Italy is Strange

Balloons, Roses and Scum

2006-05-08T18:12:00.000+02:00

Matmos played the Whitney Museum. Here are some blurry pics:

That's Kiki from Kiki & Herb reading from SCUM Manifesto while the Matmos dude blows up a balloon and then plays it.

That's SO Percussion playing with the Matmos dudes, and yeah, that guy is playing with roses.

The show was pretty packed but the crowd was really cool, friendly arty types. Except for this dude:

You know this type of guy? Shows up 5 minutes before the show, pushes his way in front of you, spends half of the show on his cell phone, pushing other peeps out of the way to get picture on his PDA or whatever that little doo-dad is.

He blocked my way when the Matmos dudes were playing a mic'd birdcage with bows. So no blurry pic of that.

In spite of the a-hole, we had a great time.

Oh, and the Matmos guy say in pretty good Italian too: La Rosa Ha Denti Nella Bocca Della Bestia.

Whacko, Manson, and Cum Towels

2006-04-25T03:33:00.000+02:00

Friday night Sands, Greg and I caught the opening of the John Waters exhibit at the Marianne Boesky gallery. As soon as we entered, the boys grabbed some welcoming beers in a bin -- bottleopener hanging on the wall -- and we strolled around. Here's some of what we saw:

I'd like one of these:

Baby Michael Jackson crawling across the floor to play with baby Charles Manson:

Creepy. Yet hysterical.

John Waters was there, floating around explaining his pieces and occassionally posing for pictures. Can you see him?? He's there. Squint:

Ah, it's good to be back home.

MySpace Lovin'

2006-04-12T18:09:00.000+02:00

Everyone seems to be up in arms about MySpace here in the US. Peeps are afraid their kids are gonna get solicited sexually via the site and then they’ll end up prostituting themselves and making porno films.

MSNBC says: “Police say predators troll the site, and others like it, looking for vulnerable children, sometimes very young ones.”

Pu-lease.

I wasn’t too interested in joining MySpace, after Nerve (date a freak a week) and Friendster (the high school popularity contest), and I’ve already got email and a blog to communicate cyberly, but someone convinced me, and boy was I glad I did. If not, I would never have received these gems:

Hi
my name is walid. im egyption. can we be friends ? i wish
if u want ... send me ur agree to my adding u on my friends on myspace and add me too plz send me ur e_mail@yahoo or ur e_mail@hotmail im online now send me now
many thanks if u do if u want add me now and let us chat now i wish
walid

hi i am chuks bekee from nigeria how is life with u over there hope fine? its nice to meet some one like u hope u dont mind. i appriciate ur beauty i saw ur profile in the net and i was moved with ur beauty and the way u look so charming and wounderful .I will like some one like u to be my life time friend i mean spending my life times with u i beliieve some one like u will be cincare and truthfull ,with a man that will love u with all his life and also ,be cincare to u . I believe i will be cincare to u because i dont believe in dating two women, i believe in keeping to one woman and i will keep to u if u so desire me into ur life. i was so moved when i saw ur pic in ur profile, i see u as a woman that can keep a home,i see u as a woman that need not to be haurt ,u need just petting of wich i will make u feel like a real woman if u let me into ur life as ur husband and will make u understand the taste of love .the love and kindness i will show to u will make u forget all the sorrows u have had in this life and u will be a happy woman again . I want u to know ur special u are not like other women u are a woman of integrity, a woman of honor a woman full of understanding and favour no woman has so moved me like u in ur picture i saw in ur profile u are too beautifull i dont want to miss u i mean i have developed i very deep love for u since i saw ur picture in ur profile i am beginning to get crazy about u so i decieded to write u if u will acept me into ur life as ur friend .My dream in life is to meet some body like u and GOD has made it available for me to come in contac with u so iam happy and will not like to miss u i will be happy to hear from u .U can write me trough my email adress please do u speak inglish . i will be happy if u reply this letter THANX.pls send me ur phone number and ur house adress so that i can write or send u a letter bye.

hi how are you my name is assem. i wish to hear from u soon. sorry for my bad english see u soon and i love the love but i need the love and marry im very romance

Hi , saw u pix i and was bloshing. quite cool. Honestly i will love to know u more....Itching to hear from you...take kia of u, i am 35 year old. i am in africa for project i leave in us single here hope to hear from u
Denis

Nope, I don't respond to any of these. And if I were 14, I wouldn't respond. But they are pretty freakin entertaining, especially that dude who thinks I keep a good home. Hahhahahahhaaha yeahhhh.

Long live MySpace. Good times.

La Grande Mela

2006-04-11T23:40:00.000+02:00

Well, folks, I am back in New York City after wrapping up the Olympic adventure and then taking some time to travel around Europe. Pretty surreal to be here, especially since I am staying at my mom's apartment in Bay Ridge. Gawd, I feel like I am in high school again. In Italy, I'd be called a "Mammona."

Anyway, due to cruel time constraints and a little thing called a privacy agreement, I wasn't able to post anything for months. But it's not like I wasn't writing, I was just waiting til the Olympics had finished, so I could split the country, and uh, not get in trouble for posting anything I shouldn't have.

So, if you don't mind, this blog is now gonna have to go backwards in time, and I'll start posting some of the observations I made along the way. The journey was pretty incredible. I worked with some amazing people, in one of the greatest cities in Italy (YES, Torino), on one of the biggest events you could imagine.

In my best Access Hollywood voice-over:

I'll take you behind the scenes and into the trenches as we uncover how an Olympic Ceremony really comes together! All the tears! All the joys! The highs and lows!

Whatever.

Happy reading and reminiscing.

Got Music, Will Travel

2006-02-22T19:54:00.000+01:00

I have officially fallen in love with Torino. This city is elegant, mysterious and easy to traverse, with or without bus tickets. The only shame is that I don’t get out too much. These Olypmics are all-consuming and leave little time for a private life. But when friends travel long and far to visit, I’ll make the effort to show off my new temporary hometown.

The first to visit was Norway Nick, who, living up his nickname, traveled by train all the way across Northern Italy to see his beloved Scandanavians, Sigur Ros. We made it to the show just two minutes before they hit the stage. I like to fall to sleep Sigur Ros, their music gives me a real calming yet eery vibe, leading to delightful, playful, and surreal dreams. Almost like seeing them live...

