Tot Triumph Testimony To Talent Thrust

Extract from Vogue's website, society page, October 2008:

Lady V was today awarded the Golden Clit, the highest literary award in lesbian literature. Speaking before an audience of 500 female top models, she thanked her agent and literary mentors, Tot F and Tot A, before body-surfing her way to the nearest private room, where 5 selected guests, including Kate Moss, proceeded to thank her personally for having disclosed to them the wonders of sapphic love.

All God's Girls, her celebrated novel, has already sold over 5m copies and has been translated in 23 languages, including Urdu and Swahili. It was awarded earlier this year the Man Booker and the Betty Trask Prizes. It is now set to become a Hollywood blockbuster, starring Ellen Page and Maggie Smith as the young and old Nora, respectively.

Speaking at a press conference earlier in the afternoon, Lady V confessed to being "overwhelmed" with the recognition given to her, but added that "her mentors knew she was creating a masterpiece all along". Standing by her side wearing Vivienne Westwood, Tot F and Tot A are widely accredited with being the inspiring characters behind her forthcoming novel, Northern Wind, Southern Blow, due to be published by Portobello later this year.

Lady V was reported to be slightly tipsy when she left the Ritz, where the Golden Clit award ceremony was held. She was later seen in a fashionable writers' club by our Soho correspondent, and heard saying "Now I know what Virgina Wolf would do".

Lady V: you are our role model.

To new comers. To old hands.

The early flight, leaving permanent scars on our normally fresh faces.


The general disbelief at random conversation beneath a menacing sky.


The wild baking, basting, stirring and glazing.


And the ones who didn't make it, leaving us alone to fend with all-night conversations, near-drug overdoses, Californian soaps and tortellini.


Miss it already...

In full expectation

Weather forecast for this weekend in Tuscany: abundant rain, likely storms, possibly turning into snow blizzards, with gusty winds blowing across the valleys and menacing clouds whirling above our heads.

Activity forecast for this weekend in Tuscany: sleeping for yonks, eating amazing delicacies, drinking too much, talking loads of rubbish, lighting warm fires, watching TONS of amazing movies.

Giddy inside.

Goodbye Anthony

When an artist dies
a world dies with him...

Ahrt, dahling

I just had to post this, because it embodies so much of what I think it utter b*llocks with contemporary conceptual art.

A flying steamroller? Who else could have come up with such a stupid idea but Chris Burden, better known for crucifying himself to a VW Beetle and spending £150,000 of UK taxpayers' money to dock a crewless, self-navigating yacht into Newcastle?

Please give us a break, and go serve meals to homeless people, if you really have nothing better to do...

A long lost friend

There is nothing more amazing than reconnecting with a long-lost friend and finding that you still share a lot, in the past, in the present and in the future.

You rock, Alex.

Waiting period

According to Wikipedia:

A waiting period is a period of time which one must wait in order for a specific action to occur, after that action is requested or mandated. The term is commonly used in reference to gun control in the United States, where some U.S. states required a person to wait for a set number of days after buying or reserving a firearm at a dealer before actually taking possession of it.

I am tired of waiting...

Littering London's Walls

Sometimes living in London means being subjected to heavy bombardment. And I am not talking about The Blitz or miscellaneous terrorist attacks. I am talking about billboards.

We're all pretty used to the alluring images of scantily clad models peering at us from a bus-stop and luring us into purchasing clothes or products that will never make us look like them (yet, we still delude ourselves and spend spend spend):


We're also pretty accustomed to the periodical floods of political posters during electoral campaigns, which clutter our beautiful city for a month or so, but at least are taken down as rapidly as they were put up (can't say the same about politicians, unfortunately):


What we are not used to is seeing the city covered in sinister messages supposedly warning us about security threats and giving us "friendly" advice on how to behave, should we see anything vaguely suspicious:


For a country that prides itself on respecting individual liberties, we have certainly come a long way. There are over 10,000 CCTV cameras in London (making no difference whatsoever on the authorities' capacity to solve or prevent crimes). Given their wide diffusion, it is legitimate to suggest that most will end up in the background of pictures being taken by perfectly decent citizens or tourists as they snap away at monuments, or at their friends and families.

Is the MET really serious when it asks us to report each and everyone of these individuals? If we did it, we would surely bring the whole police apparatus to a grinding halt.

Some people have the spirit to point out the absurdity of this campaign, but I wonder whether their voices are truly heard outside a few geeky sites I happen to visit regularly:


We seem to live in such a plastified era that usually intelligent people are convinced they can truly affect social behaviour by shouting poignant messages from a billboard. Personally, this campaign has left me with the uneasy feeling that the police force has absolutely no idea how to go about stopping terrorists, and is now resorting to turning London into East Berlin, where children were encouraged to spy on their parents and report any suspicious anti-Communist activity. We all know how well all that went.

