rafael pyton

Tja, if I only knew. But I will start dropping clues like pieces to a jigsaw puzzle, and in the end, perhaps I can put two and two together, and come up with five. At least.

O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O
O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O
O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O

What is in a name: Anders Rafael Pyy. My friends call me Andy. Furthermore, it is my giddy joy to present RAFAEL PYTON to you - the outrageously egomaniac artist in me.

Number nine, number nine. Age: Fourteen, on many levels. But I was born in MCMLXXIV, in harsh times of oil crisis and Watergate scandals and IRA terror. ABBA won the Eurovision song contest. Patricia Hearst was kidnapped by the Symbionese Liberation Army. India detonated its first nuclear bomb under the name Smiling Buddha. West Germany defeated Netherlands 2-1 to win the Football World Cup. Nixon resigned. VW Golf entered production. Kate Moss is my age. So is Penélope Cruz and Jenna Jameson. Uh.

My living room: Been around. But feel at home in Karis, Finland & London, UK & Nagu, the pearly heaven of the Finnish archipelago.

The educated man: A Bachelor of Arts (Hons.) in European Studies from streetwise South Bank University, London. I became famous for being the fastest ever person to finish a dissertation in the history of the university (two weeks from start to finish, believe you me).
Oi you - you have not been around the block until you learn to handle yourself in South London. Thug-law neighbourhood, drugs and rape. Little boy from Karis grows up in a hurry.
A Master of Arts in International Relations from the great and illuminating The Centre For The Study Of Democracy (University of Westminster), London. I was known as the guy who asks all the questions - for some incomprehensible reason everyone would always look to me to say something unreasonably intellectual. Where did they ever get that idea; I usually chewed on some utterly mundane philosophical detail. Understand, I was into Wittgenstein at the time…
I’m very proud of having served under such world star professors like J. Keane, B. Buzan, et al. In fact, Prof. Buzan was my personal mentor. I used to be a dreamer. He made me into a thinker. In other words, now I am 99% dreamer and 1% thinker.

Military degree, shoot: Extremely Dangerous & Brainwashed Commando Killer, Finnish Marine Corps. Semper fi. ‘Run til you puke‘ - for the warm-up. Can take apart an assault rifle and put it back together in four seconds. Blindfolded. While cracking enemy necks. And puncturing enemy eyeballs.
Oh, the vicious abuse your mind and body suffered, just to get that beautiful green beret, adorned by the golden eagle. Uh ah uh ah. It was worth it.
(I am trying it on right now - RED ALERT - may suddenly turn into crazy killer).

Les langues: Quite a few, none of them fluently - in fact, all of them badly. I prefer Swedish and English; if I have to I’ll speak Finnish; my German is wonderfully korrupt & kaputt but I could still buy a Mercedes-Benz in Stuttgart; my sweet French has faded into etiquettes on bottles of red wine.
I write much better than I speak. In my opinion talking is just blowing warm air.

Message to dad: I love you, and I miss you so infinitely much every single day. Please, wait for me in heaven.

Two humble dreams: Motorcycle rider and writer, in alphabetical order. The jury is not in at the moment, but I’ll let the eardrums of the world feel it when the time comes… and you will know by the grenade of “I TOLD YOU SO” that will drop and echo from the highest hilltops around.
[1] I used to be the motorcycle racer for 20 years - but after coming back from death, I just dream of riding again, going big and feeling free. The doctors say I can not do it. I’ll show you bastards what I can do. I’ll show you.
[2] I will not call myself a writer before I get a novel published. (Unless she is very beautiful).

The not-so-humble dreams: That’s a secret.

Religion: N/A. It is great entertainment, though. Human behaviour never seizes to amaze me.

My favorite word: Bukkake

My greatest fear: Not being able to maximize my own potential for greatness. (It lies dormant in many of us, just like Vesuvius).

Meaning of life: A pointless party. Do not kid yourself that anything in between birth and death is of any importance whatsoever - but do try to have a bit of fun along the way, dude! It makes pointlessness seem more party.