Next came Barbara, all the way from NYC by way of Milano who was lucky enough to hit town the same time Pamelia, my friend and former theremin teacher, was playing with her band Barbez. We all stopped by the Café Procope before the gig to meet up with the group for dinner. The show was fun but sparsely attended. Pamelia wowed my Italian and British friends playing her new theremin, a more compact and space-age Moog. Check her out at www.pameliakurstin.com

My Milan musicfreak cohort Maureen dropped by for The Go!Team show down the street at Café Procope (one of my favorite spots in Torino). The openers, Her Space Holiday, got us in the mood to dance. I could swear that some of their songs included bits and pieces of my favorite new-wave tracks from 20 years ago, it all seemed new yet reminiscent at the same time. By the time The Go!Team hit the stage we were in rare form. You cannot see a Go!Team gig and NOT shake your booty and we were evidence of that after only two numbers (sweating in the front row). After the gig we met the band and gave them all the kudos they deserved.

And finally Lil ‘8 skipped school for the day, travelling from Bologna to catch the Soulwax gig at Hiroshima. I turned 37 while they did their DJ/band thing onstage. I wish I could write more about the gig, but I don’t remember much. Old age.

Lingua Fa-Cock-Dah Lesson Three: One Word And One Word Only

2006-02-07T18:10:00.000+01:00

It's okay to ask an online dictionary for the translation of a word. I use them all the time. For ONE word. Like, incudine.

This is an incudine:

Yep, I learned that important word with the help of an online dictionary.

But, dude, don't ever use an online translation site to handle your entire MEMO. Or you can end up sending a mess like to this to all your colleagues:

Good morning,
last night to the hours 10,25 pm, the technicians of Panasonic they have realized that a Cluster of N° 4 Cabinet Mod. KUDO positioned in forehead to the point of the stage was probably fallen to earth during the manoeuvre of extraction to the outside of the stadium of the enormous cloth used in the tests. Further to have provoked a damage to the equipment (what now the appointees will quantify) what suggestion warmly is to see the procedure of the segment in matter and of the possible others that same problem list introduce again, to avoid further damages to equipments (Moving Heads, Audio Cluster, Television Cameras, Pyro) and People. In every case we will provide to put a safety cables to the Clusters in matter.

Right. Uh, thanks.

One word, not a memo. Dude.

What Difference Does It Make?

2005-11-24T22:32:00.000+01:00

Picking up and moving to another spot in the world is never easy. Sometimes it’s an escape, sometimes it’s a challenge, always it’s an adventure. Everything takes a bit of adjusting, you need to be ready and open to it. But there are a few differences that need to be pointed out. Take note:

-If you’d like to take mass transit, be sure to buy your ticket beforehand. Or don’t. You can’t pay your fare on the bus or tram here. You need to get your ticket at the magazine shop. Somehow this is just too much for me to remember in the morning, so often I find myself without a ticket. Now this ticket should be validated, basically you need to stamp it in a tiny machine that’s in the middle of the bus/tram. But if the bus/tram is packed, there is no way you’re gonna push your way through to the tiny yellow stamping box. So I just risk it. If a controller happens to come on board, you’ll see them from a mile away. They are in uniform, ready to dole out fines. At this point you can either stamp your ticket before they get to you or hop off. Yeah, I know, this isn’t honest and it could be akin to jumping the NYC subway turnstiles, but these people are just asking to be scammed with such a silly system in place.

-Let’s say you need to take a train to Bologna on Friday. Beware that Friday might be a strike-day! There will be signs posted all over the station, there will be notices in the paper, announcing the big STRIKE. There will still be some trains that run, mainly during rush hour, when most people use mass transit. Okay….so basically the transit workers strike from 9am until 5pm, when most peeps are in their cubes anyway. Like my friend Barbara noted, it’s a bit like a restaurant workers striking for the day, but not during lunch and dinner. Right. What makes these strikes so ineffective is that they are announced in advance. Very considerate but it sort of lessens their position of power, wouldn’t you say? I mean, we have wildcat strikes in the US, but we also have strikes when negotiations haven’t panned out too well, and the strike becomes a sort of last-ditch, but effective, effort on behalf of workers rights. Here the strikes are a bit more frequent (very often on Fridays, hmmmm), there is no surprise element, and anyway if the bus controllers strike you absolutely don’t have to validate those tickets….

-Oh and another thing. Of the subject of mass transit and on the subject of home appliances. Why does my washing machine take 1.5 hours to wash a load of laundry? It’s an e-t-e-r-n-i-t-y.

The Night Of A Thousand Tamarri

2005-11-19T14:11:00.000+01:00

My musical introduction to Torino was not what I expected. A couple of weeks after moving to my new hometown I found myself in the Mazda Palace in the midst of thousands of screaming teenagers, delirious from seeing the biggest band in Torino these days, Subsonica. Can’t say I dig their music, but the crowd sure did. The crowd…hmmm…a bit tamarro. Tamarro is a GREAT word, sort of represents the kinda guy you’d see at a bagel shop on 18th Avenue, wifebeater t-shirt, too tight jeans, maybe overdoing the logos a bit, on his cell phone chatting with some chick he’s calling “doll,” while his camarro is double-parked outside, house music on full blast.

Anyway. I sat in my seat trying to decipher their lyrics. Everybody else was bopping along and I felt like the soccer mom who had to bring her teenage daughter and her best friend to a concert. Argh.

Things brightened up a bit later. Coco Rosie played a well-known spot called Hiroshima. Got there 3 songs into the show, but what I saw was splendid. The human beat box, the harp, even the video loop….it was all great and restored my faith. I feel like I’m moving the right direction…away from the tamarri....back to my own little indie world....

The Last Milanese Hoorah

2005-10-10T17:16:00.000+02:00

It’s time for part three of the Italian adventure. Torino. A city I know nothing about, except that it was once the capital of Italy. And what the Milanesi tell me…that it’s an ugly, cold city. I’ll be spending the next five months there, thanks for words of encouragement, y’all!

A change of city requires a last-night party. But since I’ll be moving back and forth for a few weeks, the last-night stretches out a few days, starting off with The Raveonettes show at Rainbow. We skip the opening act, getting there just before the Scandanavians hit the stage. They are good, danceable fun and Orla, Brian and I bop along with their sixties-inspired indie pop. There are a lot of Goths in the crowd. I’m thinking these people got it wrong. Marilyn Manson played a few months back. As it turns out, Friday night is goth night at the club, so right after the show ends, we split. (I got rid of my goth clothes loooooong ago. Uh, yeah, I was goth for like 10 minutes in 1984)….