I am left wondering, in this era of ever-increasing marketing bombardments, whether anything we see on a London wall has ANY effect whatsoever on our behaviour. Am I really going to stop bullying the kid next door because I see this?


The message is worthy, but fighting homophobia - just like terrorism - will take much more than a few posters. And fearmongering has never been a wise way to deal with threats. Long are the days, alas, when the authorities encouraged Londoners - who were dying under German bombs - with this kind of message:


Or this one, dramatic and reassuring at the same time, certainly one of my favourites:


I just wish citizens, politicians, policemen, terrorists and everyone else that walks around my city every day, just stopped for a moment and thought: wouldn't it be nice if - for one week, even one day - London's walls looked like this?

We Heart Felix Da Housecat

His latest album, Virgo Blaktro & The Movie Disco, is absolutely brilliant. In Louis Pattison's words:

The other side of a brief intro and an opening track, “Moviedisco”, which moves in the woozy, faintly hallucinogenic disco territory favoured by late ‘70s Italian film producers, this is largely a cheerfully, optimistic, permanently ‘up’ album. The pumping “Like Something For Porno” matches languid guitar licks, handclaps and a ecstatic female vocal that’s interrupted midway through by a couple of voices ripe for amour, while the excellent “Sweetfrosti” is a synth-spotter’s dream, shimmering and multi-layered with a strong early-‘80s flavour.

I couldn't have put it better

Milanese notes

Having just returned from a week-long visit to Milan, I felt the urge to dedicate an entry to this wonderful city, which despite historic waves of foreign invasions, forced industrialisation and reluctant globalisation, manages to retain an untamed and unique spirit.

Milan is an ugly city. Yet, after a few hours of aimless roaming through its cobbled streets, one cannot help feeling a strange attraction for this incoherent assembly of ancient palaces and cement blocks. It is only after a few days, though, that one understands what the secret of Milan is: its people. Notoriously hostile like Newyorkers and rude like Parisians, one should hate them. Instead, they soon reveal a rather unique trait, a mixture of dry humour and cheekiness that is most endearing because it comes across when least expected. Never have cab journeys been so much fun.

So here's to Milan, to its wit and to its wonderfully bizarre citizens...!

A la mensa collettiva a gh’è el mangià che stracca
se va denter con la forza e se vègn foeura con la fiacca
la minestra semper bònna perchè la dis mai nient
t’en dann ona tazzinna ma ghe manca el condiment.

la minestra semper bonna perchè la dis mai nient
t’en dann ona tazzinna ma ghe manca el condiment.

Se te voeuret per vint lira te dann anca el bologna
la grassa che gh’era denter l’è scappada de la vergogna
quatter rav in insalada fettin ben ben tajàa
merluzz che te refilen el campana ’me on dannàa

quatter rav in insalada fettin ben ben tajàa
merluzz che te refilen el campana ’me on dannàa.

A la mensa collettiva gh’è i sbarbàa de la via Arèna,
ghe va anca el scior Giacòbbe con la sciora Maddalèna
Lisander ch’el starnuda e’l Rico perrucchée
la mensa collettiva la fa sú di grand danée ,

Lisander ch’el starnuda e’l Rico perrucchée
la mensa collettiva la fa sú di grand danée.

A question

As most people will probably know, the young Adolf Hitler lived a bohemian life in Vienna between 1905 and 1913, trying to pursue a career in the fine arts.

Now here's a question for you. Imagine you were a young artist living in Vienna at the time. Imagine you're sharing your premises with a strange man, who's habits include heavy drinking and sudden outbursts against certain ethnic or sexual groups. You spend your evenings with friends, often laughing nervously at the outrageous statements of the socially-dysfunctional housemate.

Now we all know how that ended. So it is legitimate to ask ourselves: why didn't the people living with Hitler during these crucial years do something about it? Why didn't they force him to see a psychiatrist? Or perhaps take more drastic action? We can now legitimately say that they are partially responsible for all that happened after.

With this in mind, jump to the year 2008. London. You have a group of young friends living and working closely together. One of them is this socially-dysfunctional character, who often gets drunk and has a penchant for sudden outbursts against certain ethnic or sexual groups. His career is - incomprehensibly to everyone else - going swimmingly. He soon might be given a position of relative power.

