gaydolf titler

Did you hear Jon Stewart at the Oscars? He’s got a good smirk, and some awesome script writers – whom I will now proceed to abuse extemporaneously:

He is not only African-American. His name is Barack Hussein Obama. The middle name is the same as the former dictator of Iraq. His surname rhymes with Osama (Bin Laden).

See, everyone remembers the unfortunate presidential campaign of Gaydolf Titler. Titler had so many great ideas, but we just could not see past his name. And mustache.

Anyway, the competition between democrats Obama and Hillary Clinton is certainly historical. Normally, when you see a black man or a woman as president, an asteroid is about to crash into the Statue of Liberty.”

Gaydolf Titler gets my vote, though. Go, Gaydolf, go! Gaydolf Titler for President!

the war is over

Tonight I dreamt something
I never dreamt before
I dreamt there was peace on earth
And all the wars were over

I dreamt about a great hall
Where statesmen sat in rows
Then they signed a treaty
And stood up and declared…

There is no HD DVD anymore!

Toshiba, thank you, finally came to their senses and realized that what the world definitely does not need is two different formats on high definition storage. This is a fine victory for Sony’s BLU-RAY, who at last got sweet revenge for the Beta-Max vs. VHS wars of the 1980s. Do you hear the hammer coming down? That’s the sound of justice there, people.

I, yes I, bet on Blu-Ray from the beginning. Ah, the tingling tenderness of jubilant defiance… take that, HD DVD suckers! Ha! Nelson laugh: Ha-haa! Last laugh: HA!

jari-matti

As far as headlines go, this is one of the lamest. Finnish racing drivers always have the worst names. But boy can they go fast – like Jari-Matti Latvala, the latest hotshot heavy right foot frightening lightning to boot. To salute. And we do.

I have personally – obviously – been tipping JM to take over for ages already. Rallying, however, is not a sport for those set in premature ways, a hard fact countless of trees have witnessed over the years and years it takes for speed to meet savvy.
Even so, at 22, JM just rewrote the record books by becoming the youngest-ever driver to win a WRC event.

Not only did he win, he dominated, he ran circles, he hid and no one found him. At one point, other drivers were complaining about standing water. “Standing water“, JM quipped, “I didn’t notice no stinking standing water!” At least that’s what he would have said, had I written his lines. But even as it were, it meant that JM was going so fast he barely touched the surface. He was walking on water. [And only one man in history has ever done that before…]

For trivia, the rally cognoscenti walking among us will be pleased to note that the previous youngest-ever was yet another Finn; a certain Henri Toivonen, 24 at the time. Henri, bless his memory and beautiful talents, did not become a whole lot older. I hope history will be kinder to us this time. Indeed, good times are bound to follow, good times and gravel facials, chirrup chirrup. The new Ari Vatanen is here, and he answers to the name of Jari-Matti Latvala.

Now show us what you got, Loeb.

finnish fly

You got junk-mail:

More potent than the Spanish Fly, goes longer than any Austrian, the Finnish Fly is the final thing in ultimate performance. Finnish Fly, when you really want to extend.

But I’m talking ’bout ski-jumping; a sport seemingly custom-made for the Finnish people, always hellbent on escaping into personal oblivion, becoming a speck in the sky where no one can bother you anymore. Until you land, that is.

As a kid, I watched ski-jumping so much so that I knew the name of any jumper by the mannerism before let-go alone. You know, the way they sit on the bar, adjust their goggles, slide their skis, lean back, stretch, or plain look goofy.
Over the years, however, I pretended to grow up. Somewhere along the line I lost interest, and the whole show started to seem utterly nerdy, just a peg or two above curling. The ski-jumping dress code did not help. I defy you to come up with a sport that dresses worse…

Still, when you think about it, ski-jumping deserves so much better:

Man stands on skis atop a damn tall tower, lets go of his grip, gains terrifying speed towards launching pad, leaps, and dies… no, flies! It is a miracle! Man can fly! Without wings – but, absurdly enough, with skis!

Enter Janne Ahonen, the embodiment of the Finnish Fly. What he lacks in smiling, he makes up for in kerosene-free air miles. Ah, the bonus points he must have racked up in his time… also well worth mentioning is the recent and staggering accomplishment of FIVE – count them; it’s all of your hand, even your thumb – Four Hills Tournament victories, the Superbowl of ski-jumping!
This year’s win was particularly sweet, as it came over Austrian people, always everyone’s archrival. Thomas MorgonstÃ¥nd and Gregor Sauerkraut were left inhaling white dust kicked up by Ahonen’s dragster [actually, Janne’s summerjob is racing a top fuel dragster…]

Making me more delirious by far is the fact that no longer does Janne Ahonen have to tie one Jens Weissflog for the Four Hills Tournament victory count, as poor Jens is now left on measly four. The way I recall my childhood, the pesky man with DDR moustache was my worst enemy back when I knew few – too few – words for swearing.
Oh, it’s been awhile coming, but I can finally rest in peace.

Well, there you go. A whole post on ski-jumping without a single word on Matti Nykänen – quite a prodigious deed in itself.