…and we end up at Magazzini Generali, downstairs at Nana’s Take Me Out Friday night party, where my friend Natasha is spinning her brit-rock and we’re dancing along. Sune, one half of The Raveonettes, is supposed to spin as well, but he just spends the night, like the other Raveonetters, chatting away and sipping drinks. Natasha does a fine job, I’m shaking my booty, and before you know it, the clock turns four and we move upstairs to the big dancefloor. It’s packed, boys are dancing with other boys and I’m suddenly feeling like I’m at a gay club in NYC. But these guys are straight. Oh man, this country screws up my gaydar so badly. Anyway, I end up talking to the guys in the band for awhile, til the security guards come over to kick us all out. The lights come on, blind us, then we’re outside, hugging, saying goodbye, in a sea of drunk Italian clubbers, as I tell Sune to salute the Big Apple for me. Oh no, I can’t get home. The subway stopped hours ago and you can’t get a cab for a grand if you tried. So I end up in a car, driven to a design studio, where an impromptu party, complete with wine, cheese and pickles breaks out. The people are young, friendly, creative…practicing their English with me. At 7.30am, a kind soul gives me a lift to the subway station and I take the long ride of shame home, the birds, sunrise, and groggy shopkeepers greeting me as I stumbled towards my apartment.

After a few days in Torino (which I find a very elegant and charming city, by the way), I hop the train back to Milan for the Clem Snide show at Casa 139. That would have been a lovely, intimate show, but I never made it. Instead, Spoon was playing the same night and we foolishly thought we could catch both shows (in venues on opposite ends of the city) in the same night. Spoon was completely undersold, with not more than 100 people there max. I was shocked and discouraged that so many people were missing such a great band. But then…happiness…for there were just a few of us faithful there and the band was playing for US. Instead of cutting out to catch Clem Snide, we stayed til the end of Spoon and were rewarded with a little after-party with the band. Good times. The guys are down-to-earth, laid back, no attitude musicians. Kinda the way I imagine Austin to be…

Next stop Torino (with a few trips back to Milan for the occasional concert/dance-a-thon). I don’t know how much of Torino I’ll be able to discover with the hideous work hours I’m keeping these days, but I’m sure gonna give give it a shot.

Bond, Braveheart, Trainspotting and Fried Mars Bars: Sing It!

2005-09-26T22:23:00.000+02:00

I have a particular love of all things Scottish. It's not really an obsession, I just think that Scots are neat.

But after spending a Scottish-filled weekend in Milan, I'm embarrassed to admit: I have no idea what they are talking about.

Friday night I am at my friend Orla and Brian's house for dinner. Now Orla is from Dublin, so I have no problem understanding her at all, but Brian's from Glasgow and even though the accent is quite charming and all, in the end I'm lost. I just keep asking "what?" over and over.

Blah blah blah pish blah blah blah blah dabs blah blah blah....I had no idea what he was going on about. I made him play some Belle & Sebastian on his acoustic guitar cause it was the only way I'd be able to understand him for 7 consecutive words.

Saturday we all go to see a Scottish play. Uh oh. It's a one man show about a drag queen from Glasgow. It's in a small theatre and they've got subtitles on display to help the Italian audience. It should have helped me too, but between straining to make sense of the actor's accent and reading the subtitles, I think I understood a good 57%.

Oh, and the Scots know how to roll their Rs, so they already have a jump start on Italian.

By Sunday you'd think I'd be in good shape. Nope. We go see Into The Woods (Malcolm Middleton from Arab Strap and a few Delgados providing backup). Now when Malcolm was singing his sad, sad songs I got it. But afterwards, when I went to give him a hug (damn, he seemed to need it), I again couldn't make heads or tails of what he was saying. It was the strangest conversation I've had in a while. I'm in a foreign land, where I struggle everyday to make myself understood, and yet I can't understand someone who supposedly is speaking my language.

I've decided that any future conversations I shall hold with anyone from Scotland should be SUNG.

But Where's The Italian Art?

2005-09-17T00:06:00.000+02:00

The last time I caught the Venice Biennale was in 1990. I was studying in Siena and came up for the weekend with the sole intent of seeing the American Pavillion. Jenny Holzer was representing the U.S. and it was a sight to behold. I don't remember too much else from that Biennale, except sitting for hours in the dark pavillion, thrilled with Holzer's Truisms carved into marble tiles and benches, translated into French, German, Spanish, Italian. I followed Holzer's career since the first time I saw her posters flanked all over downtown in the 80s. Her pieces made you stop, made you look twice, made you think, made you confront what you really believed. I was an impressionable teenager and this shit was right up my alley.

So, this was no small outing in my eyes. This was the type of exhibit you get excited about....much like a concert you've been waiting months to see, the tickets burning a hole in your pocket as you count the days til the band finally gets HERE.

Me and Jenny Holzer in the American Pavillion, in Venice, two New Yorkers hanging (well, me hanging, her art hanging) in one of the most beautiful cities in the world.

She's back this year.

I can't even begin to express my disappointment.

With only a couple of hours to see the Pavillions, I rushed around the art world with Henry, Daniela and their friend Lorenzo. Barbara Kruger's piece welcomed us into the L'ESPERIENZA DELL'ARTE. I entered and tried to lose myself in a room, any room. Nada, rien, niente. Even Holzer's exhibit almost moved me to tears. Of boredom.

I don't make any pretenses about being an expert in art. But even my pedestrian tastes were underserved. I left feeling gypped. I left feeling nostalgic for the Biennale I experienced 15 years ago.

Oh, yeah, and where are all the Italian artists??

Ooops, I Forgot My Husband!

2005-09-14T22:25:00.000+02:00

What makes Italy the country where you're most likely to forget about someone??

I started to read the free press everyday on the metro to work. It's a free Italian lesson. Yes, it's dry and boring, but it's good practice anyway. One day I'll work up to something intellectual, but for now it's hooray-for-the-20-pager they shove in my face at the subway station.

Today I read this:

The husband forgot about her at a corner and she remained patiently waiting in the same spot for six hours. The 70-year-old French tourist left one of the two campers she'd been travelling around in with her spouse and two friends, in order to ask for directions in the center of Bergamo. After a few minutes, the two drivers took off, each thinking she was with the other one, leaving her behind.

This seems to be a trend.

I dunno, when I travel, I might leave behind my wallet, some travel-size shampoo, my PJs, a used condom, or even a paperback. I've never left behind a spouse (well, I don't have one, but if I did...). Why does this keep happening in these parts and what does this say about the institution of marriage??