Craziest ol’ proverb I’ve come across: If you know you are going to get raped, you might as well relax and try to enjoy it.

Most amazing address of the internet: www.rafaelpyton.com

Motto: 2 + 2 = 5. At least.

Intermission. Lists… there is no escaping them, so you might as well embrace them. Nothing - NOTHING - says more about you than a personally compiled list. It is an ostentatious and prententious exercise, obviously, but it is also compulsory male behaviourism. Get a list right and you will look like a hero; get it wrong and you will look like an idiot. Lists are like standing naked in front of a huge crowd. Will they laugh, or will they gawp? This is what I look like underneath my clothes…

10 BEST, authors & books, 22.3.2006:

[1] Jack Kerouac, most of his collected works, but in particular Big Sur, Desolation Angels, Dharma Bums, Lonesome Traveller, Mexico City Blues, On The Road, and The Subterraneans. More beauty, more heart, more soul, more romantic sadness than everyone else combined.

[2] James Joyce, Ulysses. The best book ever written - in second place.

[3] Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita. Such clever lyricism, such savage humour.

[4] Anthony Burgess, A Clockwork Orange. It is English, but not as you know it. The linguistic mastery leaves me breathless with awe.

[5] Bret Easton Ellis, American Psycho. I was too young when I first read it. But, I never looked back since. It made me realize you can get away with anything if you fool people into believing it is satire… I’ve got you figured, Bret. Patrick Bateman is not a character of fiction.

[6] Mikhail Bulgakov, The Master And Margarita. Imaginative, fantastic, ironically philosophical, complex, just completely wonderful.

[7] George Orwell, 1984. So this is what it feels like to drown in icecream? Brrr.

[8] Jean-Paul Sartre, Nausea. A tour de force of slow philosophy that makes a nest in your brain and starts laying eggs.

[9] Hunter S. Thompson, Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas. For the best opening ever… this book spits. Bless you, The Hunter.

[10] Ernest Hemingway, The Old Man And The Sea. The easiest way into the world of great literature. Once there, you should not want to leave. Thanks to Hemi for making it look effortless, real. (I must say that Papa just beat out F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby for 10th place.)

[The Lemon Award: The worst book I'm sorry I ever read is The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho. It is like listening to Bonnie Tyler and driving a Toyota Corolla at the same time].

Intermission. This is not easy. In fact, I feel like a scoundrel for leaving out Henry Miller, Franz Kafka, Aldous Huxley, Kundera, Murakami, Cervantes, Dante, Blake, Hesse, Faust, Wilde, et al. And the next list is not going to get any easier - mainly because it changes from day to day from mood to mood. Music is fickle; which is why I have decided that all my lists are organic. Id est, I will update them from time to time, id est, this page is NOT to be read JUST ONCE!

10 BEST, music, 21.2.2007:

[1] Roxy Music, almost all albums, but in particular For Your Pleasure, Stranded, Country Life, Siren and Avalon. The pinnacle of cool art rock elegance. Lush, horny, mature. Listen to it - how well Bryan Ferry’s stylish voice fits the ear - like wearing a tailor-made suit from Savile Row.

[2] The Police, all albums. Outlandos D’Amour, Reggatta De Blanc, Zenyatta Mondatta, Ghost In The Machine, Synchronicity. Nervous polyrythmic reggea-injected pop/rock non-punk jazz world music. And the catchiest tunes you have ever heard, full of brilliant meaning and depth. (I stole the title ‘King Of Pain’ from one of their songs…)

[3] The Beatles, all albums starting from Rubber Soul and weiter, but in particular Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, Revolver, and Abbey Road. I don’t know what to say. Not only do they make me insanely happy, but they also happen to be the greatest rock & roll group of all time. “And in the end, the love you take… is equal to the love you make…” No, I don’t know what to say.

