rafael pyton

Hehe. You can tell that a text is going to be mischievous when it starts with hehe. There is actually a lot going for hehe - it is not even a proper word, only a sound, yet it describes mannerism in indefectible, erm, manner. Think about that the next time you go hehe. But that’s probably right before you’re about to flush a cherry bomb into the girls’ toilet, which is one of those moments when your thinking is not at your sharpest.

Where was I? Yes, at hehe. You know Danica Patrick? The racing driver? Probably the best female racing driver of the moment? Almost as cute as that other racing chick Nelson Piquet Jr?
You will, now.

Danica has been known to take her kit off on the odd occasion. This is not her main talent - although us guys would like to urge her to exploit this rather delightful area further. However, it is in driving, damn hard and proper, that her skills set her apart from the others of the beautifully breasted gender.
Personally, I never rated her very highly. Then she went and won the latest IndyCar event against real competition, and I sat up. The series is not what it once was, but nonetheless, she is now the first-ever woman to win in IndyCar. Maybe this is not just another Giovanna Amati? Could she actually be in the magnificent mold of Michele Mouton? Titillating! Forgive the pun.

Is there anything sexier than a woman who can outdrive you? Hmm. Probably. But right now, I’m all hot and flustered about the idea of the driving woman, and refuse to debate with reason.

Would we not love to see her in F1? Shout it: Yes! Realistically, will she make it to F1? No… unless her market value gives the ever-omnipotent sponsors hard-ons. In my most suggestive voice, why not reckon that since the back-marker teams will never win anything anyway, they take a chance on Danica? She’d give exposure, for granted, and exposure is the raison d’être for sponsors.

Talking about exposure…

Hmm. Tight is the word that springs to mind. Still, when - cross your fingers and hope to live - she enters F1, she will have to compete for the title of “sexiest in F1” with Nelson Piquet Jr, Renault driver and teammate to one Fernando Alonso [not eligible...]. Nelsinho is so acutely cute and hot and all that - uh, that was awkward… - that this will undoubtedly be her first title to contest.
But why see conflict where there is charm? Why not wave the matchmaking wand? Danica, meet Nelsinho.

[If my carmatchmaker.com business falls, I can always start racingdrivermatchmaker.com instead. Business would be slow, but at least they can afford my provision. Obviously, I'd charge more than Willy Weber. I'd have to, should Ellen Lohr commission me... cruel, that was too cruel. Ellen, girl, you're lovely on the inside.
Shit, I'm namedropping like a B-52 here - unless you have functioning memory storage facilities, chances are you know nothing of these people. In said case, you miss out on the fun, and I pity your hopelessly weak knowledge of important matter.]

You have just been pimped by Rafael Pyton. Danica meets Nelson. They look into respective gorgeous eyes, and instantly take to each other - after all, they look almost exactly like each other, and vanity is a primal mover and shaker.
Lust, such lust, the trembling flesh, they grope for air in heated ritual! Animal panic! Yes! Yes! Yes! Sandy sex on the beach in Brazil! But who is on top? Hard to say…

Ah, as I write with five fingers, the other hand is busy tucking into a greasy meal of ketchup-dripping fries and wonderfully tasteless Popsi sausages. Oh, the giddy joy of restoring half to half-life!
[The reason for this crap-fest is that we were watching too many Whitesnake videos with the boys yesterday - several bottles of delicious sekt were consumed with complete disdain for the day that would soon come to be known as today... and to the unasked question of how high can David Coverdale go, the answer is, a lot higher than any of us last night.]

But Barcelooona? Yes, I will take you there, deeply into the tire-wall, without the complimentary neck-braces other publications offer. Speaking of which, did you see the hole Heikki Kovalainen busted in one of them tire-walls? That was one heavy badabing badaBOINK. Amidst first reactions, I nearly snapped my own monocoque in half. Haha. Great word. But not as great as cockpit, of course. Cockpit is the undisputed heavy-length champion of double entendres with penile hint. I hear if you say it ten times in a row, you turn gay.

I just noticed I’m really really funny. These fries are delicious, too.