Right. Travel with lovers, not spouses.

The Week, Uh, Month, In Rock

2005-09-12T23:30:00.000+02:00

A few gigs I've been to in the last week....er, month...that are worth mentioning....

Where: Urbino, Italy (a medieval town one hour from the seaside with VERY steep hills in the middle of Italy)
What: Frequency Disturbate festival
Who: Sons & Daughters (awesome as always), Sophia (everyone fell in love with them that night), Echo and The Bunnymen (sans mic problems like in Barcelona....we danced, at least I did), Four Tet (bit of a yawn), Blonde Redhead (also awesome), Yo La Tengo (maybe the first time I've seen them without being high, not the same, I soooo needed some grass).

P.S. Besides being absolutely gorgeous, S&D are very charming people. If Adele and Scott ever had babies, they would be the cutest babies with the cutest Scottish accents ever.

Where: South Street Seaport, New York City
What: Some music festival under the Brooklyn Bridge (Manhattan side)
Who: Devotchka (that lead singer dude plays a mean theremin) and Clap Your Hands Say Yeah (YEAH! SOOO FUN! SOOO CUTE! SOOO GONNA BE HUGE!!!)

P.S. With the NYC skyline in the background and a very friendly and happy crowd, this show made me realize how much I am in love with my hometown.

Where: Milan, Italy
What: Rock In Idro (a festival held in a park by a lake built by Mussolini fascists so they could land hydroplanes here)
Who: The Hives (fun, but as B&S would say, they don't send me)

P.S. The Offspring followed the Hives. I beat it.

Where: Bologna, Italy
What: Independent Day Festival (see last year's post for my half-ass explanation)
Who: Stars (a stellar show followed by a charming interview conducted by yours truly before I got completely wasted), Hot Hot Heat (just look at that dude's hair), Editors (played during the hottest part of the day better known as INFERNO...and they rocked, but does the lead singer have tourettes or schizophrenia or something mental?), Maximo Park (all that dancing around in a suit, whew), Blood Brothers (real mellow, quiet, folky....kidding), Futureheads (their last gig on their Eurotour, they played their little Anglo hearts out).

P.S. Despite the last minute cancellations of Bloc Party and The Ordinary Boys, the festival was still worth it. We missed The Bravery and some others, but I think I really got to see the creme de la fete. And I got laid.

Where: Milan, Italy
What: Festa Unita' (I still can't figure out what this is all about, something politically left with free shows and food and stuff)
Who: Wilco (pure delight, two hours of lovely American rockbluescountry with four guitars going at it onstage)

P.S. I just wanna hug Jeff Tweedy.

Alas, festival season is over. Adieu.

My Charming City, Hold Steady

2005-09-11T23:27:00.000+02:00

"The city, for the first time in its long history, is destructible. A single flight of planes no bigger than a wedge of geese can quickly end this island fantasy, burn the towers, crumble the bridges, turn the underground passages into lethal chambers, cremate the millions. The intimation of mortality is part of New York now; in the sounds of jets overhead, in the black headlines of the latest editions."

"All dwellers in cities must live with the stubborn fact of annihilation; in New York the fact is somewhat more concentrated because of the concentration of the city itself, and because, of all targets, New York has a certain clear priority. In the mind of whatever perverted dreamer might loose the lightning, New York must hold a steady, irresistible charm."

These prophetic words from E.B. White stick in my mind.

Four years later. I still shudder.

My Cat Is Human Afterall

2005-09-01T09:33:00.000+02:00

So last week I had to pick up Sam from Bergamo to bring him back to Milano. When I got to the entrance of the subway, where you validate your ticket, the two guards working there told me I had to buy a ticket for him too. Ah, what??? Sam is a CAT. They looked at me sleepily, rolled their eyes and repeated that I had to buy Sam a full-price ticket. I didn't believe them, I thought they were making fun of me, but I went along with them since I actually didn't have a valid ticket for myself and didn't want to make a fuss.

So I decided to follow up on this. The subway system here is called ATM and on their website they post some rules about travelling with your animal. This might be helpful if you plan to take your pets for a ride on the Milano mezzi. Oh, and remember to get them a full-priced ticket...

Dogs -- they must be small, on a leash. Or they can be big and be eye-seeing dogs. No small dogs during rush hour. Don't let your dog bother anybody.

Cats -- they must be in a catbox. This box shouldn't smell bad to other passengers. In other words, no dirty cats allowed. (Wish they had the same requirements for the people who ride the metro).

Birds -- They can't smell bad either. They need to stay in their cages, and you can only bring two birds per passenger.

Fish -- Each passenger can carry up to two fish. They can't be in a tank bigger than a "normal bag or shoebox." They shouldn't smell either (do live fish smell?).

Now I'm wondering about bunnies and geccos and snakes and mice. Why don't they have to pay?

All The News That's Fit To Print

2005-08-22T09:46:00.000+02:00

I got to catch up on world events while traveling to/from NYC. I’ll admit I’ve been out of the loop since moving to Milan. I don’t have a TV anymore, don’t listen to the radio, and don’t read the daily papers, so I was pretty psyched about the free newspaper supplied by British Airways -- without it, I would have missed a good chuckle over these two gems:

HUSBAND DRIVES OFF WITHOUT WIFE

A man who drove off and left his wife at an Italian garage realized she was missing only when contacted by police six hours later.
The Macedonian couple pulled over for petrol in the coastal city of Pesaro. After filling the tank, the husband drove away without noticing that his 30-year-old wife had got out to go to the lavatory.
The woman, who had no money or documents with her, contacted the police. They eventually traced her husband to Milan, 210 miles north. He told police his wife always sat in the back.

(Um, okay. Either the husband is blind -well, no, he was driving- or the wife is mute -well, no, she called the police. This is like a FOUR-hour drive -- we’re supposed to believe this guy had no idea his wife wasn’t in the car?? These people need marriage counseling big time).

RIVERS OF COKE

Italian scientists have discovered that 10 pounds of cocaine daily is being dumped into the Po river through users’ urine. More surprisingly, the level of residues translates into at least 40,000 daily doses of coke snorted by residents of the Po Valley – a great deal more than official estimates of 15,000 doses of cocaine per month.

(Hey, are all these cokeheads peeing in the Po river?? Ew, that’s just gross. Maybe the Macedonian husband stopped off by the Po river to snort a few lines before heading to the seaside and forgot about his old lady in the backseat?)

This place is insane.