[4] Bruce Springsteen, all damn albums but in particular Born To Run and Born In The USA. Immortal heroism + sentimentalism. “A mix of”, the Boss said, “soaring optimism and the feeling of being handcuffed to the bumper of a state trooper’s Ford”. When I do a Trans-Americana in a black Cadillac Coop DeVille ‘65, I will listen to nothing else. Nothing else! When Bruce brings out the harmonica, my goose bumps just explode… (I can’t even listen to My Hometown without breaking into tears…). No Surrender. Never. I will never.

[5] Talking Heads, among others Talking Heads:77, More Songs About Buildings And Food, Remain In Light, Stop Making Sense. It took me ages to start digging Talking Heads, but the avant-garde art rockpunkfunk magic has finally found a home in me. For life. This is inspired over-intellectualism. Are you man enough for the Talking Heads?

[6] Leonard Cohen, every single album from 1968 to 1992. Sparse, darkly melancholic, damn monotone - but it works. I have never understood why - but is seems to be something of a soul vibrator to me. Furthermore, Lenny’s lyrics are… best, the most accomplished, polished, and of biblical stature.

[7] Prince, most early albums. The wizard of muzak, so deliciously exquisite with his tiny androgyne quips. Extrovert and introvert at the same time, sexy and sleezy… and so good, so good. “I guess I should’ve know.. by the way you parked your car sideways.. that it wouldn’t last..” How about that for the coolest opening lines ever?

[8] Joy Division, Heart And Soul (box set). The rythm of doom, depression and suicide? Nah, lighten up. I love it. There is mystery and beauty hidden in them songs, you gloomy people. Listen to Transmission and try NOT to sing along! Or Disorder, or Atmosphere, or Love Will Tear Us Apart… some of the best things in life are hidden in a shroud of black.

[9] Phil Spector, Back To Mono (1958-1969). Sugarsweet and intense love symphonies backed up by the Wall of Sound.

[10] Devo, Q:Are We Not Men?A:We Are Devo and Freedom Of Choice. Oh, heavens. A unique band that is both funny AND good! Devo, eighties post-punk art-rock extraordinaries believe in the devolution of mankind. Hence the name, hence the music. I don’t know how many times I can use the word ‘cool’… but it applies here, bigtime. Devo makes me smile; ’tis the rarest quality in music.

[The Lemon Award: Bob Dylan. The most overrated musician of the universe. A poet, not a musician, best suited for writing songs for bands like The Byrds...].

Intermission, impossible. But I can not look back now. Must… go… forward. Onto greater pastures, another star-list awaiting. Movies - and once again, to be able to squeeze as many films as possible into the top ten, I’ll use the director as source. That way I can spread like a virus without breaking the golden 10-rule. You should note that I’m the kinda guy who wears his emotions on the outside, and unleashed, meaning that I may come out from the movie theatre and suddenly claim that the crappy film I just saw is the ‘best movie ever made’… but that is just me - and, besides, I’ve really tried to let my cooler side of the head prevail here…

10 BEST, movies, 24.3.2006:

[1] 8½ by Federico Fellini. The film of films, about film. Every single black and white frame of this film is a painting you could hang on your best wall. This is, if it ever was needed, proof that Italians do it in style. Fellini’s brilliance reaches below the surface, however, with crazy-original and imaginative scenes of memories, fantasies and dreams. The wonderful creatures in the film are strange, almost unreal, and yet so threedimensional, that you almost want to reach out and touch the bulging forehead veins, taste the plum bosoms, look out from behind Guido’s black sunglasses. I watched it again yesterday, just to be able to write that. ‘Ana nisi masa‘. If you know what that means (google-less), you have the chance of a lifetime to really impress me. And: I feel I must plug many more of Fellini’s soft parades. Try La Dolce Vita, La Strada, Casanova, Amarcord, Satyricon, Roma. They all have a prominent place in my dvd collection.