Yes, the race, sorry. And so the saying goes that the rain in Spain falls mainly on… Kimi Räikkönen’s competitors. Domination is not only Max Mosley’s game. Haha. Certainly, I see little reason why the Iceman would not win all remaining races this season. In fact, I encourage the rest of the drivers to give up immediately. You have no hope and need to go home. Close shop. Draw blinds. Cry. The number one Ferrari is guided by divine forces, and there is simply nothing you can do about it.

How I love it when things go my way. I also love these fries. Just a few left, a little charred around the edges, the salt particles clearly visible. But let’s not paint a picture when you can take a photograph. [And that is what I call making up metaphors as you go along...]

This time, I will focus on the guys who make up the rear end of the field. Practically, that is everyone else… but technically, kindly allow me to shine a light on fellers Fisichella and Bourdais. First of all, I laugh every time the classification strip runs along on the bottom of the screen - shortened to the first three letters of the surname - and Fisichella comes by as FIS. You see, fis means fart in Swedish.
Hilarious, I know. Seriously, though, Fisichella is actually blooming at the twilight of his career, doing fine driving the dog called Force India. In the past, I have slagged off the Italian a great number of times, yet here he still is, comprehensively outpacing rated teammate Adrian Sutil. To be frank, Fisico has destroyed Adrian’s career. No one will want him now. Not even Rocky… haha! Geddit? Geddit?

Seb Bourdais, sole frog of F1, is also driving like a man; ruthlessly fast and unsafe. I thought the super-talented teammate Vettel would make mincemeat pies out of the Frenchman, but none of it. Yet again he soundly out-gunned the German, making him look more Fettel than Vettel - haha - and making me draw excellent conclusions such as this one: maybe Ferrari ought to be in touch with Bourdais instead? You heard it here first. If and when Massa gets the boot, the Frenchman would be a lovely number two at the red Scuderia. Frenchmen always look good in Ferraris. Recall, if you can, Jean Alesi, for instance. Heck, even Alain Prost seemed sexy while at Ferrari - and I bet he never got laid when he drove for McLaren…

This blog would not be complete without bashing Nick Heidfeld in cowardly fashion. Have you all noticed that Robert Kubica seems to have gained definite control of the situation? Well, I sure have. I also noted that Heidfeld had all the trouble in the world getting past the Force India of Fisico today… and Fisichella used to be known as the easiest driver to pass in F1.
Thus, I will suggest evil geek Theissen and crew at BMW kick quick Nick - haha - in the bottom, and replace him with Estonian Marko Asmer, currently test driver at BMW. If anything, then I might be able to persuade my girlfriend - also Estonian, and proud of it - to watch F1 with me. Well, tall order, still.

The TV dinner was known as the way of the future in the 1950s. Of course, most everything was known as the way of the future in the 1950s, but I’d have to agree - TV dinners, or the more advanced version known as computer dinners, really are the future, still, as is the case here-now, forever on the brink of future. But the future is not all good, because I just spilled ketchup on the keyboard, and there are no more succulent fries left to wipe it up with. Damn. Those were good fries. I shall miss them fondly. Less than 6% fat, too. Quite remarkable. Honk if you like junk food. Honk honk. It must be the way it nestles in the tummy like a brick of mortar and Pepsi Max.

Rub it in. Or put lotion on it. But there runs that classification strip again: 1. RAI.

Rai, Rai, Rai. It’s all Rai.

This is something I’ve been meaning to write about for a very long time, a particular topic so important I never seemed to find the right moment to do it. And there you go, finding yourself waiting and waiting for that moment of maximum, when somewhere along the line of waiting you simply reach a point where you, well, blurt it out, like blu-u-urt it out. This is what happened here-now.

It is about Harry Potter.

I was never supposed to be a fan. Curious, I admit, but among derogatory remarks. It took the persuasive talents of my girlfriend to make me buy the series of seven Harry Potter books. Late does not mean slow, though. Once I cracked open the first one, I devoured some 4500 pages in about two weeks of nights, burning like a phoenix fever so bright I barely needed the bedside light on.