Office Etiquette, Italian Style: Part One

2005-07-29T13:10:00.000+02:00

So I found a job. Yep, an office job. Now I know I swore I wouldn’t go and do that again, but I just couldn’t resist. I’m working with the production team in charge of the Opening Ceremonies of the Winter Olympics in Torino. I’d like to share more details, but they’ve got these CIA-like confidentiality clauses and stuff. You’ll just have to wait and see what’s in store for you, Olympiads. It’s gonna be awesome, and after it’s all over, I hope to get drunk and make out with the Swedish ski team.

I’d like to share some valuable information on Italian office etiquette here. For those of you planning to abandon your cube in NYC for la dolce vita, here are a few helpful hints to make your cultural transition smoother:

-The workday begins with coffee. You go to the local bar, order a teeny tiny espresso, and drink it in one fell swoop. Don’t even think of ordering a large coffee to take back with you, the whole to-go thing doesn’t exist and the coffee is like 1/32 the size of a Starbucks medium. Now if you’re like me and drink only tea, you’ll find yourself way behind your colleagues, trying to gulp down your English Breakfast, while everyone else has finished their coffee, paid, and had time enough for a cigarette.

-Lunch is a serious matter. There is no such thing as working through lunch. Lunchtime comes and everyone goes out to lunch, together, and has a hearty meal, followed by another teeny tiny espresso. This whole lunch thing lasts at least an hour. It’s nice to have this break in the day, but the time lost for lunch then just gets tagged on to the end of the day. I’m so used to working through lunch (run out, pick up a salad, run back to cube, eat in front of your computer) that this seems like an indulgence. I almost want a wee nap afterwards.

-The chicks who work here are a lot more fashionable than in any other office I’ve ever worked. They wear their clothes a lot tighter and a lot sparser. Frankly there is no one running around here with anything remotely baggy. Except me. Yes, even in production, the fashion parade is in full bloom. Consider yourself forewarned: in order to fit in, you might wanna discard the GAP outfit you got on sale and head over to Miu Miu for some appropriate office attire.

I'm heading back home for a week for a NYC fix. All of Italy shuts down around the 15th and the thought of hanging out alone in Milan is beyond aggravating. When I return at the end of August, the real Olympic adventure begins....in Torino. I'll keep y'all posted...til then, happy ferr'agosto!

Tower Of Babel

2005-07-13T15:19:00.000+02:00

If you find yourself by the Duomo in the center of Milan during the day, get ready for a linguistic adventure. Like all tourist hotspots, Piazza Duomo is a cacophony of foreign tongues, each gaggle of visitors following their guide, often carrying a flag or umbrella to lead the way. as they shout out historical facts. All the world is staring at the Duomo (which is now, and has been for a long time, covered in fabric while it undergoes some sort of renovation), snapping photos.

My ears have now grown accustomed to Italian, even though I communicate with friends here in a sort of Italian/English mix (Ita-ish? Eng-lian?). So much so that hearing other languages almost seems like a rude interrruption to the Italian symphony playing in my head. It's a musical language, with a distinct rhythm and cadence that is poetic and emotional and dramatic, like a soap opera mixed with Shakespeare. Passing quickly, sans iPod, I can grasp snippets of conversations. I smile at a young guy making typical hand gestures (fingers clenched, arms moving up and down to the beat of his own words) as he yells at his friend.

Italian mixes with other languages, including my very own, and the symphony becomes noise.The interruption is startling. In my head, this is how it sounds...

Italian:
doo doo daa doo dee doo duh duh duh dee do dee dee doo

American:
waah waah waah waah waah waah waah waah waah

German:
izen schwizen izen munchen fruchen druchen dunchen

Spanish:
oey oey taa taa taa aye aye aye oye oye taa taa taa aye aye

French:
joo joo jooo jeh loo loo lee joo loo lee veh voo voo

Slavic:
dosh dish desh dosh desh dish vish vosh vesh vitch ditch desh

I still firmly beleive Italian is the most beautiful language in the world. Impossible to master, but oh so lovely on the ears.

Off Flag Disco Peace

2005-07-07T09:30:00.000+02:00

In Italy, most clubs shut down for the summer, leaving the work to festival organizers. Every week there’s another festival, in every city and small town throughout this country, and it’s up to you, the music fan, to figure out which ones to go to and how to get there. No easy feat when you’re car-less.

My friend Maureen is good enough to give me a ride to festival taking place right outside of Milan. We’re going to catch one of her current favorite bands, OfflagaDiscoPax. Never heard of them before, although they had played the Miami Festival -- I must have been standing in the beer line. Anyway, here’s my chance to see what she’s raving about. Maureen has good taste...and she doesn’t let me down.

OfflagaDiscoPax is a trio hailing from Reggia Emilia. The music is wonderful -- and the singer, well, he doesn’t really sing. He’s got a spoken word thing going on. That may sound pretentious, but it’s not. Now, he’s speaking in another language, so granted, I didn’t get everything. I was struggling to make sense of the context, but from what I could gather, they are like little glimpses of life in those parts -- which turns out to be a communist hotbed. Someone gives me a photocopied pamphlet that contains the text and after the show the band tries to quickly to explain it. But really, I needed to translate it on my own.

So for you, my American readers, here is a bit of commie music from my favorite Italian band of the week. It's a little piece that explores the relationship between a simple product (chewing gum) and its relationship to a political stance (the Left). When I moved to Brooklyn, it was during the bubble gum craze and you'd have been hard pressed to find a kid who didn't have Bubble Yum in their mouths. We didn't attribute any political leanings to our chewing gum, we based our choice on personal preference. We were Americans and we were good consumers. The Bubble Yum fanaticism was brought to an abrupt end by one person: Mikey (the kid from the Life cereal commercials). Word on the street was that he died from chewing a piece of Bubble Yum that contained spider eggs. After you heard that story, you could almost feel the spider eggs as you chomped down on your grape Bubble Yum. Rather than running the risk of dying, we moved onto another brand. Bubblicious.

That's our story of chewing gum. Meanwhile. 3000 miles away, here's how an Italian saw it. Oh, and I'll take credit for the bad translation....

CINNAMON
The little consumer

The disappearance of the outlines of waiters outside of restaurants didn’t happen at a precise moment. These are thing that happen mysteriously, like the appearance of Togo chocolates.

