Things are-a-brewing, and I smell a shitstorm. This post is a sequel of “the flip side”, simply because I was wondering what Iran is trying to achieve by re-examining the history of the genocide of the Jews during WWII. Frankly, I can not wait to see what kind of conclusion this international conference on the Holocaust will reach – and the reaction it will cause, of course.
I am a huge fan of myth-busters… but just how are you supposed to explain the missing millions of Jews?
Iran and point man Ahmadinejad are rather hot at the moment, with wild statements, nuclear plants and Holocaust conferences. I am not very good at maths, so I am not going to put 2 and 2 together, but rumour says it comes out as 4.
(Right now somewhere in the world there is a tiny country with quivering yarmulkes).
British writer David Irving goes to jail for three years for something he said 16 years ago, and I get that Pluto feeling again. But when you are denying the Holocaust, you get a pack of bitter old Jews after you, and they are like pitbulls… they just can’t let go.
Let us be reasonable. It should be easy enough to prove that the Holocaust did indeed happen, and that it was the opposite of pleasant. That is that. Can we please move on? History sucks for other people than Jews, too.
The timing was infallible, as usual, considering the unlikely pair of the infamous Mohammed cartoon & Irving’s version of Holocaust; apparently the West is not the best. Hypocrisy is a beast that always bites back.
Once in awhile you discover gems from the past, but this once-in-awhile concept of time just seems to happen less and less frequently these days, so I am absolutely thrilled when it actually does. History: I remember reading about the British cult film “Withnail & I” in a Q magazine in the early nineties, and being impressed by the praises heaped. I had not heard a word about this film before – and not really afterwards, either… neither had anyone else – it seems to be a closely guarded secret of the British Isles. But I never forgot about it, and I am glad I didn’t. More than a decade later I buy it on dvd from play.com.
Withnail & I came out in 1987, produced by G Harrison. (Bless you, George). It is about two unemployed actors in London, late 1960s, who drown their frustration in booze, pills and lighter fluid. When Withnail’s Uncle Monty offers his cottage in the country, they escape the squalor of their horrible flat. They soon realize it is a mistake.
Withnail & I is hilarious, but at the same time insanely intelligent… and the craft of acting is wonderful, with every face in complete synchronicity with emotion, all the way along the watchtower. There is deep beauty in this light misery. Just listen to the British accent of Richard E. Grant (Withnail), every syllable licking your ear, confidently and elegantly wasted. It also comes with a matching soundtrack.
Buy it and do it now. Bruce Robinson’s semi-autobiographical tale is art, pure art, a supersplendid riot.
Remember the time Al Gore ran for presidency? And won… but still lost. Hihi. Never mind the technicalities; dare I say that was a great day? I mean it. That day changed the world for ever, and not in the way you think I mean. Al Gore is the politician of all politicians – easily the biggest insult of insults that I can come up with. Therefore and without further ado, it is with a gigantic smirk on my face that I present you the one and only, the notorious… SUPERHUNKY!
Superhunky vs. Al Gore
For those of you who does not know who Superhunky is, (ie: 99,99% of you… how you disappoint me!), he was the legendary editor of the immortal Dirt Bike magazine, and I grew up reading the words he preached. Frankly, I used to laugh my t-shirt wet reading him. Superhunky, a.k.a. Rondo Talbot, a.k.a. Mr-Know-it-all, a.k.a. Rick Sieman, was also a freedom fighter in the truest sense of the definition, always sticking it to the Man, always battling the injustices of the Law. Few have done more for the dirt-rider-without-name than Superhunky, and I am proud to be a rebel soldier of his tribe.
Rick now lives and rides in Baja, Mexico, where tequila is cheap, and dirt bikes are loved. On occasion he still sticks it to dorks like Gore. And I adooooore him for all I’m worth!
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’…
Read in the paper today, that… some mossy Taleban has promised 100kg of gold to the one who gets there first and kills the guy who drew the insulting cartoon. As an extra addition, there is a 5 kg reward of the same yellow for everyone who kills a Danish, Norwegian or German soldier. The icing on the cake is another 100 fresh new suicide murder recruits, with mission intent of killing “those of the wrong faith”…
Seems to me, the West is not allowed to say anything, while some others in the Middle East can get away with everything. Why don’t we just roll over and die?
Yeah, I know, I know. I should know better and refrain from using harsh words???
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
Whatever you do with your life in the future, make sure you read the story ‘King of Pain’. You will find it under Pages – King of Pain. It is over 8000 words long, so grab a snack, a cuppa… and some tissues. (You may need them for the part of ‘Condemnation Complete’… it is a mental minefield…).
Frankly a mindblowing tale of suffering, finally published here on RafaelPyton.com in all its gory glory. It is a rewritten, remastered, much extended and much improved version of an old email I sent out to some of my friends some time ago. Now, forget that one: this is the real deal. I’ve poured out all my heartache in a bloody waterfall of pure pain, I’ve emptied the burning gastank that is my soul.
Bear in mind that it is also ultimately some sort of a success story, a kind of victory snatched from the jaws of death and defeat, as I rise from the ashes time and time again like the fucking firebird Phoenix.
A warning: although at the time it felt surreal, like I was taking part in a modern Book of Job, this is not fiction. I repeat, this is NOT fiction. It is much worse – it is reality. And it happened to me.