[2] 2001: A Space Odyssey, by Stanley Kubrick. Let’s get one thing straight here - whenever this one is in the player, I feel so sure that in the next moment or so all the secrets of the universe will open before my very eyes. I don’t dare to blink, not even breath, should they pass me by. This film has the key to everything, and I will continue to watch it until I find all the answers.
Kubrick is a master of such force, that at least two of his other films are stand-alone top tenners. A Clockwork Orange, an ultravision on par with the unbelievable language of Burgess. Dr. Strangelove, the Cold War was never funnier - or quite so frightening, and the acting is just… so… right.

[3] Godfather I & II, by Francis Ford Coppola. Family values. Believe in blood, and nothing else. I do. Drop all. It does not matter. I can not help it. I live it, I lap it up. I swallow it hook, line and sink. And ask for more. Coppola delivers. Thank you for the quality time.
The other one is naturally the one and only Apocalypse Now! (redux, if you will). Welcome to the jungle, we got fun ‘n games. A dark and winding journey into hell, via napalm and Wagner. “The horror, the horror“, Brando whispers. I could not agree more; “Horribly cool”, I whisper back.

[4] Scarface, by Oliver Stone. “Say ‘ello to my little friend“. If you have been watching Cribs on MTV as much as I have, you’re aware that many black rappers and athletes have large posters of Al Pacino as Tony Montana adorning the insides of their usually rather tacky palaces. It goes to show the impact of Scarface - and more importantly, that the American Dream is alive and well, that it can be attained… by anyone. You take what you consider yours. God, I love the 80s! You know, some of us still go around quoting Scarface… I am one of them. “Me, I want what’s coming to me. The world, and everything in it“. (Please remember the bad Cuban accent).

[5] Casablanca, by Michael Curtiz. I am angry. Why? I am so angry because Rick (Humphrey Bogart) does not get Ilsa (Ingrid Bergman) in the end. It is not fair. Grrr. I am angry. I cross my arms. I will sit here and sulk for a while. Sulk, I say!

[6] Easy Rider, by Dennis Hopper. And you have to ask? I am a motorcycle guy - and by extension, a rebel searcher of the freedom that everyone is afraid of. You better believe I’m cranking up Steppenwolf right now… all the way to earbleed! “Get your motor runnin’ - head out on the highway - lookin’ for adventure - and whatever comes our way - yeah Darlin’ go make it happen - take the world in a love embrace - fire all of your guns at once - and explode into space… like a true nature’s child - we were born, born to be wild - we can climb so high - I never wanna die… born to be wild - born to be wild…” And you have to ask!?

[7] Pulp Fiction, by Quentin Tarantino. I still remember sitting in cosy cinema Pallas, movie being a third through, when suddenly a couple of local guys get up and walk out in disgust… and I thought to myself that, right here and right now, I have just witnessed stupidity in its purest, most undiluted form. How can you walk out on Pulp Fiction?! I don’t understand. The famous Quentin diarrhea dialogue is going back and forth in such rapid harmony, such coolness, that you can’t sit still - because you instantly want to memorize the lines, to be able to jab-jab them out later at appropriate and inappropriate times… don’t tell me that the hamburger jokes are old and tired… if I write “Le Big Mac” here, I am pretty damn sure you will smile, and probably laugh… am I right or yes? Oh yes, I am. So, “Step aside, Butch.”

[8] Breakfast At Tiffany’s, by Blake Edwards. She is just so beautiful, so adorable, so perfect. I watch it just for her sake, to please her, to seduce her, to tickle her feet, to stalk her in my dreams. Carpe diem - on chance I will now put in an official ad here, ad infinitum: ‘If there is a girl out there somewhere on this planet who looks exactly like Audrey Hepburn in Tiffany’s - come to me. I will drop everything else and marry you on the spot, no questions asked.’

