I am flying down to Geneva tomorrow, visiting my very good friend Herr K in Lausanne. As heavy pre-race favourites we are definitely going all out for the gold medal in long distance after-ski. I’ll be back next week with the score.
Aubrey de Grey, the bearded druid of biogerontology at University of Cambridge, is an inspiration to those (like me) who thinks that life is far too short. In fact, Dr. de Gray goes so far as to predict we will soon live to be 200 to 1000 years old. This is not fiction. I repeat, this is not fiction. Better yet, this means that when you are in the early thirties, you ain’t seen nothing yet. Wooohoooo! I was just feeling old yesterday; now I’m suddenly a baby.
I can almost taste the fountain of youth. Bring on the eternal life! I intend to outlive God himself!
How delikat! Finland and Sweden meet up for the mama of all Finals, the end-all be-all, the perfect storm, the battle of Galactica, the Judgement Day, the Thrilla in Manila… or the Thrillerino in Torino. It is live and let die and kill or be killed, all at the same time. Could this be the day when Finland finally steps out from the shadows of Sweden?
3-2, and olympic gold in icehockey goes to Sweden.
Real time: Right now, I hear Tre Kronor sing their national anthem. I see the big white-blue lions crying in interviews. I see the yellow on blue being waved, everywhere. I see… no, I don’t see our flag, not even a painted chin. The difference between winner and loser could not be bigger.
What is that thing dingling from the lions’ neck? Silver cruelty, what a despicable disappointment of an excuse for a metal. It turns you into a bitter hater. I feel my veins turn into ice… the same ice we were crushed on. Gold lost, not silver won.
But we shall roar again.
Nessum Dorma. As Luciano Pavarotti wraps it up in Torino, Italia, I wonder and ponder this riddle – why does the Finnish 2 minutes seem so much longer than the Swedish 2 minutes?
It certainly appears that time is, indeed, relative.
from the moment they met
like the sweetest violet
he declared love until death
o yes to the everlasting breath
Happy Valentine’s, girls.
I have spent too much of my life in waiting rooms, reading Interior Design magazines. Today, waiting for what most likely was my millionth x-ray session at a hospital, I could not find any more of such mags, so I was forced to move to an old issue of Cosmopolitan. What did I learn from reading it? A lot, since it is a thinly disguised soft-core porn mag for girls. The articles were so weak I almost got a headache… so I tried to look at the pictures instead… none one of the men pictured in Cosmopolitan had a shirt on, and they all had perfect abs… and some girl wrote in to complain that her boyfriend hadn’t been able to get it up for eight months… and Freddie Ljungberg’s dick almost jumped up and bit me from beneath his Calvin Kleins… and my star sign was crap as usual…
(And I wish you could see my x-rays)
Later, in another waiting room, waiting for the nice nurse to drain me of blood, I recoiled in silent hospital horror to find that all the mags were meant for the target group of age 60-100. What did I learn from the granny mags? Plenty of ads for pills, some great pastry recipes, and that the hungry fascination for Swedish royalty is still going strong…
(And after a few needles up both my arms, she actually found a few drops deep inside there somewhere)
I was watching the Torino Olympics halfpipe comp yesterday, rooting on the blue people, but the Yanks took home the precious. At least the Finns got a bronze, which is nice, because that Tomatohead is pretty hard to beat at the moment.
Anyway, the flamboyance of the boarders is totally cool in comparison with… just about all the other winter sports. One of the German dudes busted big in red lipstick, how gnarly is that? Not to be outdone, one of the American boarders walked around with a lifesize cardboard cut-out of Fabio… I choke with laughter just writing that name… Fabio, Fabio, Fabio. (I really hope someone knows what I’m talking about).
But it is not just the lipstick & Fabio that makes them different from the rest, it is also the attitude. For an old-school motocrosser like me, who grew up with the tag ‘attitude is everything’, this is cotton for my soul. I get bored with the stonecold skijumpers, the snotty faces of the crosscountry skiers, and the redneck icehockey players. Sport’s gotta be fun.
Then I walk past the room where my own snowboard stands, patiently waiting, but probably very lonely. This legendary Aleksi Litovaara board from the mid90s should not just stand in a corner and gather dust. I should carve up the mountains with it, spray the snow. This is not right. I haven’t used it since spring 2004, and I may never be able to do it again.
Listen, I’m not selling it. Sure, the sight of it gives me the blues, but I can not sell it. I think I know why… something with the words ‘hope’ and ‘eternal’…
Allow me to quote a text from the narcissist’s bible – the great book that we all carry around in sweet arrogance, only difference being that some of us have larger editions than others. Oh, the poetry in question also happens to be one of the finest songs ever sung, and I for one owe lots of delirious mirror-love to masters Squire & Brown…
I don’t have to sell my soul
He’s already in me
I don’t need to sell my soul
He’s already in me
I wanna be adored
You adore me
You adore me
I wanna be adored
I gotta be adored
are like whips
on my hips
Sunday. Uuh… there is nothing sunny about ‘Sun’day. I foresee the future where I will put together a petition to change the name to Badday. How people use this silent space in time to get up early and go to church I will never understand. I don’t want to, either. Because, Saturday night is the time of the devil, and come morning you pay the price for those amazingly awesome dance moves you were busting out while the law-abiding citizens were sleeping… Jacko had nothing on me yesterday. Nothing, I say. Watch out for those hands. They fly. And how.
Karis is the New Jersey of Finland. Just like Bruce Springsteen, I was Born To Run. He wanted to escape along the Turnpike, I wanted to hit the 51, never look back. Baby, I was boo-oorn to run. I ran to London, Stuttgart, Brussels. But just like The Boss, I still live in my blue-collar hometown. And while I hate it, I also love it. First you run, then you return. In the long run, perhaps the ‘born’ part is stronger that the ‘run’ part?