So here's the question. Should the group of friends:

A - Carry on laughing with/at him. This is after all the XXI century. Mass murder and world wars don't happen any more!

B - Force him to seek immediate professional help at the local psychiatric ward, while simultaneously alerting the police so that they start bugging his phone.

C - Kill him. There is no other way out.

I think all my readers know very well who I am talking about...

Paris Hilton inc.

Its really hard to recognize what defines a decade when you are in it, but I would hazard a guess that mindless celebrity culture might be it. Obviously, celebrity has always been a huge component of culture, but recently it has become the dominant one. This has been a decade where America went to war and nobody paid attention because they were more interested in Paris Hilton’s court outfit.

With these words, Smashing Telly introduces us to this fascinating and disturbing documentary about the celebrity machine in the US, who has created the Paris Hilton phenomenon, who in turn feeds herself on the media that have spawned her.

The documentary explains it better than I have. Go watch it!

Frozen Grand Central

This is absolutely amazing, LOVED it...!

The incriminating evidence

It was extremely hard to choose from the tens of brilliant photos taken during this trip, but here is a rundown of the most important moments and special people I spent my time in Canada, the US and the DR with.

Canada, at last!


The Critters 1, the Onslaught:


The Critters 2, the Return:


Someone trying to be part of the picture. We'd have none of it.


Good morning Vancouver!


Our final, slightly boozy lunch, with a tearful Tot V on the other side of the phone:


The couple that knows how to have a good time...


... and man who knows how to keep it real!


Spot the relations:


Goodbye NYC...


... hello DR!!!


The always wonderful Leti:

Fools!

I think we all know what this will lead to:

Save The Children, Dahling...

You must all by now know about Madonna's selfless efforts last night to raise a few bucks for children in Malawi:

Well, you'll be happy to hear that the purely altruistic GUCCI/ Unicef fundraiser for Malawi went off smashingly last night at the UN; no thanks to you, cheapskate, who didn't even buy a single $2000 ticket. Luckily for Africa, people like Madonna, Ashton Kutcher, Tom Cruise, and J-Lo are willing to put the welfare of refugees before their own needs. Some of them even showed up in new Gucci outfits, in order to help the company, which is a force for good in this world. Madonna took on the accusations "made mainly by bloggers" that the event is a sickening, decadent fashion orgy, a sham passed off as a benefit for a charity that is run by the co-director of the Kabbalah Center . The Material Girl doesn't pay attention to that talk, because it's that same old "controversy surrounding anything that involves change."

Well, once you've read Gawker's full review, and seen all the pictures, you must see this:


How Can We Raise Awareness In Darfur Of How Much We're Doing For Them?

The Onion guys... Some times I just wish they ran the whole system...

Back in London

After 3 weeks of almost uninterrupted travels, here I am back in London, with a snotty nose and a cough because my body tends to react with violence to air-travel and air-conditioning, both very present in my last few weeks. Very unlike me, I brought a camera with me this time to document my adventures. Very like me, however, I am unable to retrieve these pictures at the moment, so you'll have to wait a little longer before I post them here (slash forever, as after my trip to Uganda, when I failed to post a single video of the hundreds I took).

Instead, you'll be delighted to hear that - in the company of Japan-headed Tot F or alone - I have been treating myself to several moving pictures. From the ridiculous I Am Legend by Francis Lawrence (a shameless remake of Danny Boyle's 28 Days Later, only with less subtlety and more special effects) to the sublime No Country for Old Men, by the Cohen Brothers, with a breathtaking performance by Javier Bardem as a psychopath let loose on the towns and villages near the Rio Grande, there sure is no shortage of good films out at the moment.


But one triumphed above all, forcing me to grab Tot's arm repeatedly during the screening and to shriek with pleasure as the masterpiece unfolded for 158 wonderful minutes: There Will Be Blood. I could bang on for ages about Paul Anderson's post-Magnolia coup, which redeems him for me - after what I considered the most indigestible film ever made - in the eyes of men and gods alike. Or I could praise Paul Dano's brilliant coming of age with his brilliant personification of a religious fanatic.


Yet, it is Daniel Day-Lewis' performance which makes this an epic movie. There is nothing else for me to say, except: go see it.

Skinny dogs and all

There are times when ones has to feel ashamed of compatriots. Like today, when I was sitting in a bar in the old colonial centre of Santo Domingo, and an Italian blond woman stormed in. Speaking exclusively in Italian, seemingly unaware that Dominicans speak Spanish, she demanded a sandwhich for a poor skinny dog ("un cane, un povero cane!") she had spotted outside. This in a country where millions of people live below the poverty line and children die of easily preventable diseases in the slums that surround the major cities. This literally in front of an equally skinny beggar with no legs that was asking for some change in front of the bar´s entrance.