[9] Fitzcarraldo, by Werner Herzog. I did my exchange student (party) time at the Stuttgart Universität, where I did my best to get away with the least - obviously I had better things to do, most of which concerned easy girls and lots of German beer. But one class I signed up for was different - and I never missed a minute of it. ‘Filmgeschichte der Bundesrepublik Deutschland’…(instead of international economy & politics, which I was supposed to study… tt-tt-tt… when you can abuse the system, do!). We did nothing but watch old German films and then talk about them. I took to it like a fish takes to water. Besides, the beardy teacher really dug Easy Rider… oh, I have never spoken a finer German since. Echt geil. Anyway, this course introduced me to the great German directors such as Fritz Lang, F.W. Murnau, Rainer Werner Fassbinder, Wim Wenders, and Werner Herzog, of course. Fitzcarraldo might be his best; an inspirational tale of mad ambition, with krazy Klaus Kinski leading the way.

[10] Snatch, by Guy Ritchie. I really wanted to put Carlito’s Way in 10th, but in the end Snatch won by a hair. But what a hair! It is the ultimate buddy film - i.e, a film you watch with a really good friend while cracking the sixpack and sharing rumblin’ tumblin’ laughs. In no time the sixpack morphs into a twelvepack, and inexplicably the film just gets better and better. CARAVAN! Yep, it is that kind of a film - and the best of its genre, including some great character names like Turkish and Bricktop… not to forget Brad the Pikey Pitt with his fist of fury… Guffaw guffaw.

[The Lemon Award: There is such a lot of crap out there, so in a fit of mad generosity I've decided to give out 3 whole Lemons to genres that should not even be allowed to exist.
- Cheap sci-fi. If I see another 'Klingon' or some such, I will puke my guts out.
- Bad horror. The absolute definition of ridiculous tastelessness (unless you count cheap sci-fi...)
- Dogme 95, with Lars von Trier at the forefront. I've personally made better films walking around with a video camera pointing to the ground, just because I forgot to turn it off].

Intermission. That was les trois holy pillars of culture, my dear information-devouring friends. Books, Music, Movies. Materia that makes life worth living. Now I can finally turn my attention to lists that are less important, and… huh… what… less important? Bullfrog! None of my lists have anything to do with ‘less’. What follows is a short but very heartfelt list - particularly the declaration of love for Donald Duck. Be brave. Go deep.

2BEST, comics:

[1] Kalle Anka, (Donald Duck in English). Ever since I learned how to read in the good year of 1980, Donald Duck has been my trusted companion and consiglieri and partner and soul mate of my life. I am now almost 32 years old, and I STILL subscribe! There is no doubt in my mind that I will continue to do so until death takes me away to some other place where there may not be too many comics. I can not imagine a life without the weekly dose of the duck. He can not be replaced. I can trace everything to this.
This is not a joke; my complete intelligence is based on this comic; my language is formed here, my upbringing, my wit and sarcasm and pattern of psychological behaviour… all and everything! I have as much of Donald Duck’s bad luck as I have his golden heart. He is me, and I am him. Some day I’ll grow feathers.
It is my diamond belief that the world would be a much better place if everyone read Donald Duck. Violence is impossible, once you embrace Donald Duck. Impossible, I say. I M P O S S I B L E.
By the way, to illustrate the place Donald Duck occupies in my heart, one of the pics far far above is of me and the duck (a wonderful little kubist version my littlest brother once made).
I can not thank my parents enough for introducing this boy to life in Ankeborg. Of all great things, this may just be the best thing they ever did for me.
I am forever young.

[2] Tintin. One of my more prized possessions is my COMPLETE Tintin Collection, all in English Hardback. Oboy, it was not easy to track them down - but this winter I finally got my mitts on a newly released Tintin In Congo (in colour), thus happily completing many years of hard searching. Voilà!
Hergé (aka Georges Remi) is a master of storytelling. His eye for detail is unmatched, and his use of colours is incredibly elegant, yet magically vibrant. Tintin’s adventures are panoramic pictures of romantic heroism, one after the other, like the waves of the ocean, and I just adore the fearless little foreign correspondant of Le Petit Vingtième. I devoured his amazing actions allthroughout my childhood; I only wish Hergé was still alive, still creating.
(The puritan might frown upon the fact that my 24 volumes of Tintin are not in French Hardback - I’m really terribly sorry - but the translation is quite outstanding, apart from the tiny fact that Milou is called Snowy in English. Damn, I can not tell you how much that bothers me!)