And when I put the seventh book down for the last time back in late winter, I wondered how in the world I had managed to cold-shoulder JK Rowling for so long. How did I convince myself - a sucker for a great story if anyone - that a fantasy fancy of a boy with magic powers lay beneath me?
But perhaps it was jealousy? Some of us write and write without ever catching a break in the world, while some other map out a story about a boy on broom and make gazillions of gold. Nah. I barely know this strange feeling that consumes so many that have so much more. In better retrospect, I think it was because I never really expected the Harry Potter series to be any good. The more kids who read it, the more kooks who formed queues, the more convinced I became that it was the Toyota Corolla of literature. Reliable, yet forgettable.

I’m rarely wrong… no, I’m often wrong, but I rarely concede it… this time I was, and I do. JK Rowling is good, and certainly deserves every last penny and pence.
Considering the competition of culture today, most of it cheap and easy, books were always going to lose out. It takes too much time and effort to imagine things for yourself, particularly if your parents raised you with the help of the Teletubbies [if they did, you're ruined for life, little one].
Suddenly, Joanne to the rescue, descending like an amazing angel of education! She writes books the size of brick chimneys, yet kids all over everywhere give up their teleplaystationvision to plummet deeply into the world of word. Believe me, Harry Potter is not just magic, it is real magic.

Oh, there is so much to say about the books per se. To replay the action right here is obviously futile, but there are certain elements that appeal a very great deal to me. For one, there is Harry’s desperate longing for his dead parents - for a children’s tale to deal with issues like this is gutsy, wonderful and acutely moving. How satisfying is it also not, to observe Harry’s painful relationship with his cruel step-parents, and how he fights back, overcomes - frankly, overcoming is the theme of the song in the series. Yet another glorious development I take delight in is how the timid and shy gain in confidence and rise to the challenges. Yes, Neville Longbottom, that one’s for you.
In fact, deconstructed, the whole Harry Potter series is a manual on how to defeat bullies. I must say, few lessons in life are as valuable.

There better be well-thumbed copies of the boy who lived on your shelf. I’ll make sure to inspect. If you haven’t yet, shame on you. If you have kids, but haven’t introduced them yet, even more so. WHEN I get kids, I won’t even wait until they learn how to read - they will learn how to read as they read.

The mere thought of Harry Potter makes me tingle with new hope - the kind of hope you lose so early in life as you first notice that humanity is an absolutely terrifying oxymoron.

And that, friends, is why Harry Potter rocks. ROCKS!

See the picture - it is a man. It is the man. It is man. Yes, man, what a man, the only man that makes you wish you were a woman.
I worship at the altar of Steve McQueen. He was the second Jesus, but first to me.

A few times a year I get the McQueen-fever. It’s not a disease. It’s a gift, a heavenly high, the hero-heroin your brain asks for when the world around you fails to match the dream you had last night. And I watch Bullitt. Over and over again. In fact, the first DVD I ever bought was Bullitt. Now, I’ve gone and bought Bullitt again. On BluRay. Like I could resist… Bullitt on BluRay… if that does not raise your pulse, you’re probably in the morgue right now, watching your soul leave your body. Or something.

This time I didn’t just fast forward to the car chase. I watched the whole movie. It was so good I refuse to superlative-ize the meaning of good. All I can say is, finally, I can say, without lying, I can say that Bullitt is outstanding cinema. It may have taken me a time unit measured in decades to get it, but when you do, o, epiphany. E-pi-pha-ny!
Bullitt is reality, real, like you can touch it and watch Frank Bullitt raise an eyebrow in response. You don’t watch, you happen. You’re part of it. You’re Bullitt. And you don’t talk much, but you drive hard. And you don’t talk much, but you drive hard. See: it’s just like you; it’s you. You’re the movie, the movie is you. What movie? It’s only you.

Aspiring actors study the way McQueen steps out of the Mustang. But you, you know it by heart, you, it’s you who step out of the Mustang. You swivel, twitch your hips, slam the door, suspect everyone around you to be bad, and they usually are, which is why you walk briskly, never afraid, only ready, because when the world falls, you need to catch it, when the world calls, you need to put it on hold while you catch it.

