling butt in pre-season testing. I’ll go out on a thin limb and predict a return to form for the great English team. With Nice Nico, the three-pronged attack of Finland is complete. What a formidable fork to stick in the pork!

Kazuki Nakajima: Like Rubens Barrichello to Michael Schumacher, Kazuki can not touch Nico.

BMW;

Nick Heidfeld: Sometimes fast. Sadly, Nick is the HH Frentzen of F1 - infinite potential, invisible impact. His case is not helped by BMW, struggling slightly this year.

Robert Kubica: A Pole in a car instead of on a horse still amazes me. Once you get over that slur, know that Kubica has dazzling talent, will pip Quick Nick and emerge as top propeller in the stable.

RED BULL;

Mark Webber: I like to drink Red Bull. They are a great sponsor of all things wacky. They won’t crack F1, though, not even with another car designed by Adrian Newey - is he worth the money? Worse yet, unless this year proves me wrong, I will soon reach the conclusion that Mark is slightly overrated.

David Coulthard: According to an article I just read, the Scotsman has the smallest butt in F1. Perhaps he’s been sitting in that tiny cockpit for too long? David is a nice guy - would it be too cruel to suggest retirement? Nah, not when you’re living large and screwing hot models in Monaco.

TORO ROSSO;

Sebastian Vettel: Many, including me, were expecting more out of Vettel last season. As a test driver for BMW, he had sensational speed, and it scared me to think the new Schuey had arrived all too soon. In any case, I still expect a lot from this guy. Germany’s fastest, I reckon - Red Bull, beware - the junior team and Vettel should be able to throw in a surprise or three in 2008. Stick your ‘One To Watch‘ sticker here.

Sebastien Bourdais: The other Seb will struggle. It’s a gutsy move to abandon Champ Car success for a crack at the mid-pack over here, but history is harsh - all too often the Indy guys are sent back, broken. F1 needs a Frenchman, but will this Frenchman want to stay in F1 after 2008? Odds go no.

TOYOTA;

Jarno Trulli: First of all, Toyota would do better to return to WRC. Second, can we agree that it’s high time for Trulli to kill or get killed? If you’re supposed to be this fast, you better produce results too - and not just in qualifying.

Timo Glock: Will he be able to match Trulli’s one-lap bursts? Maybe not, but I suspect Timo is a real racer. This ought to be interesting, was it not for the fact that Toyota has only been able to produce boredom since they entered F1.

HONDA;

Jenson Button: Well, at least Toyota will outperform Honda. This legendary company is fast loosing its reputation they built over the years. I rode Honda motocross bikes for most of my career because they were incredibly reliable and fast. Their F1 cars are the exact opposite of reliable and fast. Ross Brawn must like challenges… Poor Jenson. There is nothing worse for a man than to realize he is squandering his talent while life is passing by.

Rubens Barrichello: Honda not only manages to build hopeless cars, they also make hopeless driver choices. In short, they suck on all accounts. 2008, Rubens will become the most experienced driver of all time. Personally, I’d prefer he got fired, so Ricardo Patrese could hold on to his well-deserved 256GP record.

FORCE INDIA;

Giancarlo Fisichella: Frankly, Force India can beat Honda. Fisico’s star is waning, but I’d like nothing more than to see the Italian extract a few more good races before taking the road that leads to Rome.

Adrian Sutil: A capable driver, yet probably not quite capable enough.

SUPER AGURI;

Takuma Sato: Entertaining. I hope Super Aguri has the funds to keep the team running.

Anthony Davidson: Well, I always had a soft spot for the underdog.

Wine-making is a privilege of latitude. This is, however, not a fixed frontier. In case you haven’t noticed, it’s getting a bit warmer most everywhere. Oh, happy days.

The ideal average temperature for grapes is normally 18-20 degrees. As it is, the Spanish vineyards are already in hot water. The grapes develop far too much sugar, which means alcohol overload - which means hasta la vista, quality wine, hello, production of raisin.
It’s affecting France as well. Traditionally, wines from Bordeaux used to be 12.5% alcohol. In 2004 they were, on average, 13.5-14%. Grape variety is changing [for example, merlot is not doing well in Bordeaux anymore], the best terroir is moving from valley to slope, and so on and on.