Intermission: 2BEST? Where is the other 8? Well, in MY own divine world of comics Kalle Anka and Tintin are so far beyond everything else ever offered - due to the fact that they are so immersed in childhood memories and personal associations… thus I can not bring myself to soil the list by including others. For the Comic Book Guy out there; no Spiderman, no Superman, no Spirou (oh how I dig Marsupilami!), no Batman, no Mandrake, none of Frank Miller’s works, no Viivi & Wagner, no Calvin & Hobbes, no no no and Dr. No.

10BEST, TV series, 20.2.2007:

[1] Miami Vice. The hair of Don Johnson in a powerboat, the glass tiles of downtown Miami, the cocaine coolness of every single surface. This is a study in style and fashion, culture and architecture, and I am the apt pupil. The PERFECT tv-series.

[2] The Simpsons. The hardest decision I ever had to make was to put The Simpsons in second and not first. If laughter prolongs your life, wehell, then I owe about 5000 lightyears to Homer and his yellow family.

[3] Sopranos. Nothing can touch the first two - but if I have to, I’ll give a podium to wise guy Tony from New Jersey. Sometimes the consistency is off, but when it’s on, it’s ON. Besides, they eat the best food here - Italian gastronomy, mamma mia!

[4] Entourage. I have plugged it on “player”, 2nd April. Read the post. It really is that good.

[5] Fresh Prince Of Bel-Air. A comedy masterpiece. Back in the long-gone day, I taped every single episode on VHS, and drove people around me absolutely nuts with neverending Fresh Prince soundbites. Of course, most did not get them… most had never seen Carlton dance at Soul Train… your loss, suckers… Sonny the seal, man! The timing of the jokes, the over-the-top punchlines, the jolly of the philly - Will, Carlton, Uncle Phil, Geoffrey, you are still a part of my life. *sentimental moment*

[6] Top Gear. Quite frankly, I don’t even care about the cars. Because when Jezza, Hamster and Captain Slow go on full blow, you know that the world is in safe hands. The Jesus Nazis can’t reach you here. This is anti-PC at its finest, irony at its heaviest, and fun at its funniest. BBC, I salute your guts. Clarkson, Hammond & May, live forever until I die!

[7] Twin Peaks. So weird and haunted, so well-made and beautiful. And I have a strange thing for skinny Lara Flynn Boyle…

[8] Shield. The bad cop/good cop series, albeit more wrong than right… aren’t we all bad? Hardcore, ugly, modern, political, corrupt, trashy, it shows no mercy and takes few prisoners.

[9] Life On Mars. I implore you to read ‘series of series‘ posted on “player”, 2nd April. But only 8 episodes made so far, and not even Gene Genie Hunt can save it from 8th place. It is the Shield of 1970s dirty Manchester, England. (I have never seen ties so ugly & so sloppy!)

[10] Magnum P.I. Unbelievably silly - most of the time private investigator Thomas Magnum is just drying himself with a towel because he just got back from a swim, showing off his moustache and big hairy chest… but there are hidden Hawaiian charms to this series. Still, if it weren’t for that Ferrari 308, I’d probably not be so eager.

[The Lemon Award: I'll try to keep it short and salty, because I'd really need a whole field of lemon trees to reward every bad tv-series...
- Star Trek and assorted. Beam me up, Scottie. I can not live in a world of nerds.
- Reality TV. Listen, I am trying to save your LIFE! Television in itself, and most programmes, does not make you stupid; au contraire. But start watching the so-called reality series, and you will slowly turn into a BRICK].