Needless to say, I buried my face in my hands, while customers around the counter discussed vehemently what "cane" might mean. When one pointed out that it meant "perro", everyone erupted in delighted laughter. The woman left in a huff.

Indeed, things seem not to have changed in the DR. The streets are still full of young dominican girls with incredibly elaborate nail polish, dodgy-looking Western male tourists looking for a cheap sexual thrill and furtive Haitian migrants selling anything from paintings to spare car parts. While I haven´t ventured outside the capital yet, and have certainly not met my old friends in Santiago, the 24 hours spent in Santo Domingo where enough to remind me why I fell in love with this country, and subsequently started loathing it. It seems to embody all that is wrong in the relationship between developed and developing world. And yet, it is absolutely enchanting.



Quite a far cry from the last few days in Vancouver and New York. While the former, with its wide waterfronts, uber-clean sidewalks and healthy-looking inhabitants forced me and my faithful travel companion Tot F to hide into local cinemas for most of the time, the latter simply blew me away. I had forgotten how absolutely huge and desperately lively it is. All night Korean restaurants serving steamy pots of noodles. Lesbian art openings where I was asked (at 8 pm!!!) to join a threesome. Weimer-inspired drag cabarets with absurdly clad men in their 30s. Giant stuffed toys in the shape of tarantulas, which could scare the hell out of an adult, let alone a child. And of course, the sight of gorgeous Oats, her eyes shining with delight every time I spoke about the Tots back at home.

Everything in New York seems made to dazzle and exceed. London - and I never thought I`d say this - appears like a sleepy village in comparison. I might have fallen in love with it. I might have to come back soon. Very soon.

An update

Zo

It's been a few days since I left Old Europe and I have to say, so far I am not missing it much, except of course for the company of those I love. Canada is just what I expected: a wonderful nation of the North. And also the quick transit through the US didn't offer surprises. Security checks at NYC were awful, with Nazi-looking border guards grilling me for hours on my life and whatnot.

I am staying in a modern flat in a complex just outside the small town of Whistler, the posh ski resort that will play host to the 2010 Winter Olympics. Skiing here is an absolute pleasure. The weather has mostly been stunning, and even when clouds covered the town, most slopes were actually above the cloud line, creating this magical effect of skiing in the sky. Interestingly, despite the fact that we are 2 years away from the games, almost everything is ready. It reminded me of when Turin played host to the Winter Olympics, and almost nothing was ready just weeks from the event. Oh well.

The one weird thing is that Whistler has some of the most amazing skiing one could desire: long, perfectly manned pistes for km on end, running through woods and above glaciers. It's a skier's paradise. Yet, the town itself looks like shit. Millions spent in expensive hotels and apartments, yet not one of them looking even remotely good. I am afraid Canada could do with a lesson or two from us Old Europeans on how to design a beautiful mountain resort.

I am staying with old Tot F, who yesterday decided she was hotting the slopes on her snowboard. That lasted until she fell on her head, which forced her to crawl down the mountain and return home. Today, a little more sheepishly, she was back on the skis, giving us all lessons in style. For she is a good powder plougher, as we all know. She bounces on those pistes like a little cangaroo, the wonderful creature.

We are sharing the flat with Rob, a friend of F, and his step sister's family, which includes a 4 month old baby, a super-cool dad with a 40 cm pony tail and the body of a diver, and a 14 yo teenage daughter who loves mountains, Barbara Kingsolver and Gossip Girl. Naturally, we are in awe.

As far as my skiing is concerned, today there was the big breakthrough. After almost 20 years of crap descents, a few well-placed words of advice and some of the best snow I have ever touched led to one of those "AHA" moments, when I suddenly remembered what this sport is all about. Suddenly, the legs came together, the movements became harmonious and the body responsive like a musical instrument. I returned to my childhood on the Alpine slopes, and fell in love once more with this wonderful sport. I also realised that spending even 20 minutes on my ass trying to learn how to snowboard would be a crime. God knows when I'll be able to come back to these wonderful mountains. Let's just accept that I am from a generation that didn't know the horrid board. We are old fashioned people after all...

So there goes. Canada rocks. We love it...

Canadaaaaaaaa!!!!!!

Cana-duh! Here I come!!!!!

The mountain which I will descend on my bum:



The traditional food I will be downing once I roll to the bottom of the valley:



And the locals whom I expect to exchange pleasant views about the weather with:



Canada: get ready! The Italians are about to rock your icy foundations!!!