you know who you are...

Guess who?

Following Le Duc's brilliant discovery, guess whose Wordle is this:



And whose is this:



And finally this:

Hitting the Hall

No, dear readers. Not Lady V. I would never do that, unless she forced me to. I am talking about the City Hall, the house of the most venerable Milanese monument: the mayoress.

But it was not The Lady I was to meet. It was a man, of course, clad in rigorous Zegna and eyeing us up and down like some strange, exotic preys captured by 16th century ducal vessels in the Far East.

"So what is it you do?"

"Blah blah... social innovation... blah blah... social enterprise... blah blah... networks... blah blah... sustainability... blah blah... change... blah blah... better world".

"Right. I see. Well, you DO understand, here we're in Italy, not some FANCY country like England or the US. Things don't CHANGE here like they seem to do there. No matter how good your idea is, no matter how intelligent, respected and acclaimed abroad, HERE you are in Italy. Here what matters is WHO introduces you and WHAT you are giving in return to someone who might do you a favour. Capito?"

Answer I should have given: "Yes of course I understand. I understand that as long as people like YOU are allowed to walk out of this building without fear of being shot, dismembered and scattered to stray dogs for their amusement, things will not indeed change, which is why you can rest reassured that I will hunt you, your fellow party buddies, your opposition buddies and all of you rat-like politicians down until you are all reduced to an odorous pulp in an open-air pit in the outskirt of Milan".

Answer I gave: "Yes of course I understand. Thank you so much for your time, Dr ..."

I need to get back to a sane place soon...

Luigi Ghirri

Enrico made me discover an Italian photographer I barely knew, except for a couple of half-read references at some exhibition or another one: Luigi Ghirri. And immediately I was conquered by his delicate sense of humanity, of space, of colour.

If you want to read something intelligent about him, go to James Danziger's The Year in Pictures. If you only want to see some of his pictures, you can just scroll down here...

Gin-eva

I don't get Geneva. Every time I visit it, for one weird reason or another one, I notice little things that revulse me.

The opulence of the window shops, not one seemingly devoted to items one would NEED as opposed to DEISRE. The senile white couples walking down the lake promenade, wrapped in fur coats and expensive jewels, the very same ones that desperately need migrants to clean up their houses, but refuse to naturalize them even after decades they have lived in the country.

And tonight, as I looked for the room service menu in the vaguely 1970s bedroom I am staying, I noticed a thick magazine staring up at me, entirely devoted to rich Russians coming to the city to SPEND. Not to rich people in general. Or to Russians, Germans and Americans. No. JUST Russians. Or, more precisely, the siliconed wives of the Russian economicentsia.

A town that survives solely thanks to the spending itches of oligarchs' toy-women is a town that gives me the creeps.

Thankfully, the minibar contained my old friend gin. Geneva sounds like gin + Eva. The perfect liquor and the original sinner. The combination was so promising, so how did it all go wrong?

Travesty!!!

This is what it should look like. Glorious, proud and beautiful, the tallest mountain in Europe, despite what some people say. And this is what I expected to be seeing as I glided down beutiful slopes in Chamonix.

The signs are all there. As our bus arrives in Courmayeur, the sun is beginning to set on Mont Blanc, leaving patches of pink reflections on its sides. Red sky at night, anyone? Surely, it will be AWESOME.

And as we wake up the following morning, expecting sunny rays of light to kiss us good mornings, we open the curtains of our nice hotel and see... nothing. Absolutely nothing. A wall of snow and fog and wind. And a small pitbull walking on the balcony. Er...

The slopes are no better. Gail blowing across our face. Visibility barely beyond 5 metres. There is no separation between the slopes and the sky, everything is bathed in this freezing white wall. We have no idea where we are skiing, sudden plateaus where are skis are buried in fresh snow are followed by sudden drops in the terrain, making me almost look like I can't ski. Ridic.

Apparently sun will appear. Sunday. When we are leaving.

Don't you just love it when things like this happen?

Who's your President?

ME!!! ME!! ME!!!!!!!!!


Ok fine. Not me. But I was close, wasn't I?

Dominican visitors

Travelling through Milan, or living here... either way, wonderful encounters by night...

Hysterics

Sunday afternoon. Inside a Milanese flat.

C: I just can't.
A: what?
C: write. I just CANNOT write this article.
A: why not?
C: I don't know. Haven't felt this way in years, Marjorie. Brain totally dead inside.
A: let me read.

Reads.

A: it's rather good actually. Would probably add this, this and this. And move this here.
C: you are amazing Tots. You know I wouldn't let anyone else tell me these things.

Later.

C: I simply can't.
A: what?
C: write this bloody article! I CAN'T!!!!
A: did you add the bits I told you to?
C: er... I forgot them.
A: are you refusing to write this because it's a massive self-exposure piece, all about yourself, written for the vulgar marketing purpose of getting your name in the national press so more people buy your book when it's out?
C [in hystertics by now]: I HATE YOU!!!! I HATE WRITING!!!!! I HATE EVERYTHING!!!! OH I WISH I WAS A SECRETARY!!!!!!!!!!

The BPA Toe Jam feat. David Byrne & Dizzee Rascal

This was just too funny not to post it here. Via Michael O...



The story behind the music, by marketing standards, is brilliant.

The Brighton Port Authority were an outfit who built a huge word-of-mouth reputation on England's south coast from the early 1970s onwards before petering out in the mid-'90s. From what can be easily pieced together, they were a loose-limbed jamming unit, originally known as the Brighton Phonographic Association. At its core were local musicians Norman Cook and Simon Thornton who gathered various singers and session men around them, built the rather ramshackle BPA studio, and would occasionally hold multi-day warehouse parties from which their semi-legendary reputation stems.