Intermission: TV-series polarize people more than a lot. Shit and pearles, and you know how the story goes. Fans of Richard Dean Anderson and Hairy Hasselhoff, make your own. I close my eyes and pretend that Taxi doesn’t exist, X-Files, Band Of Brothers, Starsky & Hutch, The Saint, I Love Lucy, Monthy Python’s Flying Circus, oh billy ol buddy remember Benny Hill? Hi hi!

20COOLEST, production cars, 1.2.2007:

[1] Porsche 911. Oh, that was easy… at last, something that is utterly beyond discussion. The neun-elf reigns supreme. The Car of all cars, the meaning of happiness, the divine bliss of driving, the mechanical drug. Particularly noteworthy editions have been, chronologically: 911 RS 2.7 (1973), 911 RSR 3.0 (1974), 911-964 Carrera RS 3.6 (1991), 911-964 Turbo 3.6 (1993), 911-993 RS (1994), 911-993 GT2 (1996), 911-997 all Carreras, GT3, Turbo (2004-). Yep. This is a stick-up. Hand me the keys. Or I’ll make boxer sounds until I go blue in the face.
[2] Lamborghini Miura. Why, all of them, but I’m quite partial to a fine P400SV. They built 150 of them from 1971-73. Frank Sinatra bought one… but I doubt ol’ Blue-eyes was much of a driver. What a Vegas waste of Marcello Gandini’s finest lines. It is a treasure, a lust producer, an erotic sculpture. I go weak at my knees and my heart starts beating fast. Dear Sir, if you want to feel like the president of the world…
[3] Ferrari 288 GTO, 1984-85. Childhood dreams start right here. I remember studiously checking the prices in the latest Auto Motor und Sport when I was a kid. They always had one or two for sale at Auto-Salon Singen, and I was deathly afraid someone would buy them before I had scraped together the cash to go with my briefcase. Well, here I stand, still deathly afraid.
[4] Ferrari F40, 1987-92. The last überFerrari to stir my loins. F50 and Enzo leave me cold, but the F40 is my moon rocket. It will take me to faraway places in three seconds.
[5] Maserati Ghibli, 1967-73. Giorgetto Giugiaro’s shark, a true playboy porn machine. Cities would come to a halt, people would forget to breath. Light blue, please. I do find it worth mentioning that the squarish Ghibli II (1992-97) is also superbly alluring, in a different, very butch, way.
[6] Ferrari 250 GT Berlinetta SWB, 1958-62. As far as too-fitties go, you better believe I include the Spyder California and the GTO.
[7] Lancia Stratos, 1974-76. The alien space-car of Bertone, hugely influential but never duplicated. High time to up the ante, Lancia!
[8] Lancia Delta Integrale EVO III, 1992-95. The last great rally car, the last great Lancia. How could it go so wrong from here on?
[9] Audi Quattro Sport, 1984-85. The top trump of the Vorschprung durch Technik-squad. Raw, masculine, pumped… on steroids. Hubba hubba.
[10] Fiat 500, 1957-75. Sweet little darling, how cute are you not? I want to write a poem to you! Diminutive in size, gargantuan on charm. And let us not forget the 600, which was my very own first car! So chic it hurts, and forever more fashionable than vastly overrated archrival Mini - that box with front-wheel drive.
[11] Citroën DS, 1955-75. Imagine the year of 1955, then imagine the DS in that time continuum. Are you in the future, or has the future come to you? Advanced philosophy, and I can not make up my mind. The DS still looks avant-garde today… Déesse, as the initials go, means ‘goddess‘ in French. Pas mal. Not nuff by that, remember the sporty version of the DS? The SM, with the Maser engine… u la la. (If you didn’t have to bring them in for repair every other day… cue the name S&M, perhaps?)
[12] Mercedes-Benz 600 Pullman, 1965-81. Limo of choice for the most important men and dictators of the world. Yes, by default it has to be my choice, too. Black, silver, white, champagne. It is killer cool, the lines are clean, and you suddenly become a man of impeccable taste.
[13] Mercedes-Benz 300SL, obviously the Gullwing version of 1955-57. The German dandy. Ach du liebe!
[14] Dodge Charger, 1968-69. Frank Bullit may have done the baddies in, but he did NOT have the cooler car. The ‘68 Charger is packing the muscle your limp yoghurt body needs. *making V8-sounds*
[15] Lincoln Continental Mark 2, 1961-70. An American minimalist classic, uncluttered and fabulous. JFK in the arms of Jackie, bleeding, dying, gone. But the car remains, still cool as ever.
[16] Lancia Fulvia, and why not the 1969 HF Fanalone? Rally bambino, bend the bends back into straights. Lancia, you were so cool. Don’t continue breaking my heart like this.
[17] Cadillac Coupe De Ville, 1965. Standard of the world, they used to say. Most go for the plush ‘59 CoopDeVille, but I want something a little bit tidier. The ‘65 fits my taste to a tee, o jee. Let the sun into your life, and put your arm around the red-lipsticked blond next to you.
[18] Aston Martin DB9, 2004-. The curse of modernity; there are only three cars on this list that are currently in production. Here is one of them, elegant and effortless in execution. I have not forgotten about the DB5, or the Zagato models… but I’d rather have the superfine DBnine, dancing on the thin horizon line.
[19] Lamborghini Murcielago, all of them, mister, especially the brand-new 2006 LP640, aye sweet sister, how macho can one car get? Well, this macho! I saw it in Geneva… This chest is unwaxed! I whistle like the wolf! I fuck like Henry Miller! (…and I wish I had space to include the Countach, too).
[20] Ferrari F355 GTB, 1994-99. Listen up. This is the LAST beautiful Ferrari. The new ones are for people with mo money than taste (usually Russians)… tut-tut-tut. In many ways, life ends at 1999.
[[21]] Porsche 944, 1985/2-. Money where the mouth is; MY CAR. Vastly underrated, forever in the shadow of the 911s - but the supreme connoisseur gets it: outstanding handling, perfect proportions, archetypal architecture of the brilliant 1980s, legendary build quality… have you heard the thunk of the doors? If you are a lot less than rich, but suffers from the burden of exquisite taste; none the better.