Ring those cowbells! Scream that “fliiieeg!” Because there goes Janne!

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californication

YES YES YES! [do say it like you mean it…] The name of the bust, uh, best new favorite darling pet TV-series is CALIFORNICATION. And do you want to know why it is so freezing cool, I mean boiling hot, I mean all that and where it’s at? Because:

“It is about a lost writer who drives an old Porsche and digs debauchery.”

Does that remind you of anyone? Yeah, dunno, beats me…

Anyhoo. I salute the above plot synopsis with gargantuan glee, ooeee. The first season is out now, on the internet. It is well worth a downl… hrm, it is well worth waiting a long long long long long long time for, by the side of your precious beloved TV. [Hug it. You know you want to.]
There-ein-ever, you will discover David Duchovny – go Mulder, go! Woo! – as the sarcastic writer Hank Moody, blazing trails with his wit as well as with his dick. I thought he was great – and my girlfriend liked him even more. She actually thinks he’s hot. Pah, wouldn’t go that far. But the teflon-coated chicks of the cast are, yes yes yes, they are delicious fo sho.

Ah, sounding juvenile like this makes me feel at least a week younger…

Oh no. Is that a pimple? Gaah. Blah blaah. Hey, am I talking to loud, am I going to fast, am I falling off a cliff? Well, I guess the only message I really want to bring forth is that Californication is truly wicked and you will do no – NO – better for evening entertainment. Still suspicious? Take not my word for it, but peek for yourself. Remember – as I won’t let you forget – it is on Showtime, which means nudity is not only allowed, it is practically compulsory.

For Nication, Not Against.

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californication2.jpg

[In the slim case the first picture does not snare you – you bored devil – the second snapshot might? Oh, it just might. For Nication, Not Against.]

sopranos sans pianos

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Made in America” was the 86th and final episode of the HBO original series The Sopranos. Uncross your hands and say amen; it is the end of an era. Before HBO and Sopranos, TV was shit and we did not know better. We used to watch Baywatch and Beverly Hills 90210 and not feel one bit ashamed of it. Sick. Let us pray that we won’t have to stoop so low again.
At the moment, the little screen [50″, hrm] has never had it so good, and we owe it all to the New Jersey mafia family. Suddenly, you didn’t have to go to the cinema to see cinematography. Without Sopranos there would never have been, among so many more, Entourage, Sex And The City, Rome, et cetera ad infinitum. The mere thought of a non-Sopranos world is simply too painful to imagine.
Obviously, reality TV is a huge threat to quality – quality in every possible sense, from script to lights, camera, action – I can only hope that most of us will vote with the remote.

I Like Ike! Vote With The Remote!

Anyhoo, as one of the few who had the superpower-esque patience to wait for the last episode to come on TV instead of downloading it from the net meant that I only watched it yesterday. Somehow, I felt that it was the proper thing to do [rich words, I know], although, it has to be admitted, I was on the very verge of giving in to temptation last week, when the towering inferno that was the next-to-last episode aired. Indeed, it was the longest seven days…

Then, for the 86th and final time, the magnificent opening anthem by Alabama 3 rang…

You woke up this morning
got yourself a gun
Mama always said you’d be
The Chosen One…

Hubba. The song never fails to instill acute anticipation. It was on, game on, for there was lots to do in little time – one very short hour. I was thirsty for blood, I was hungry for violence. Phil Leotardo, the fucking cunt with only half a forehead, man, couldn’t we all wait to see somebody pop his angry ass?!

Sadly, I was also sure Tony Soprano would finally meet his maker – killers usually die – call it television moral. HBO, bless their gutsy souls, did not take the easy way out.
Mixed feelings stirred inside my blender of a brain as the episode went black and the credits started running. Was this it? The next-to-last episode would have made a grander exit to the series, was my first impression. However, having had a night to mull, I can see the beauty of “Made In America.”
Leotardo bites it, thankfully, but the final episode is all about the last scene, where the Sopranos family gather for dinner at a diner. The end is left wide open; clues to what might have happened next go in all directions. One could not miss the Godfather suggestions. Was Tony going to get hit? Prosecuted? Prosper? In retrospect, I guess I was rather infuriated when they cut the scene in the middle, but my teeth were gnashing from love. I was bidding my farewells to one of the finest stories ever created, and I just did not want it to leave me.

Salute.

Now what do we do? Cry. After that, we can always go out and buy The Sopranos Family Cook-Book. My little brother already did; I intend to borrow/steal, and make nothing but Italian food for the rest of my life.

One more paragraph; at the beginning of the final scene in the diner, Tony Soprano flips through the jukebox, chooses a band. It is JourneyDon’t Stop Believing, and it is the BEST BLOODY SONG I know at the moment. For emotional kicks, listen to it when you read this post. I know I listen to it [on repeat] as I write this post.
Oh, the goose and its bumps; I fall to my knees and hoist both hands high in the air. Armed with two lighters, I flick, they burn.

Live forever, Tony Soprano.