Everything has changed. Take chewing gum. When I was young, it was the gumballs in their machines. It was even said that in black and white movies you could always spot a bit of color:in the gum balls. Then came technical improvements in TV transmission. If you were lucky, you had a friend who had an antenna that got Swiss or Capodistria channels. TV Capodistria was a volcano of emotions: partisan films where the Germans were the bad guys and the partisans were the really smart good guys. A socialist paradise.

After the gumballs came the Try Again, and you'd be even luckier. The coolest of these were Fort Apache. If you could handle those, you'd move onto Brooklyn, the gum of the bridge. In those days, chewing gum had a ton of flavor.

The best was Cinnamon, the most revolutionary of chewing gum.

Cinnamon was the real flavor of the Black Panthers, of Malcom X. Cinnmanon means cannella, but it doesn't matter. Cinnamon, when the nostalgia arrived, they abolished it: evaporated, gone!

You'd go to a bar and find only Centerfresh, the kind with the liquid inside. Chewing gum of the "silent majority." The Left succumbed and was forced to buy the chewing gum of their bosses. Boring. They were difficult times. Some people were dedicated to the Danish Stimorol, and others drugged themselves with Dentigum that you'd find only in the pharmacies.

Then a miracle: one day, at Circolo Gramsci, nearly despondent over the arrival of the Big Babol revolution, I glanced behind the counter: Cinnamon had returned!

Strange that the Unita' hadn't said anything.

They should dedicate a piazza in front of the mall to Cinnamon and to all the fallen soldiers.

Mezzi Confusioni

2005-06-21T22:12:00.000+02:00

Getting around Milano is best to do on foot. Even if you have a car, feet still rule. First, the street signs aren't clearly marked. Sometimes there just aren’t any street signs at all. Second, streets have a tendency to change their name without any notice. You’re on a street named after a poet born in 1817 and the next thing you know, you’re on a street named after a priest who died in 932. Now, if you’re walking around, map in hand, you can change direction with an about-face. But if you’re speeding around in a Fiat, it’s a little tougher....

Your other option is to take the “mezzi” ( which means "means") - this encompasses the subway, the trams, and the buses. If you’re without car, moped, bike, or skateboard, you’ll be stuck using the mezzi. I prefer the subway/metro myself, if only because there are three colorful lines and it’s sorta hard to mess up. There are even little LED signs on the platforms which tell you which train is coming when. These would be great in NYC, but I can just imagine the G line on a Saturday night: Direction Smith/9th Street: 2.5 hours. Here you've got a train coming in 4.5 minutes -- and wow, it actually shows up on time! There is also TV on the platform to keep you entertained while waiting for the train. From what I can understand, it's all movie trailers, commercials, and the occassional bureaucratic announcement. I'm not a big fan of the TV, but it's cool that the adverts stop to tell you your train is coming.

These days the metro is a little bit like the 6th circle of hell. I've been told that there are a few trains with AC, but I haven't been lucky enough to ride those yet. Usually I'm stuck in a car with a gazillion sweaty people, windows cracked open and an overwhelming smell of a high school locker room. Effervescent!

The other mezzi -- the tram and the bus -- I avoid. If someone tells me to catch one and where, okay, done -- but the problem is -- I have no idea where to get off. It's not like riding around in Manhattan, where the streets are numbered. Unless you're counting impaired, you're good as gold. Here it's another story.

The main problem with the mezzi is that they stop around midnight or so. After that, you're stuck with the RadioBus. You have to make a reservation for this and somehow it finds you and brings you home. Or a taxi, which costs an arm and a leg in these parts and which also requires a reservation. Too much work, I say. If I can't hail it, I'll just use my own personal mezzi -- my feet.

You say Mi Ami, I Say Miami

2005-06-20T23:23:00.000+02:00

It's ninety something degrees, the sun is a killer, and Milan's indie music lovers have gathered in the park of a former psychiatric hospital to sweat and mingle the day away. The festival is called Mi Ami (meaning: you love me), but we Americans can call it Miami, as in Florida, to make it easier. It sure was as hot as downtown Miami on an August afternoon. And the mosquitos had a field day with all the bare flesh on display.

Two groups performed that are worth mentioning to you Americans. Disco Drive is a punk funk Italian trio along the lines of Radio Four/!!! that are tons of fun. They have seemingly endless energy and when they sing (in clear English), lo and behold, I understand them! Another English singing Italian worth mentioning: goodmorningboy. Lovely folk-twinged singer who also happens to be easy on the eyes. His lyrics are poetic -- and also in English. Sweet.

Um, now, I never drink beer, but it was the only alcoholic beverage onsale as we floated around the ole nuthouse park. I was looking to fall off the sobriety wagon and party it up a bit. I did and woke up the next day with a beer hangover (grodier than wine or vodka) and limbs covered in mosqito bites. Um, how?? I wore stockings, for crying out loud. How the hell did they make it past those?? Sly Italian insects.

I'm so very happy to have finally found some great indie Italian bands. Go It-lee!

Milano e' Milano

2005-06-16T16:18:00.000+02:00

For the first time in like two decades I am unemployed. For me, it's a strange situation. When Kelsy came to visit, we spent some time discussing how we define ourselves, and how much what you do to earn your keep helps communicate to others who you are. It's like an instant label that strangers give you, and neither of us felt completely comfortable with that. She, because she works freelance, me, because, well, I'm not working. Does that mean I'm undefineable? Does that make it harder for new aquaintances to size me up? Perhaps. But it also forces me to find another language to communicate who I am. It's easier to do that here, in fact, because of the language barrier. I can use a simple word like "avventura" to explain why I am in Milano. Most people don't press onward after that.

So for the past couple of months I haven't been distracted by the daily grind. I've left myself free to explore. Milan to me is beautiful, no matter what the residents or guide books tell you. The public gardens are gorgeous and perfect for escaping into a book all afternoon. The central station looks like a movie set...it's got modern ticketing machines and led signs, but still evokes the feeling of stepping back in time (look up and around, it is breathtaking, like Grand Central). Do yourself a favor and walk around the center, Piazza Duomo, at 1am. This is Milano at its best. Everyone is fast asleep and it's just you and the streelights of Via Dante. And maybe an elderly accordian player packing it in for the night.

The Milanesi know how to do a happy hour. OK, I'm new here. so I'm particularly excited by the fact that between the hours of 5pm and 8pm you can meet up with friends, order a drink, stand outside (ahhhh, this is illegal on the streets of NYC) and eat your heart out at the free buffet. And it's good. Very good. No TGIF chicken wings or steamed dumplings. No, these guys know how to do a spread, and once you master the art of pushing through the crowd, you can gorge yourself like crazy. A godsend for the unemployed. Viva aperitivo!