[The Lemon Award: Wish I could give it to old archrival Mini, or all new Peugeots, or most 80s Japs, or the Ford Taunus, or any Rover, but... it has to be the Toyota Corolla.
Anti-soul, it embodies 'nothingness' like nothing else... Every time I see one, I want to pee up its exhaust pipe].

Intermission: Did you enjoy that as much as I did? No, no, it is a hypothetical question; it can not be answered. I like cars. What’s there not to like? The car is too important to ignore. We build the world around the car. Car = freedom. For most people, it’s the second biggest purchase you make - right after a house to call home. So why treat it like a shopping trolley when it can offer you so much more, when it can be an architectual delight to look at and a massive source of woooo-yeeeahs to drive? And unlike shoes and watches, it REALLY does tell you what kind of man/woman you are.

A new, more accurate version of John Lennon’s ‘God’:

Ye gods; the unrecorded tapes of air
Give them your pain, get none of the cure
I’ll say it again
Give them your pain, you can’t get more
I don’t believe in them
I don’t believe in none
I don’t believe in faith
I don’t believe in hope
I don’t believe in mystery
I don’t believe in ideology
I don’t believe in market theory
I don’t believe in history
I don’t believe in future
I don’t believe in religious scripture
I don’t believe in your measure

I just believe in me

3NOVELS by Rafael Pyton:

Published by ghosts, sold in ghost stores. In chronological order:

++ Cosmonautica — fear of the future

++ Egomania — the egoist’s manual

++ The Interzone — between heaven and hell lies a small random glitch in the system called the Interzone, where a tiny proportion of us end up…
[A trilogy; writing the first part of this strange saga as you read this.]