Well, let us – again – bid a final farewell to the track in no man’s land, Magny-Cours, the Oklahoma of the F1 circuit. Bye bye. But I don’t leave with hard feelings. The minute around mid-race when I saw that pipe burning in a hole in the belly of Kimi’s Ferrari, I said – screamed – to myself, “not again!” Not another race lost from the lead, not another silver plate presented to the competition like we – me & Kimi – are a white-gloved butler who bows very deeply and begs “Sir, I must insist. Please accept this humble gift of ten points.”

Lo and behold, though, lo and bloody behold, the Ferrari just kept on going like the Husqvarna lawnmover I push around the garden, sputtering, yet cutting. There was nothing to do about little Massa, of course, but two points is a gift we can throw in the air like we just don’t care. We’ll take it back in Silverstone, anyway.
But if you thought I was sure the red number one car was going to break, if not before, then on the last lap like some sort of a reversed MacGuyver plot, you are spot on the money. I’ve been there before, and it is the kind of familiarity that breeds true contempt. This is why I celebrate second place like it fell from the sky.
No, I would not go so far as to call it luck, because he should have won like he would have won in Canada, if not. Yeah, if not. Whatever. And racing is racing… like that’s supposed to mean anything but filler material in post-race interviews…

I shan’t dwell. I’d like to, but shan’t. Instead, here’s one to Jarno Trulli. Steady job, signore. I know the late great Ove Andersson is loving it up there in racing heaven on cloud number nine. Godspeed, Swede.

To Lewis Hamilton: Man, don’t think we didn’t see you on that first lap. You were so out of control it was out of mind. Maybe you thought you were going to do a ‘Senna‘ and zap the traffic. But it was pure Jean-Louis Schlesser. [That’s code for “you suck”].

There will be no cheap shots at Nick Heidfeld today. That would be unsportsmanlike. Let’s just acknowledge the fact that Nico Rosberg will probably drive one of the Bimmers next year. Just guessing.

And that concludes another edition of hot vapor and poisonous fumes. Be well, or unwell, if you want, until we meet again.

eurovision bong contest

Hello Europe! What the fuck is in your pipe!?

I have great taste. You have too, according to your own humble estimates. But after last night, I have reason to believe that a large portion of the European people have cheated on their taste exams. Well, it’s either that, or Russia just spent a serious amount of cash buying a continent.

Taste? I watch schlager on television! Of course, I only do it to be able to relate to the European experience – you have to admit, this is the closest we get to union and identity. [Ah, nothing like a swift and deft explanation to sweep your own short-comings under the rug…]
Hmm. But at least there are always some lovely ladies in semi-lingerie to undress with your eyes. Sometimes, you don’t even need to go to all that trouble, like with the Polish broad. Shit, a sexist remark! How uncouth. I’ll try to improve – I want to insult every single European country equally.

In any case, my dog could have written a better song than Russia’s bid – and I don’t even have a dog, which is telling something quite a lot. Frankly, the dog that I don’t have could have written better songs than 95% of the performed material. Actually, the dog that I don’t have really did write the Spanish song. Doggy style, he sang, in case you missed.

Even though the 2008 edition of Eurovision was the worst ever – like every year – I found the grace deep within to have two faves. Bosnia-Herzegovina was one. The mime and clown routine was anti-good, but when the retard started singing instead of smiling, there was melody resembling the cousin of cool in there.

France was my first favorite. The bearded ladies made me smile, and the guy in the golf-cart reminded me of Vanessa Paradis, except tall, ugly and male. No no no no no, he sang. Yes, I went. Sadly, everyone hates the French, so they will never get any points whatsoever from anyone whatsoever.

Finland tried to do a Lordi again. It goes to show the lack of imagination this country suffers from. These days, there is one single person left in Finland who does not listen to low-budget heavy, and that is me.
Admittedly, Missä Miehet Ratsastaa deserved a better fate, because it was rather resolutely better than most of the rest of the gay Eurotrash on offer. I guess the world is not quite ready for the genre of gay heavy yet… yes?

Poor Sweden. They take this competition so seriously. But may I suggest they stop sending the same song every year.

Before I go and say something nice, let’s discuss the voting system. Hahaha. Good one. Well, there is certainly a system in place. I mean, there is a rather discernible pattern going on there, and I might not be the only one to notice it. Hahaha.
Shrug. If people are so fucking daft they vote for their neighbor no matter what, then by all means. The song-writing dog that I don’t have will have plenty of good business in the future, too.

Goodnight, Europe. Put the bong down now, though. It’s time to represent civilization again.

moist in monaco

Yes, I am still painting, and how? Like I was born to do it. But today I am breaking radio silence due to observations of highest value.

The first one is this: My, my, my, how the gods of Formula One are fickle! Only a few races ago, the name of Kimi Räikkönen was on everyone’s lips like a fresh mint after a really lovely dinner. After Monaco, he’s stinking like shit. This was the worst Icemanic performance I have ever seen. First, a lousy start. Second, a lousy speed. Third, speed still lousy. Fourth, getting outclassed by the Force India of Adrian Sutil. Fifth, ass-banging the same gentleman. Sixth, losing the championship lead. Not bad for a day’s work, Kimi.

Another one of these valuable observations is: why is Heikki Kovalainen getting all the freaky voodoo to no fault of his own while Lewis Hamilton can slam the barriers, lose one of his wheels, yet barely even lose time in the process, go on to an easy win? Huh? Who makes these equations of kismet? I need to know. Because we need to talk.

And another half of one: Adrian Sutil, also regarded as the slowest dude in F1, was driving for his life today. His season up to this point has been one that can diplomatically only be described as lackluster. However, here, in a moist Monaco, Adrian drove like a man possessed. I became so enamored that I started rooting for the ripping Force India driver to beat the mighty Ferrari of Kimi Räikkönen. You never thought you’d hear me say that, did you? Sadly, everyone I root for gets their heart broken in the end, and poor underdog Adrian was no exception. Tankslapped, one might say.

What else? Sweet mother Maria, I love the Monaco Grand Prix. Heck, I love Monaco per se, everything about it, the geriatric youth, the champagne-induced murmur, the poodle-poop chasing people dressed in ultramarine, the sexiness that is overbearing to a point of becoming unsexy which in turn is really really sexy, the supervirtuality of an existance completely cinematic among Myannightmarian madness and the latest ecological disaster threating us with yet another extinction, yes, there is no question about it, heading for the brink that leads to the edge from where the view is nice as you fall is best done from a yacht harbored in Monaco.

It is true what I say: Oblivion can only be found in the most expensive of places.

barcelooona, sang fat lady montserrat caballe

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.

bullitt in my brain


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?

pledge this

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.


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!

melbourne multiplayer

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.

the preview

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:


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.