I'm gonna have to find work soon. It's not just a question of funds. I'm not used to not working. It's been almost too tranquil and stress free. Plus I'm rotting my brain with too much MTV Italia. I now know the Vasco Rossi video by heart: he's sitting in a desert, at a desk, writng the lyrics to his song, gazing pensively into the distance, she's reading her diary and thinking about him, oooo and then she's masturbating on her bed, then she's on a yacht being served champagne, still thinking about him, then they meet and all these tiny bubbles appear, with the lyrics to his song written inside, and she's smiling and popping them. It's painful. Almost as painful as the James Blunt video: he's in the desert too, but he's buried, and his head is popping out and he's singing, singing to himself, and then this chick in white appears, and bugs are crawling past him and...OK, I'll stop.

The Beautiful People, La Bella Gente

2005-06-08T11:39:00.000+02:00

Last night I went to see a concert you couldn't pay me to see in NYC.

Marilyn Manson came to Milan in full regalia. The hall was packed with kids dressed up in their gothic best, with tinted lenses, full makeup, tats, and the pre-requisite black uniform. Just what you'd expect. Everyone singing along, or rather shouting and grunting in unison. At times, the entire audience looked frightening like Nazi youth, raising their right arms in the air when MM screamed his choruses.

MM spent a great deal of time changing costumes...his pauses were too long. So much so, we had no idea when the concert was over...while everyone waited for an encore, the crew started to dismantle the stage.

The self proclaimed Antichrist was more Vegas showgirl than gothic. And rude, leaving the stage without even a Ciao or Arrivederci. The highlight for sure were the three new wave covers: Eurythmics "Sweet Dreams," Depeche Mode's "Personal Jesus," and Soft Cell's "Tainted Love." At least these 80s icons should be pleased with MMs addition to their royalties pouch.

In any case, I'm so used to nonchalant indie crowds, it was sorta sweet to see some enthusiasm, even though the crowd was actually more mellow and well-behaved than I wanted them to be...

Barcelona Rawks

2005-05-21T02:14:00.000+02:00

After swinging her way through Paris and Amsterdam, Kelsy finally made it to Milan. We spent a good deal of time walzing through the city, eating typical Italian fare and drinking aperitvo after aperitivo. We even went to Tuscany for 4 days....traipsing our way through Pisa, Arezzo, San Gimignano, etc. In Siena I stopped by the Hugo Pratt show, which I'd highly recommend to all of you. I know nothing about the world of comics, but this guy was pure genius. The exhibit is organized by continent and is chock full of his watercolors of exotic women and somber soldiers. Skip the video part and go straight to his sketches. It's a great way to lose yourself for a couple of hours and offers a nice glimpse into the mind of the type of genius I love to love.

Now a trip to Europe is nothing without some good live shows, so I made sure that Kelsy got her fill. After a kickass show in Milan, the Arcade Fire were set to play Barcelona two days later...and we followed suit. Barthelona (God, I love that lispy accent) is heaven on earth. Tapas, wine, Gaudi galore, and beautiful people everywhere you look. We walked the city by day and by early evening we were at Primavera Sound, along with thousands others from every frikkin place in the world. We met Mexicans, Canadians, Scots, Brits, Italians, and of course Spaniards. The festival was well organized and jam packed with awesome bands. topping our list: the incredible Arcade Fire (nice people too), Sons and Daughters, Broken Social Scene (with the chick from Stars! -- the sweetest voice in pop music today), Outhud, Go! Team, and Radio 4. Other honorable mentions: The Futureheads, Dogs Die in Hot Cars, Micah P. Hinson. Bands that provoked adolescent feelings....Gang of Four and New Order (although the new New Order I could go without)...Human League also made a very Vegas-like appearance...they could have been playing Trump's casino...the only highlight was their encore, the formidable "Don't You Want Me" which everyone kept singing long after they cleared the stage. But to suffer through an hour of robotic stale synth music wasn't worth it. Echo and the Bunnymen played the indoor theater....had some mic problems and it took a while for the crowd to warm up. Kelsy and I just chilled in our seats bobbing along....saving our energy for the 8 hours of live music ahead of us....spare us the cutter...spare us the cutter...

We also got a glimpse of Steve Earle, who gave Spain props for electing a new government and pulling out of Iraq. Iggy Pop was his usual nutter self. Kristin Hersh seemed oh so sad playing her guitar alone on the stage. They Might Be Giants kept us wide awake at 2am and closed their set with "New York City" which I sang along to, soberly, at high volume.

We left Sunday morning after staying up all night, saying goodbye to Primavera and Barcelona while Erlend Oye DJ'd, telling the crowd "I can't believe they're paying me for this"....

We heart Barthelona.

Some photos can be found here:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/54416424@N00/

ENJOY!

Tonto and His Mod Pirates Bake Up A Storm

2005-05-17T11:46:00.000+02:00

My friend Tonto loves to bake cakes. All kinds of cakes, salty and sweet, chocolately and creamy. For his birthday, he plans a big party where he can bake cakes for 48 hours straight beforehand. Everyone comes to celebrate him and his cakes.

This year's birthday party has a pirate theme. Har har matey and all that. I hitch a ride back to PN in time for his big garden shindig. There are more cakes than seem possible, quiches, tiramisu, and even a chocolate cake in the form of a sausage. I'm thinking there is actually sausage in the cake, but when I taste it, it turns out to be all chocolate goodness and no pig.

Lots of PN pals are there and once they've had enough wine and sangria, the festivities begin. There is a group of young mods all decked out in pirate gear that are the main source of entertainment. There is Twister and Limbo. I resist participating in either, leaving the fun to much more flexible people.

Here is Tonto before he's tortured by Mod Pirates.

There Is No Williamsburg Here

2005-05-12T18:24:00.000+02:00

Nightlife in Milan. Hmmm, let's see.

Basically Milan is a lot smaller than I originally thought. The city can be covered on foot in like two hours, at a NYC pace. This means the indie scene is pretty small too. But there is definitely stuff going on, I just need to get a grip on it. I've seen Bloc Party (so drunk that night that it spurred my recent sobriety) at Transilvania, Lost Sounds at ZeroClub in Bergamo (a supercute city about 40 minutes drive), Bugo (the Italian Beck, um, don't ask, a sight to behold) at Leoncavallo (more on that place later) and Nouvelle Vague last night at Magazzini Generali (big club, free, 7 euro for a coca-cola, tres francais show, fun) and I somehow missed this dude Morgan who played at Casa 139 (my favorite place so far) because we went for pizza and missed his 5 song set. Shame cause I never ever heard De Andre' (explained to me as the Italian Bob Dylan) and this Morgan fella has redone one of his albums...and there was a theremin player in the group. ARGH! I wasn't even that hungry. Damn.