But in Scandinavia, where we say “JA“, the future looks rather interesting - particularly from the perspective of wine-making. The northernmost European vineyard is, as of the moment, L’esprit d’Edvard Munch, just outside Oslo. There are a few decent vineyards in the Southern half of Sweden, Blaxsta Vin, to name one.
Finland is experimenting. Karlsro Gård on Åland will soon perform debut harvest, while Teiskon Viini in Tuusula was the first to actually make ‘real’ wine in this country. [Of course, Teiskon Viini doesn't exactly sound like something you'd expect to find on the upper shelves at Alko...]

Now, should you be the lucky landowner of a good piece of the North, you’d choose well to go with an ‘early’ grape. Riesling, Chardonnay, Merlot, and 100 days of 18-20 degrees, yes please. [Hybrid grapes might work even better.]
Additionally, there is an absolutely splendid advantage to our location on top of the world - the summer days are 20-25% longer!
Aha: 100 days in Bordeaux is a mere 80 days in sweet Southern Finland. Not bad, eh?
It does not stop there. To get the best out of the grape, you need to stress it - in other words, large differences in temperature would come in handy. Well, hello, September in Scandinavia, with 20 degrees and sunshine during the day, 5 degrees at night. Not bad at all, no, most certainly not.

Hell, even when it freezes over, you needn’t cry - make Eiswein instead. This is turning into a fairly popular practice in Germany and Austria, where they leave the grapes hanging until about -8 in the winter, then pick and process them frozen. The end result is a rich, dark yellow, very sweet white wine excellent as aperitif or accompanying your dessert.

Global warming may not be fair. But neither is life. Central Valley in California will be too hot and dry in twenty years. Denmark, on the other hand, is predicted to have great wine-country potential. Hopefully, Finland will be next.
Don’t tell this to anyone, because it is a huge, massive, sensational secret [unless you read Helsingin Sanomat 28.2...] - but the chalky soil in Pargas is destined to become the ultimate terroir of Finland. I shall stalk the very familiar area this summer, looking for suitable plots of gold.

Oh, I’ll be beyond middle age by the time is ripe, but I can already feel the tannins shrivel my mouth in perfect pleasure.

Bienvenue au Château de Pyton!

Even so, it is with barely contained excitement that I read in today’s newspaper about the German scientists who’ve identified the stupendously n-a-s-t-y gene that causes hereditary hair-loss.
It means, finally, that the future will bring a cure for those going bold at an age when it is bloody-not-fair to do so.

I put the paper down and get a dreamy look in my eyes. Without being able to stop myself, I plow one of my comb-shaped limbs - a hand - through a fluffy forest of imagination growing out of my brain. Ah. Tousle, ruffle, and shake. Nice. This is nice.

But I don’t really miss my dark luscious locks - which you naturally won’t believe when I use a word such as luscious - no, I really really don’t. Hair is a terribly cumbersome by-product of irrelevant bodily functions that you only realize when you don’t have to tend to it anymore. Because if there is anything that demands constant maintenance and costly rearrangement, it is hair.
Sure, it’d be fun to try a ‘do or two for old time’s sake, but I’d still probably shave. Probably…

Well, whom am I fooling? Besides, I guess we will find out, should this modern molecular magnificence of snake oil reach the market in a few years. You are free to make fun of me when I stand first in queue to load up on good medicine. Boy, the scientist who cracks this first will become richer than a hedge fund manager.

First and foremost, however, it will be a vivacious victory for the army of men just entering their mid-twenties with thoughts on settling down with the juiciest possible specimen of the opposite sex. This human supermarket ritual is hard enough without having your hair fall out at this oh-so crucial point in your life. Anyway, most bitc… women are so damn shallow they will almost always go for the dude who’s thick as a brick but has the hair of Hercules, no matter how funny or intelligent you are.

This is not the bitter voice of personal experience. I can certainly vouch for the fact that some absurdly attractive women actually dig the fact that you look like a very big cock as you strut your shaved head down the street.
No, this is the loud and proud voice that speaks on the behalf of all bold-spotted men everywhere, and my message is: Don’t give up. Don’t settle for second. Plan your revenge now - and buy lots and lots of rubbers.
Soon, very soon, the battle to take back what men with hair have stolen will commence. And justice will be swift: near-eternal genetic evolution of bold men have armed us with weapons no man with hair has ever needed to resort to. We’re funny and intelligent, remember! When this pill hits the market, we shall be unstoppable!

Bold is beautiful. But we’ve always been begging for the cure.