It’s you again, that’s your head, appearing out of a turtleneck. You holster your gun, don the sports jacket with the leather patches, kiss the girl goodbye and never ever wonder why your clothes fit like you’re a star. No, you take it for granted. You know you look good, which is why you never show you know.
There, in the background, is that a black Charger idling in evil manner? Do you hesitate for a second? Do you what - you don’t know the meaning of hesitate.

You beat the establishment with integrity. And when the credits start to run, you have trouble letting go. Perhaps a part of you is stuck in there, in cop-drama reality? Or perhaps a part of you is stuck in here, in life-drama reality? You can’t make up your mind. It doesn’t matter. You’re Steve McQueen. You think you’re Steve McQueen. Either way’s fine, as both work when you only have to fool yourself.

They don’t make them like they used to, we say, no, they most certainly don’t, we shake our heads. Steve McQueen, you shit, why’d you have to go and set the bar so damn high for the rest of us?

And why do you never return my messages?

Car Dogma was banter. But this, the consequence & sequel, is a bit more bona fide, is a bit more la bella Fiat.
Q you this from yourself - what kind of car would you like your own favorite girl in the whole wide world to drive?

A: The new FIAT 500 - the only car made today to have feelings!

Madli has had one on order for several months already - understandably, half the population of the planet wants one, so they sell like hotcakes, with waiting lists stretching to the moon if you demand personal specs. Personally, I had yet to see one in the flesh, but as we were indeed penciled in for a test drive at Fiat Tallinn two days ago, this great wrongdoing was to be rectified in the best way.

Certainly, the little Fiats are so chic, cool & cute you make sounds you never thought a man could make. It is perfectly impossible to sit in one and not get happy. Usually, cars with impact fill you with awe and a murderous instinct to go out and kill for money. Not the Fiat 500. It instills you with strange love and loud opera.

Originally, Madli wanted one in pearly white. This has been the it color all season long, and the Fiat 500 in particular looks diamond in white. However, when you see one in red, you forget about white. The Cinquecento in pasodoble red looks like the apple Eve tricked Adam to eat. We both took big bites and made even more cutesy sounds.

The interior is a delight to behold, and shames any bloody Mini into a dark corner. I love the dashboard panel that comes painted in the color of the car - just like the 1965 Fiat 600 I used to own and cherish. It is also surprisingly roomy and airy for such a compact car, much unlike the old car.
The suspension is taut and alert; you can definitely feel the potholes that litter the streets of Tallinn - but it fits the personality of the car to the tee in Fiat. Far from a sloppy lazy boat, it has zest and verve and spunk in spades. The 1.2 won’t set the world on fire, but it does nicely in the urbs, which is its natural habitat, in any case.

The build quality is superb, solid and clunky and elephant-proof. You can see that they spent serious money getting this car right. Fiat has come the longest way in the shortest time, and not just in financial status. They were always cool, but far too often built like wet spaghetti. Comparing to the latest VW Polo, I’d say Fiat has drawn level. You’d never have dreamed of German-built quality in a Fiat just a few years back.

In the end, we were so smitten that Madli decided to dropkick the half-year wait [minimum] for automatic gearbox and leather interior to get in line for one of the first cars in the country, a lovely red 1.2 with glassroof and air-con and usb-connectivity and chrome goodies and white steering wheel & middle dash [see picture] and other stuff you just can’t live without [leather interior still on the cards, too]. She may get it before the end of April! Man, I can’t wait to see how it looks parked next to my red Porsche…

You know, the red Fiat 500 stands out like a sunflower in a field of concrete. People could not stop staring as we ran circles around town. It felt as though Audrey Hepburn sat next to me, nipping through the traffic in Rome. Personally, I fancied myself as a bold Gregory Peck…

My girlfriend Madli is in the market for a new car. It so happens that she has this boyfriend who knows everything about cars - and, better yet, the rare art of matching cars to persons. One would perhaps believe that car-matchmaking is complete flimflam - which is why you see so many-many people making desperately uneducated choices that result in nothing less than humiliation. Thankfully, most often the people making the wrong choices are blissfully unaware of themselves looking like fools, so the world keeps revolving like it always has without anyone’s feelings getting hurt.
[This is why so many car manufacturers are able to stay in business, despite their products being far below par.]