Everyone's an English Patient

So, on the way back to Mailand from Chiantishire (yes, I am going to slowly persuade everyone that Italy is not really an independent country by using only foreign names for its regions and cities, so as to induce, once and for all, the Germans to come take control and stop this madness). On my way back to Mailand, Lady V, Tot T and I discussed the Upcoming Event of 2009.

- Do you mean Lady V's book launch?
- Or President O's inauguration?
- The end of the war in A) the Middle East B) the Congo c) The fishcounter in Ham every Saturday night?

No. Nothing as trivial as that. We are talking of the PARTY of the YEAR: Everyone's an English Patient (registered trademark).

Just like last year's Much Ado About Nothing, cinema remains our main source of inspiration, including for understanding Tot F's thoughts (when there are some preceeding action, which is rather rare these days).

Unlike last year, however, there will be no strict dress or behavioural code. No more white linen and genteel attire. This time, imagination (like the gin) will run riot.

So here are some of Tot V and my suggestions to turn this into a memorable event (obviously Tot V won't remember a thing, poor old sausage...).

Settings

World War 2. Deserts. Caves. Torture Chambers. Monasteries. Frescoes. Deathbeds. Orchards. Barracks. The Royal Geographic Society. Aeroplanes. Canadians. Bonfires.

Sayings

Chaps only in the long bar. I am not missing you yet. Supra-sternal notch. A very plum plum. Lashings of apologies (natch). Old sausage. Romantic love, Platonic love, filial love. He didn't speak for nine hours. She's charming and has read everything. In ltaly, you get chickens but no eggs. For God's sake, man, pull yourself together.

Suggested reading

Herodotus. Maps. Ondaatje. Days of Grace. The National Geographic. Scrapbooks.

Games

Spin the bottle. Guess the Herodotus quote. Hop-scotch. Treasure hunt. Keep the candle burning. Unearth the people-filled car. Hide the sausage.

Music genre

North African tribal songs. 1930s jazz. Foxtrot. Tango. Electro banging rock. Britney and Edith.

Costumes will be compulsory, as usual, but each invitee will have the liberty to interpret all of the above and turn it into a smash fash. Naturally, best costumes will be rewarded with breathless flights over the Tuscan desert (Capalbio beach).

Here are some suggestions for some core attendees we expect will be coming.

Tot F: Katherine Clifton
Maude: The Old Sausage
PDF: Geoffrey Clifton
Filippo: Muller (a name for every finger)
Pam: Hana
Molly: Gioia (brief, but beautiful)
Heidi: Jan the Canadian hottie (who unfortunately likes lace pants too much)
Diana: Caravaggio
Jasmine: the beautiful Muslim nurse
Tot T: Madox
Le Duc: Bermann (Kamal's lover)
Annalisa: Kip
Michelle: Sergeant Hardy
Beth: Lady Hampton
Jon: D'Agostino
Tot V: Sexy belly dancer in Cairo bazaar, see Director's Cut.
Tot A: Count Laszlo de Almásy

I am aware I offended most of you here, despite Lady V's nagging in the corner, but if you can do better PROVE IT. There are no women in this film, and the community is awash with them. What can I say? Next year I guess we'll do Girl, Interrupted. Tot F to play Angelina, natch.

And if you're wondering who on earth you are, check the script.

See you on July 25th. I insist. Presents for Lady V, Molly and ME.

Happy New Year? Yeah, right...

Plenty was posted from this year's annual get-together in Rock-albegna, the renowned capital of music lovers from all the world. From him, to her, images and tales truly abound. What we lack, however, is a bit of PERSPECTIVE.

This is why I have decided to give MY OWN VERSION of the Eve's Travesty. Yes, my dear readers, 'cause it was a travesty in deed.

First of all: Tot T and I arrive to a house resembling the inside of an Arctic cave. -35 degrees Celcius, everything covered in variously-coloured moulds, moist sheets (and NOT for the reason you are thinking. That, perhaps, later).

By the time everyone arrives, Tot T and I have managed to bring some heat to the hovel, prepare decent food, make everything a little homely just like two gay boys can do. And what next? Tot F decides to BINGE IT like there's no tomorrow and arrives in a state of catatonic stupor. Blaming innocent Asian flu viruses, on top of all. It was clear to all a body like that cannot catch a cold. There's no flesh to get hold of.

Did I mention the broken projetor? Yes, dear readers. The vital machine, which keeps us all sane while we are stuck in the f*cking countryside decided it was high time to drop dead, despite its juvenile age. Tot T and I resolve to watch movies on my computah, and are saved when Tot F arrives with a new projector, kindly offered by Little J. Mind you, when the two leave to go back to the wretched capital, they take it with them leaving us to play MONOPOLY, in which we are soundly thrashed by Lady V the slum landlady. Can you believe it? The woman knows her property sh*t. Anyway, no comment on that little robbery. Pay back time is on its way, darling.

Then, of course, there was the day we all went skiing. Well, that's a bit fresh when speaking about two 15 degree leaning slopes coverd in slosh. But hey ho, we are in Tuscany after all, surrounded by Romans. Apex of the day? Sitting in a bar, Tot F slurping lightly on Little J, while 4 inbred brutes are eyeing us all up wondering whether to rape us AND kill us, or just kill us. Ladies: the Castro is NOT just around the corner.

Finally, NYE. Well, the dumpling making wrecked by inner OCD kid. While I fretted meticulously on the exact foldings of each dumpling, everyone else was slapping pork and pasta sheets together like there's no tomorrow, juices running high. Inside I wanted to grab a Beretta and put an end to all the misery. Outside, I smiled and wore Sheyam hair to make me feel better.

Next year I am going to Mali. ON. MY. OWN. (with Tot T). Rah.