rafael pyton

They call him the king of pop. Maybe, maybe not. Michael Jackson created a mere three good albums, and of these three albums, only about half the songs were tremendous. Can you really utter his name with the same royal breath you use for the king of rock? Then again, Elvis was crap when he was off, and was so off he was nowhere to be seen for a great part of his career. But so what? Let’s focus. When they were on, in charge & ruling, they made sounds that had sex with your ear and then married your brain.

I’m so damn old I still remember when Thriller came out. At school, in class, during one of those Friday bring-something-from-home-hour, a scrawny mullet-haired kid put the cassette up the player. We all sort of thought we knew what was coming, we had heard about it along the grapevine, but still… it was an event… perhaps even a liberation from the everyday bullies and bitches that clutter space around us.
Back then, I regrettably didn’t dig Jackson that much. That came later. Nonetheless, the whole class was moonwalking that day. In fact, so was the rest of the world.

Possibly, that defines the impact of Jackson. He was a force that made a whole world moonwalk. Obviously we all looked like idiots doing it, but that was to be expected - only one person on the planet had that divine control of body and soul. It was almost like he had to grip his crotch once in awhile to keep it all together.

It’s a shame most people don’t think about music when they talk about Jackson. The gift of geniuity is a motherfucker. There just is no way you get to be only incredible. The law of balance makes sure that most of us are mediocre, while the few that get to be incredible, are by rule, also ultracreepy.

You be your own judge and jury. As for me, Billy Jean is on level eleven, and I’m just about to don my white glove.

There are always two - not three or more - sorts of people: dog and cat people, Elvis and Beatles people… and Donald Duck and Mickey Mouse people.

I’m Donald Duck people.

Go to Disneyland in the States, and you will notice that Donald is just another character among the others, while Mickey towers above the rest. USA is Mickey Mouse country, Finland is all Donald Duck.
Obviously, the Americans love a winner; the mouse is irritatingly cheery, always optimistic, and superclever. He stands for pioneering spirits, small but fearless, quick on his feet, ever-adapting as detective, journalist, explorer, adventurer.
Donald, on the other hand, well, he’s forever on the brink of success, but eternally eluded. Just when he’s about to win big and get rich quick, he blows it. The duck is plagued by bad luck - no one ever bit the dust like Donald. That’s why we like him in Finland, that’s why I’m the defender of the luckless one. He is just like me and you - and mostly like me.

See, Mickey gets into mysteries straight away, but always comes out on top. The end is always happy. Mickey is never down and depressed. Hey, Mickey does not know life. As a hero, he’s one-dimensional, thin.
Donald, he’s full of attitude, a brilliant braggart, with the biggest of egos. That is also why Disney must bring him down to the ground. He has to be humiliated, because he is a loser and his personality is flawed. What most Americans don’t understand is that those flaws are the reason as to why he continues to fascinate me in glorious fashion. Compared to Mickey, Donald is real as rye bread. In my book, he wins when he loses.

Americans automatically distance themselves from losers. They also don’t come to terms with the fact that Huey, Dewey and Louie can be more resourceful than an adult authority.

And don’t you just hate the way Mickey steamrolls over Goofy with his superior intellect? Come on - Goofy exists only to confirm - and to show off - how bloody smart that little mouse is.
Besides, Mickey is incredibly violent. I bet he has brass knuckles underneath his gloves, because he can beat the shit out of much larger guys. In the war against terrorism, Mickey is the role model. Mickey is Obama. They are both black, and won’t back down.
Donald, well, he shouts and screams, but his shotgun will always explode in his face. After which he will fall off a steep cliff. Full body cast in the last scene.

I love Donald. We both go through life. I mean, through. We don’t glide on top of the surface of it like the mouse. To have something to say, you need to fall off a cliff once in awhile. You gotta curse and brag and be full of it. Without salt, life is a straitjacket.

Since 1980, Donald has visited me every week. He’s the link to the little boy in me, without which the world would be a considerably less memorable place. Here’s to you, Mr Duck. Your most loyal student still considers it an honor and privilege to follow your school of bad behaviour.

I owe you all, Walt.

I hope my daughter Scarlett will see the same magic I’ve always seen. She is only 6 months now, but the comics already appear in the mailbox in her own fair name…

Make no doubt, I like beautiful things. So do you.

At least I admit it.

I had shoes tailor-made to my specs recently. You always remember your first, and your first pair of custom-made shoes are no less important. Gliding around in these puppies makes me think the clouds are puffs of Chanel, and where the heck did I park my Quattroporte?

From business to casual in three minutes. That’s how quickly my new Weber is ready for ribs. Every garden king needs a killer grill. With a Weber, you make your neighbours move, because they can’t take the pangs of jealousy this hunk of stainless steel stirs in them.

And if a killer grill makes you grunt like an awesome pig, a big watch pushes you over the top and into parallell universe. My left wrist goes nowhere without the Panerai PAM 127. This thing stops traffic. But can you blame them? Mechanical, not automatical, it lives and breaths, and in my opinion, a more beautiful watch has yet to be built. And as you can see, the behind ain’t bad, either…