To master the art of car-matchmaking, you needn’t apply without at least 20 years of extreme development of your aestethic faculties. That means keeping your nose down and your eyes up, studying essays on design language and pouring over the architecture of the automobile in a wide variety of journals, until you finally sense and feel what and which belongs where and to whom.
Keep in mind that we are neither born with taste, nor does taste in one area necessarily apply to another. Even if your interior design skills are on Michelangelo level, you may not be able to pick the right car for yourself unless you know what you’re doing. And vice versa. There is definite overlap, however, which is also why pure car nerds won’t get far, because they only know cars and nothing about Kandinsky or Kraftwerk.

A fair warning: Do not have the incivility of suggesting cars to other people if you do not possess the proper proficiency to do so. While a true besserwisser is bearable, everyone hates a wannabe besserwisser.

Sheet metal is one thing, but you also need to know your true self. Should you offer your responsible services to someone else, it is of utmost importance that you do a great deal of background study, ranging from personality analysis and demeanor to cultural preferences, location of inhabitation, and cash flow density. Most importantly, listen to him/her before you make him/her listen to you. All people without exception are profoundly bad at taking good advice.

Seeing a niche opening up as I write this corpus of doctrines, I shall take the opportunity to start a new business - before your very eyes, the first car-matchmaker of ordinary people is born! Thus, you may approach me on this site with inquiries, should you ponder trading in the old iron but being at deep loss to what is good and right for you. It is a jungle out there, and few to guide you through. Try me. I come heartily recommended by myself.
Note that I won’t just match the color of a car to the color of your eyes. This is a complete service package: engine size, tire size, interior materials, ecological & economical impact, reliability concerns, the social stigma of certain brands and models, everything and I mean everything will be taken into account and custom-tailored to your own unique personality.

[Symbolic sum to be paid in advance].

Scoff all you want. But don’t blame me when you catch a car connoisseur in the corner of your eye pointing and laughing at the impossible fit of your car & yourself. You don’t care, you might say? You’re comfortable as you are? Please do yourself the great favor of not lying to yourself. Your soul will appreciate it in the end.

Sometimes life is so good - spring in Tallinn, for example - that you struggle to remember that many have different opinions about it. Arthur Schopenhauer, for example… having recently re-read On The Suffering Of The World with a great smile on my face, I thought I’d translate some of his ideas to you. [Why, I'll do anything to save you from Pledge This...]

Life is but a big joke to Schopenhauer, who insists all will to live is essentially vain. Technically, he is correct, of course. Seeing as we begin in carnal desire, dream away childhood, burn bright for a brief period of youth, break our backs all through manhood, enter wretched old age that soon turns to torment of illness and death throes, he observes:
“Does it not look as if existence was an error the consequences of which gradually grow more and more manifest?”

It is a wonderful statement, watertight in its own right. The following is my favorite, however - you know how most people wish to live to be old? Well, Herr Schopenhauer sees this condition as one where you ought to consider declaring:
“Today it is bad, and day by day it will get worse - until at last the worst of all arrives.”

I do not recommend Arthur Schopenhauer to anyone feeling down. Instead, treat yourself to the adventures of Harry Potter. But if you long for the intellectual insight of hopelessness, Schopenhauer delivers on both barrels. The great philosopher is staple material of many university students, who like to quote him to get laid with girls of certain dispositions. Don’t ask me how I happen to know that. The point is, philosophy is a great sport, to be applied, in thick layers, onto just about everything.

Philosophy is particularly enjoyable when the logic is infallible, simple, but comes word-wrapped in the most ingenious of packages. I always was a firm believer of “it’s not what you write, it’s how you write it.” Thus, to illustrate this view of mine, Arthur shall get the last word, a slight demonstration of how insanely cool something of generic value can sound if you organize it cleverly:
“A quick test of the assertion that enjoyment outweighs pain in this world, or that they are at any rate balanced, would be to compare the feelings of an animal engaged in eating another with those of the animal being eaten.”