i heart in February.

1. Icicles. Especially those of the insanely long, razor-sharp variety, which are sure to pierce your head in true horror movie fashion, should you be lucky enough to chance upon the right place at the right time.


2. Tampere. There's life outside Helsinki. Everyone should give it a go. This observation is based on one evening's escapade in said town, contained to a single bar. It is therefore an entirely biased (and possibly alcohol-fueled) opinion. But one which i stick to, nonetheless.


3. Florence + The Machine. Not having gotten tickets for the gig at Tavastia, i'll have to content myself with admiring them from afar. Sigh.


3. Foosball. I've managed to convince myself i'm pretty good at this. I think i won't play it anymore, so i can keep on happily deluding myself. 


4. Festivals. Only a matter of months until you get to wake up in a strange tent, lose one shoe, and have beer for breakfast. 


5. Pad Thai. Kok Thai, the little Thai place just off Toolontori, does delicious tofu pad thai. Which i get a terrible hangover craving for. Oh if only they delivered. But they don't. Which is why i sit in bed on these mornings, headachy and salivating.


6. My new blender. I was at a loss after my old one died suddenly, mid-smoothie. This new baby, with its stainless steel finish and 700 watts of blitzing power, is set to save many a hung over morning by facilitating that welcome sensation of smoothie-induced brain freeze. 


7. The word 'akimbo'. For no particular reason. 


8. Helsinki Vintage. A treasure trove of beautiful people and pretty things. I'm convinced this is where i'll finally meet the object of my dreams: The Sailor Hat. fingers crossed.


9. My job. It rocks to get paid for doing something fun. 


10. February. Cause it's the shortest month of the year. Now how about that summer? At this rate, we'll still have snow in June. Looks like you'll be in that tent, waking up next to a mysterious stranger ("who is this bumble bee-suited dude lying next to me, sporting a permanent markered cock on his forehead?"), finding your shoeless foot a curious shade of blue and your precious breakfast beer (and all other 27 bottles of solid-food-substituting alcohol) frozen and/or exploded. I'm just saying.

Heavy Metal Bingo

Last weekend a mass of black-clad folk flocked to the shores of Ruoholahti and descended on Kaapelitehdas. The glinting studs, the billowing leather jackets and the involuntary neck spasms and hair tossing meant that Finnish Metal Expo had come to town once again. The annual event, which is the love child of a bizarre three-way between an exhibition, marketplace and festival showcases all manner of things pertaining to metal and music. Needless to say, the music is loud, the hair is long and the beer is a-flowing.

And so it was that Tuomas and i found ourselves in the midst of the leather-suited men and corseted women, slightly lost and more than a little out of place. But we were here on a mission. And not just any mission, a mission that we were awaiting with equal amounts of trepidation and good humor: In this convention for the satanically-inclined, we were gonna be hosting bingo. Yessir. 

Our bingo-hosting was gonna take place at the Nosturi stand, where we had been happily drafted to entertain expo-goers. In addition to bingo our fun-and-games arsenal consisted of a seriously difficult heavy metal trivia quiz, and Satan vs. Jesus foosball. In previous years the stand had been manned by an unbeatable foosball god, a title to which neither Tuomas or myself felt we had any claim to. Which is why we (and the smart folk at Nosturi) felt it prudent to include other pastimes as well, lest we lost the weekend's quota of give-away tickets within the first hour. And so armed with games we came. 

To our surprise, turns out that Tuomas was far from crap at foosball, and for the two times that i had previously tried my hand at the game, i wasn't half as shit as i expected (and i won against Tuomas). What's more, we weren't the only ones to think our stand was the shit. The hardest of heavy metal fiends threw aside their prejudices (and skull-mounted staves, as was also the case) and got their bingo hat on for the chance to win free tickets to various gigs at Nosturi (or a lollipop, in case they lost.)

Tuomas and i agreed that in addition to assuming the role of a bingo caller, rocking at foosball and occasionally sneaking off for a clandestine pint, making people happy by giving them tickets to see their favorite bands was the best part of the job. I mean, look at the dudes in the photo above, who rejoiced and praised the heathen gods after winning tickets to see Fear Factory. If that's not love and dedication, i don't know what is. 

Moreover, spending two days quizzing people on some seriously arcane metal lore has its perks. 'Oh yeah?' you say. Yeah, cause now i know which song Udo Dirkschneider did not cover back in 1986. Betcha you don't. 

Pink Flying V.

It's the beginning of a new year, almost. As good a time as any for some new beginnings. Some new beginnings involving musical instruments, in my case. And not just any musical instruments either, but a pink Mahalo Flying V ukulele. My newest crush.

Let me tell you how the seeds for this infatuation were sown... 

I guess it was a lot of little things coming together. One of these things was the pressing need for a new (less hazardous) hobby (that drinking business is way too much effort and far too detrimental in the long run). Another was the epiphany that, at 24, you're actually not yet too old to pick up a musical instrument (after all, after dabbling with tin whistles and singing in the school choir, i had a good founding for this). The third thing (or person, rather), was Emilyn 'cupcake punk' Brodsky, who was (and who am i kidding, still is) my crush prior to the arrival of the Uke (anyone who makes up a music genre called 'cupcake punk' deserves my admiration). The fourth and final things was a message that dropped into my Facebook inbox from the good folk at Aron Soitin, which informed me that their ukes (which are their best-selling product, they tell me) were back in stock again, for an altogether acceptable price of fifty euros. The deal was sealed. I could see it; I was headed for awkwardly eccentric, over-ambitiously folksy, pseudo-cool, four string, cotton candy-encrusted fame. But being still in the first leg of that journey to immortal underground superstardom, i'd settle for learning a couple of chords and entertaining myself. 

Which is what i've been doing happily ("badly", the neighbors would firmly interject, nodding, at this point), almost every night since bringing the little pink thing home. There's something really disarming about the uke. The shape, the size, and the pinkness of it. It kinda looks like a toy that makes cool noise. It looks like it was made to play cupcake punk. Having said that, Mahalo ukuleles - and the flying V model especially - get a lot of flak for their quality as instruments. Some of it not unfounded. Sure, its triangular shape makes it tricky to hold while playing, and yes i'm sure the sound could be better, and it's true that despite the picture of the girl on the beach in the grass skirt the uke sports a 'made in China' sticker. I don't care. What the uke lacks in quality it makes up in kitsch and attitude. 

So now it wont be long until i post a link to my first solo recording posted on youtube (cause that's what you do). It'll be called 'Teatime in R'lyeh' (cause it needs a suitable obscure name and nonsensical lyrics), it'll be filmed in my bathroom (the acoustics, dude), and it'll be preceded by me fiddling with the video cam (cause of the DIY factor) and adjusting my sailor hat to a jauntier angle (cause of the need for cool, unique head wear). All set. Take my hand, little green man, we're gonna be famous. All we need to do now is learn how to play.