rafael pyton

Sweet pumpkinmuffin Scarlett is celebrating her two-month birthday today… Madli is downstairs in the kitchen making gooseberry pie in tender commemoration, and I, why, I will blog.

Scarlett at two months: a bundle of unbridled joy, taking in the surroundings, eyes wide open, and… smiling. Oh lord, when she smiles! When she smiles, when she smiles, when she smiles.

“When the Phantom strikes, the lightning stands still“, the old jungle saying goes. But when Scarlett smiles, my whole world stands still. And then said world unfolds, revealing secret treasures and answers to questions mankind has been asking since dawn. I know every meaning of every moment and I can feel history and future merge. Yes, all that and more is in her smile. And she has dimples too!

It is no wonder I’m wearing out her soft puffy cheeks by kissing them a bazillion times every day…

She stole my heart two months ago - and I won’t ever want it back, because it’s right where it belongs now. Can you see it?

Duude. If I was still carving out curves on the downside of the upside, I’d do it on one of these babies. Babes. Bababoo. Boobiedoo, and beaver too. That’s right, Burton, snowboard company par excellence, recently introduced their latest licks, and it’s all centerfold! Hef was here, man! Actually, he probably was there.

1970s Playboy! I burn rubber in my imaginary Camaro until my neck sports a mullet. Bite me where it hurts, bunny, let’s go to the grotto.

This must be the marketing coup of the decade - which makes it all the more impressive when you consider that it is the oldest trick in the book. But it is not the tits and tarts per se - that would be boring as baloney - no, it is the 1970s! Mark my words, the 70s are the new 60s. Out of focus, but better for it. Hazy, beige and a bit furry. Warm. Comfy. No surface, only depth. So soft. Group hug.

“Group hug!” Playmates of the seventies, can you hear me?! I ask for a group hug and according to vintage Playboy code you are obliged to respond. Arms outstretched already. “Grouup huug!”

They already tried to ban these Burton bunnies in the States. Naturally, that is all the endorsement one could ever need. This is truly the coolest product on planet Pyton. I want one. And maybe I wouldn’t even take the board outside… no, screw that. I’d much rather cosy up on the shag carpet with my centerfold, fireplace crackling, listening to Abba tapes, drinking Campari, playing Scrabble in a turtleneck.

[O, bless my inner vision.]

Is it wicked not to care, when people die in Gaza? I have absolutely nothing in my bag for Israel, and none more for Hamas. The fact that the most ravaged region in the world is at the same time supposed to be the most sacred region in the world [Judaism, Christianity, and Islam] speaks volumes about the ridiculous lunacy of man at his blindest.

The biggest fools always seem to hail from Teheran, though. When this latest - not last - episode of anti-humanity kicked off between Israel and Palestine, over 70.000 Iranian students offered to volunteer for suicide bomber duty. Seventy-thousand!

Unreal, for real. Imagine seven times the population of my hometown strapping Semtex to their chests, all willing to die not for their own, but for some other dusty country far away. What is there in martyrdom that I can not see for the life in me? What if there is no pussy in paradise? Is it cruel of me to point out that there might very well not be? Fine, don’t listen to the atheist.
By the way, what if you are a female suicide bomber? [The potential answers to that question amuse me considerably.]

Anyway, I stray - back to the little strip along the Mediterranean, which could be a lovely beach was it not laced with morons + guns. Hate breeds hate. It is something you said in college to sound all Gandhi when girls were listening - but despite your shady motives, you were speaking common sense.
What we have here is the perpetual motion device at its most effective, going back and forth in everlasting punches.

You know, just from writing “Arab” and “Jew” in the same sentence, sparks shoot out from my keyboard…

14.1.2009. It has now been 10 years since my father suddenly died. From afar and to anyone else, a decade might seem like a seventh of a lifetime, but to me, 14.1.1999 was yesterday, forever yesterday, when all my troubles seemed so far away.

I sat by his gravestone, lit a candle, and looked to the stars. In the big picture, there can not possibly be a meaning of life. But emotion begs to differ, and pain plain argues.

Be what may, come what will, if I have learned anything in this past day or decade, it is that if the longing is heavy to bear, it is for a very good reason. The perpetual tear I shed is equal to the eternal love I have for my father.

I hate you for dying, dad. It was the only mistake you ever made.

Good old grandpa, best in the whole wide world, is still going strong at the age of at least 86. Over the holidays he finally got to see a grand-grandchild of his for the very first time, and he held her in his huge strong hands like she was made of ancient Egyptian papyrus. I never felt better about handing over my daughter. It was a touching moment I shall store in my most secure vault of memories.

Some of the more related of you will obviously point out that the magnificent Maxime beat Scarlett to the title of first grand-grandchild by a year and a bit, but since she has yet to set foot on Scandinavian soil, most of us have still only seen her on pictures, where she plays in the sand on some faraway beach, or on videos, where she dances like a little twister. Scarlett is, however, waiting like crazy to meet her big cousin this summer!

The Wilén couple popped by the other day, bringing along happy Robin to meet little Scarlett. She played hard to get just like women of all times have done…