Don Juan in Helsinki: 3

Total disaster...

Hey to all again, I am Donho Likkanen. My apologies to those of you who tuned in for my live podcast from the airplane, but for some reason I cannot comprehend, it didn't work. Probably it was one of these crazy new computer viruses. I recorded everything on my iPod, but then--nothing happened! At least I have a recording of that horrible flight, however, and I have transcribed some things from it into this blournal entry. Also, some peeps have emailed me to say that my corporate website is not working properly and that they are unable to order fixtures from it. This is a technical problem with Moen Japan. As soon as the cash-flow situation is sorted out, everything will be back to normal, have no fear! The world loves Likkanen!

But perhaps those three old ladies who are busy knitting our fates in their cave do not love me so much, at least not today : ( I speak of course of the 'Norns' of ancient Norse mythology. I could feel their magical knitting needles pricking into me with scorn the moment I arrived at the first-class lounge at John F. Kennedy International Airport, because at once the desk manager took me aside to speak confidentially in a hushed tone that was trembling with excitement. In my experience, this is always a signal for future trouble ahead. A very important celebrity, he said, had bought up all the seats in the first-class section of the airplane for the flght, including my own; would I mind very much to fly business coach class (this is what they now call 'tourist class', but at a variable rather than a fixed price) for free? I know from my own experience that they are entitled to do this, because if you are careful to actually read the fine print on your ticket agreement, an airline is entitled to do almost anything to you, really, including the disposal of your remains. My only alternative was to go home again and take a later flight, which would be the next day. This would have been the wise thing to do, as it turned out, but I was feeling lazy. So in this case, my tantrum was theatrical only rather than emotionally sincere, but at least it resulted in a free return fare as well. This celebrity, whoever they might be, was obviously paying a great deal of money indeed for them to be so generous.

Now you must know this about me, I love humanity, especially the female part, though I can no longer feel erotic desire for them any longer. Even so, I have a deep and passionate love and respect for all peoples everywhere. It is not my fault that I cannot stand the way most of them smell. This is a physical sensitivity (perhaps it echoes my deep spiritual sensitivity), and that is why I need the greater space and improved air flow around me offered by first class accommodation. It is not simply a shallow love of luxury for its own sake, though of course there is nothing wrong with that. It is a matter of health, for the nose is as delicate and important an organ as the heart or the liver and so should not be insulted. In addition, I cannot stand the oils and perfumes and colognes with which these bodily odours are masked. Some of these provoke an almost allergic reaction in me, and I cannot breathe. For a time I worked in Paris designing bottles for Guerlain, Givenchy and others, and I can assure you that most of these scents are made from the very same ingredients found in pesticides and chemical additives. Consequently, because I keep my own body so very clean and healthful, I never employ scented soaps or even use deodourant. When you are close to me, you are smelling the real Donho, his very essence--and it is this subtle pheremonal aura, I am sure, which has always made me so overpoweringly attractive to women.

And, of course, this flight was to be no different. Jammed ( ; ) !) next to me in business class is a tall, graceless young American woman who would never have been allowed into first class. She is of no interest to Likkanen. She smells so strongly of soapy bath oil that she instantly gives me a sinus headache. In profile, she resembles a former lover of mine, the owner of a 'Simon Pure' health food shop who, most unpleasantly, never shaved her legs. So often these days, I think I recognize a former lover, and then realize, hey, that chick is young enough to be her daughter! LOL! Naturally, the thought then flashes through my head that this girl might actually be her daughter, though she (the young version, that is) has bright red hair and is covered all over with livid freckles. Then I think, what if she is my daughter??? This, of course, is total insanity, in my experience every woman in the world is very quick to point at a father for her child, even when, as in my case, it is never the right one. But strangely, this thought, instead of disturbing me, makes me feel strangely at peace. It might be quite wonderful, I decide, to discover that one has a 'secret' daughter, especially since I have no one to leave my considerable fortune to. And in fact, for some years, my feelings for young women have been increasingly 'fatherly' anyway, since the moment we begin to have hot squishy gland-slapping monkey sex, I feel the need to instruct them, particularly about matters such as basic hygiene. I see now that sex has always really been a distraction from this sweet, innocent, noble human impulse to educate and mentor young girls. A 'red herring' I am thinking, as I glance again at my neighbor. Later she will introduce herself and tell me her name, something nasal and unpronounceable from the Midwest; I will refer to her instead from now in this 'blournal' on as 'The Strawberry.' Not that she will be with us long.

At this point in the story, we still have not moved from the tarmac for nearly an hour. We are waiting for the 'important celebrity' to arrive, along with all of his or her entourage. I am listening to chillout music on my iPod, the Strawberry is reading a Finnish phrasebook and shyly glancing over at me from time to time. I can tell she wants to talk. It is natural. Then the personal line to my Bluetooth rings, though I have smashed my business cell, a Sanyo, during my tantrum in the first class lounge. It is my stalker.

My stalker is a young woman I have never met in the flesh but have text messaged with online since she was still in high school. She should probably be in some institution for the criminally insane, but instead is pursuing her PhD in child psychology at a university in Boston. In the time I have known her she has attempted suicide twice and has been convicted for drugs, prostitution, and assault. I have had her under various restraining orders for years after she was found sleeping in the front doorway outside my loft building. I cannot tell you her real name (in fact, I cannot remember it), but online her nickname is 'QTAngel'.

'Daddy,' she is saying now into my Bluetooth (this is her private name for me), 'I have a knife.'

'Please stop calling me, angel,' I tell her. 'You know this is a violation of your parole.'

'But I've given him a name. Wanna guess what it is?'

'I dunno,' I say, sighing and catching the eye of the Strawberry, who is suddenly very interested indeed. 'Fred? Mr Sharpie?'

'His name is Donho,' she says. 'And I'm masturbating with him now.' That is when the pilot asks us to turn off all our cell phones, and I do so with relief. But with the girl in the next seat the ice is now broken, and I cannot get it back. It is like the spring thaw in the lake district of Lapland, I am suddenly flooded with her chatter. It is not that she is so very erotically attracted to me--yet. She is simply nervous about flying. What do I do? Where am I from? Is this my first visit to Finland? At last something happens to interrupt this; the very important celebrity finally arrives. But there is a further complication. This person does not want anyone else in first class at all, not even his or her own personal assistants, chefs, trainers, photographers, nannies, or two children, one of them sullen and appearing heavily drugged, the other one red in the face and screaming. So the first six rows of business class are asked to move back for this entourage to be seated, and now all of us are packed together at the rear of the airplane, like the steerage passengers on the Titanic. And as these poor creatures shuffle back, moving as if there are chains attached to their ankles, a rumour begins to sweep through the cabin, a single word that is the name of this very famous important person who has made our lives such a misery today. And for me, when I hear this name I also hear the laughter of the old ladies with their needles echoing in my ears. Because this is not the first time this particular person has made my life a misery.

Or anyone else's life a misery who has ears and cable TV. Or a radio. Or who has ever shopped in a mall. Or heard a car stereo playing on the street. So, basically anyone who has ever gone outdoors in the modern world...

Next time: My confessions tour.