Last weekend I chatted with an American gentleman I knew as Coach since he used to be my brother-in-law’s tennis coach.
We sat in the warm August night talking about sports – because he was Coach and I was a Sports Writer – but as the night grew darker I realized he wasn’t just a tennis coach.
I’m amazed by myself. But not in a good way. In recent years, I’ve come to realize how little I know about the world. Yes, a kind reader would interrupt me now and tell me that it’s just age doing its work, that it shows signs of great wisdom to see one’s fallacies and shortcomings.
To which I would say, “thank you”, because even if I’m not always especially kind to myself, I do try to be kind to others.
Unfortunately for me, such encouraging words never last long because I then turn around and talk to Son, a walking Wikipedia if I ever knew one. And should there be a page that needs updating, or has missing links, Daughter will surely patch things up with her knowledge.
I like rules. I’ve always liked to know that there are rules and I expect everybody – I’m looking at you pushing a shopping cart on the streets – to follow them, even the unwritten ones. (Really, dude, it’s not your cart).
I like rules so much that I make up new rules for myself. These are rules that may have been inspired by other people, but they only apply to me.
Two of these rules have to do with how I speak of Son and Daughter – and no, there’s no rational reason behind them. One, I never call refer to them as “children”, “kids,” or even just “son” and “daughter”, except here on the old blog. The rule is to always include their name in the conversation.
I think it has to do with my being an only child. I never wanted to be just a kid. I always wanted to be Risto.
Funnily enough, the second rule has to do with the end of childhood. And the rule is never to call someone “an adult” or “a grownup” when they turn eighteen.
Never.
Finland had a presidential election recently, and for the first time in my lifetime, the new President is younger than me, albeit only by a few months. The new head of state is also someone I’ve played hockey against when we were – both – pre-teens and teens.
A few weeks ago, I was sitting across the table from his father, a prominent hockey executive, talking hockey for a book I’m working on. And since it was right in the middle of the campaign, the topic of presidency came up.
“I’m sure he’ll win,” I said, while grabbing another Jaffa cake (which, for some reason, you can’t find in Sweden, but that’s another story).
“We’ll see,” said the then-future Father of the President.
“It could’ve been me.”
I didn’t say that out loud but I did think it. And then I took another Jaffa cake – because they were there.
I once tried to estimate the number of times I’ve been on these ferries that traffic between Sweden and Finland. It’s almost like one of those questions you might expect to get at a Google job interview in which the right answer is less important than how you try to get there.
The first three – six, if you count return trips, and why wouldn’t you? – are pretty easy.
A Night at the Roxbury opens with a shot of the Butabi brothers hitting the clubs, perfecting their dance moves and bopping their heads as they drive through the city, Haddaway’s “What Is Love” blasting in the background.
Life is good, and the boys are feeling great, when suddenly, Doug hits the passenger’s side window with his head, smashing it into a thousand pieces.
He looks at his brother, Steve, sheepishly.
“I broke the window again,” he says then.
That’s one of my all-time favourite movie lines, and also one that I quote frequently. Basically, every time I do something that is moderately stupid, but stupid enough to make me swear.
I love how that one word adds another dimension to the story. Obviously, they’ve been at it before, and obviously, they haven’t learned anything. The “again” is such a clever way to convey to the viewers that these two guys are the opposite of clever.
But it doesn’t matter. They’re so happy together.
For two years, I’ve been writing an 80s music newsletter with a friend of mine. Well, not just any of buddy of mine, but my very own musical advisor and a pop guru who introduced many artists to me back in the original 1980s.
We named it after the Finnish title of St. Elmo’s Fire, the movie, and don’t feel bad if you’ve never heard of it. First of all, it’s in Finnish, and second of all, we’ve been very patiently waiting to get discovered, and have wanted to let that happen organically. Without marketing, that is.
And for “research” purposes, I’ve also been reading or maybe re-reading the local paper from the 1980s, practically daily. (It started when I was writing Someday Jennifer in which the main character “travels” back in time).
It’s been surprisingly uplifting.
This may come as a surprise to you, but Swedes love vanity plates. That’s the conclusion I’ve drawn in my twenty-plus years driving (and sitting) in Stockholm traffic. Every day, I find myself behind someone who wants to signal something to their fellow citizens.
Since the maximum number of characters is seven, there’s not a lot of room for witticism on the plate, and off the top of my head, I’d say the most common vanity plates are people’s first names. You know, the Monicas and the Anderses. And the Ömers.
There’s a HEJ close to where we live, and a VIRGO about as close but in the opposite direction from our house. I’ve seen a SORRY and an R2D2, too.
I’ve often thought what I’d like to have on my vanity plate. I’m too private a person to have my name on a plate – I don’t want others to know my name! I wouldn’t want to have Wife’s name on the plate, either.
What about our dog’s name? That would only be funny if he also drove the car, and while he’s smart enough to do it, he’s too short.
I’ve spent two days trying to remember a line from a movie. Or a TV show. I can’t remember which. I don’t actually remember the line, either, except for two things: It mentioned Klamath Falls, Oregon and that whoever had written the Swedish subtitles had misspelled Klamath to read Clamouth.
It was – most likely – a throwaway line in a – evidently – forgettable movie or TV show and it wouldn’t matter if not for the fact that I have never heard anyone mention Klamath Falls before. And I’ve been there!
Like many, if not all other kids in the world, I, too, once ran a detective agency. It was a very small, no-name – literally – agency, based out of a small, second-floor room in a Helsinki suburb. All I had was a desk. I didn’t even have a chair for my partner.
Then again, my partner was our dog. And like all proper detectives, I detested sitting at a desk anyway, so I spent most of my time out in the field, looking for cases.
The chances of a damsel in distress walking up the stairs and into our apartment were slim anyway.
Probably needless to say, but my detective agency didn’t have any cases per se, but I did spend many an afternoon shadowing people, and even more time shaking off bad guys I suspected were shadowing me. Now, I am sorry to say, my agency has laid dormant for many years.
Until last week.
Call it a hunch, call it intuition, call it whatever you want, but as I drove out car onto the ferry to Finland, I felt a familiar, funny feeling in my stomach. Something was up.
“Something’s up, Riku,” I muttered, out of habit. (It was, and is, something of a catchphrase of mine).