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radiofoot

Do you remember the time when Radiohead was your favorite band? I remember it very well, and it takes me back… fresh out of the army gates, myself and two Swedish pals borrowed my dad’s black Saab, and set course for Denmark; more specifically, Roskilde.
It was the summer of 1994. I remember doing the driving from Karis to Copenhagen until a six-pack of elephant beer made me hand over the wheel for the final bit. I also happen to remember getting stopped at every border on the way back; I had the filthy look of rock festival written all over me – prominently sporting a t-shirt with a big marijuana leaf on it might also have had something to do with it. Ah, youth. [The Customs Department in Turku almost took the Saab apart in their search for ‘funny’ substances].

But what happened in between was even better. A small band called Radiohead had come to Roskilde, since they were getting some airtime on radio with a little song called Creep.
Some time mid-gig, rocking out in our heavy Dr Martens and army hair, we realized that they were rather good. Before the concert was over, I declared it the best live performance ever. Radiohead had arrived.
Later, we kept running into singer Thom Yorke in the festival area. Perhaps we were stalking him – it is possible, since we were happily wasted all festival long. It is amazing how terrific Tuborg tastes after 8 months of green beret torture.

Back home, I preached the word of Pablo Honey. A year later, in 1995, the second full-length album Bends was released. I can safely say that I have never listened to anything so much in my life. For the next half decade, Bends was the very best my ears could imagine.

Flying on your motorcycle, watching all the ground beneath you drop… yes, the best line from the album was written for me. LITERALLY.

In 1997, Radiohead came out with OK Computer. Critics still call it the greatest rock album of all time. Yes, better than Sergeant Pepper’s. Personally, I always thought that Bends was slightly more beautiful than OK Computer, but as the 20th century crept to a close, Radiohead was the biggest band in the world. They had come far since that night in Roskilde.

But what the funk happened?

In the process of trying to re-invent sound, beauty became agony. I kept a brave face, kept buying their albums – and the albums kept collecting dust. Yet, even though I didn’t listen to them, I convinced myself that Radiohead is so great, it must be me.

No more. While I started losing faith many years ago, the last drop came in the shape of their latest album, In Rainbows. The hapless critics hail it, of course, even calling it more accessible than usual. Wow, nice.
But I’ve finally had it, and will now proceed to commit sacrilege – o, never thought it would came to this – so, here we go: Radiohead is shit! I can not bear this whining crap anymore! I’d rather listen to white noise; at least that is coherent. But this.. this.. this jagged paranoia on an empty belly, this irregular sound of headache & stress, this birth-giving and fork-scraping, this psychology of impotence, it no longer fits my ear.

They lost it. They won’t find it again.

Hmm. Felt good.

kimi kong

I don’t even know what to say. I am so happy I can’t think straight, sit up, or lie down. Seventeen points down coming into the last two races. It was not going to happen – but it did. It really did. Or I’m dreaming… but don’t you dare wake me up!

I knew about Kimi Räikkönen long before he got into F1. I remember reading about his karting career, liking his style, thinking that this is the one, the next one. That he had a huge passion for motocross only confirmed it – tough enough, fearless, full of hate for second place. Yes, every awesome attribute was in place. The Iceman was created for speed. He was always going to be my favorite.

I know I gush like a Japanese schoolgirl. Shamelessly loving it, too.

Eventually, even if it takes some time, the fastest man will win a championship in the end. And… I told you – told you told you told you – he would at the beginning of the season. Ok, I lost faith about a trillion of times on the way, but in the end, I am not the one who owes someone a bottle of vodka [A bet taken at season’s start; you know who you are!]

Brazil, Interlagos, 2007: excitement spelled out. I managed to watch the whole race without coronary incidents, although, in retrospect, it would have been smart to have had the ambulance on speed-dial. Never did the racing seem quite so tight, nor the last laps quite so long.
Well, you saw the race, so I’ll stop laying down rubber. The smoke has cleared and the champagne is being gulped down by the right people. Now, go back to your party – I do not condone sobriety tonight!

Most wins, least talking, fastest, coldest, hottest, best and most deserving. You can only go WOOHOO for so many times, but… WOOOHOOO!!! Kimi is world champion of the world, the whole world, the only world.

china white

Ha! If the judges won’t give it to me, I’ll take it some other way! Yes! Yes! I will take your silver plate for everything you have, I will take it every which way and all the way, all the way to Interlagos!

Justice. Yesterday, she was a nasty cunt. Today, she a tender virgin mistress.

Hamilton-mania has just been temporarily quelled. What makes it even sweeter is that it came in the form of a rookie mistake – on the way into the pitlane, none the less. Oh, stranded in the gravel like a beetle on its back, la la laah.
Admittedly, it took me quite awhile before I dared express my joy in the loudest way, because I kept waiting for that Mercedes tractor to come and lift him out…

Better wet than dry, a wise man once said.

One GP left; sure, Hamilton will probably come through in the end, but ‘probably‘ is still beset by an infinity of opportunities. Balls have been curved worse before. The momentum of the poll is turning, turning, turning…

Lewis Hamilton — 107
Fernando Alonso — 103
Kimi Räikkönen — 100

May the FORZA be with you! My Kimi-For-Champion campaign is poised for the final, the finale, the battle royale.