Pardon My Finnish

High waisted flared Chloe retro jeans with woven waistband. I have a great ass picture featuring this outfit. To post it would flout decency.

Since I have nothing better to do than visit my half dead father, clean my house and rewrite the governance of the company and the wholly owned subsidiary we recently opened in Taiwan, I’ll record here for history that Finland has a mature music scene. I’m surprised at how few people seem to know anything about it.

Here we go:

  1. One of the best songs ever written and performed, in any jurisdiction, any era: Salaa Tupakalle by Lasten Hautausmaa.
  2. By the same (but not of the one-time quality of #1): Tuulipuut
  3. By the same: Tove (very unfortunately and most unnecessarily spoiled by a bland male voice chiming in like a high school music teacher backing up the wavering performance of a pupil at a school concert)
  4. By the same: Kirkkaasta hämärään (… remember, this is Finnish)
  5. A tad nastier, not for the faint-hearted: Saturaatio by Oranssi Pazuzu.
  6. For older folks (going on 35) the swampy and perky Onion Soup by 22-Pistepirkko
  7. Catchy metal: Pomo the Master by Ursus Factory
  8. Metal: the spectacular Ajan Takana by Mara Balls
  9. Punk: Kotibileet by Huora
  10. Jazz (not the old fogey stuff, but really nice modern jazz): Härmä by VIRTA

My son says there’s a great thing going on in electronic music as well in Finland. But I haven’t gotten to that yet.

I want my son to be happy. I know that it will never happen. This is not about what one can contribute by acting or abstention. He is one of those persons who will always be struggling mentally despite their brilliant mind, their good looks, their good hair. There is more than a fair chance that his parents are to blame, and they deserve to be mutilated first and then shot for that, except that the one has died many years ago and the other is under the lien of amassing as much wealth as possible to leave him well off financially at least. But far worse than the guilt, which is about oneself and but an abject, self-centred emotion, is the pain of loving the son that anyone but oneself deserves to love, that one is the unworthy mother of. But no pain can be punishment enough.

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