Anyway, so there are these squats, called Centro Sociale (like Leoncavallo) where artists, freebirds, what-have-you, take over and live there for basically free, except for electricity that they must pay for, and the community puts up with them (as I understand it). Sometimes they have shows and concerts and events. I went to see some performance art at one of them. The place was huge, with a courtyard covered with intertwining branches, and you enter one part, there's a bar, the other, there is some video/music thing happening, in the courtyard there is a fire in a garbage pail burning bright, and in another room there is a game going on. I lost the game, but not because of lack of trying. Oh, it involved gathering cards with images from people dressed up like Devo while they asked you to do things like dance or declare your love to a stranger. I tried but I can't dance the flamenco...and in the end all the cards I had racked up were stolen out of my bare hands by the aforementioned Devo peeps. In spite of my loser status, I had a good time barely understanding what was going on, and thoroughly enjoyed the guy barking like a dog on all fours...

I know Milan has more to offer, it's just about the discovery. And this discovery will be sober, just so I can remember it all and report back to you.

A Roman Holiday a la Fellini

2005-05-04T15:53:00.000+02:00

Labor Day in the US signals the unofficial end of summer and the seasonal end of white pants. Here in Italy, it means (to some at least) a chance to gather in a huge piazza in Rome and listen to band after band, with a little sprinkling of comedy and Union Leader speeches in between. My friend Sandro has invited me to tag along for the weekend and who am I to say no. I take the Eurostar from Milano to Roma, about a 4.5 hour ride, and I end up seated next to an older lady, originally from Florence, but now living in Rome for years. She turns out to be quite a conversationalist, so I skip the nap. She's had quite a life, moving all over the world, and now she teaches Greek and Latin to her grandchildren. She is a modest woman, but with a gentleness and profundity that is completely engaging. We arrive in no time and she invites me to visit her on my next trip to Rome.

I meet up with Sandro at the hotel and after a quick dinner we head to the center of Rome, near Piazza Navona and begin bar hopping. We meet up with some Italian bands who Sandro knows and I don't. One of them speaks to me in Spanish, I answer with 'Non se apoye contra la puerta.' There are a million people milling around these tiny streets, buildings covered in ivy, cobblestones tripping your feet, and bars packed with Italians and foreigners alike. I hear American accents everywhere. It's beautiful really. I resist getting drunk, alternating between coca-cola and water. We end up at a place called Jonathan's Angels, and there is Jonathan at the cash register. It takes forever to get served at the bar, giving me ample time to check out the artwork on the walls. Basically someone has painted Jonathan in a variety of situations....as a cardinal, as a renaissance artist, as a king...you get the picture. Jonathan himself looks like an aging biker dude, so the paintings themselves are pretty surreal. I can't stop staring at them...soberly...

By 4am we are ready to sleep, but finding a taxi in Rome at that hour is next to impossible. We walk the streets, calling the taxi number which is always busy, and finally find a cab after what seems like an hour.

Sunday is the big festival. Basically I can only explain it as very Felliniesque. There are hundreds of thousands of people crowded into the piazza, waving flags and wearing protest t-shirts. Backstage musicians and their people are milling around. Camera crews bombard the famous and I'm blindsighted, cause I can't tell who is famous here. Everyone seems like a movie character.

Sandro has to take care of Juliette Lewis and her band, who are here to make their Italian debut. We join them for dinner at a beautiful restaurant and I end up talking to one of her band dudes who works at the Knit in LA. He's got an amazing knowledge of music, as he should, and a very soothing way about him. It seems appropriate to say that given he's from LA, but it was true, he's got an AURA. We talk at length about tea vs. coffee. Juliette turns out to be a big Joseph Arthur fan so we chat a bit about his latest record. Actually, it's a pretty laid back dinner...although the pasta with tofu was a bit scary.

By time we get back to the piazza, everything is in full swing, and I get to watch some of the bands I met the night before doing their thing. Greg Dulli plays with Afterhours and they do a pretty kick ass cover of Helter Skelter. God, he is just amazing. Juliette and her band don't go on until 11pm, they do 4 songs, very Patti Smith...at least I think that's what they are going for. Not sure if the Italians got it or not...

Now the real reason for coming to Rome: Rufus Wainwright is playing tonight. I luckily meet up with a journalist that has to review the show, and we scour the streets together for a taxi to the Palma Club. Of course it takes forever, but the subway is closed, we have no other means of transport...and he's going on NOW. The taxi gods must have heard our pleas, cause one stops and takes us where we need to be. By the time we get there, we've missed 5 songs, but we're there in time to catch some of my faves and a lovely cover of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah." Oh, it's gorgeous. How can I even explain how gorgeous it all is? Sandro arrives just in time to witness the band strip down to their undies, as Rufus puts on angel wings, a tiara, and sports a magic wand in one hand and sparklers in another. At one point, his mom joins him onstage. I want this concert to go on forever.

I get to meet Rufus afterwards, but words fail me and I just manage to shake his hand and mutter something flattering.

This is the end of the Roman Holiday. let's leave it on this very high point (http://www.flickr.com/photos/54416424@N00/13257262/)

Hit Me With Your Best Shot

2005-04-22T21:07:00.000+02:00

WILL FUCK FOR COKE....that is written on some t-shirt. Saw it with my own eyes in some trendy boutique in San Babila. From the brand label attached to the tee I gather that this was designed by a couple of Spanish prisoners doing time for drug dealing and other things and that they create these tees as an outlet for their strangest thoughts and feelings. Hmmm. I think I'd prefer if they made license plates instead. The irony is sadly lacking in these clothes....it's laughable more than shockable.

Milan is supposed to be the fashion capital of the world, but fashion victim capital may be more appropriate. Lots of kids running around with Pat-Benatar-Joan-Jet haircuts and ridiculous clothes that should never ever have made a comeback.

I even fell victim to one of those haircuts, which the next day I promptly cut off short. It was some nasty misunderstanding between me and the hairstylist. Now, I am more housewife than 80s pop star, but at least I packed my hat which I will sport until it gets too hot.

Grow hair grow.

Obstacle #3....24 Hours in Friuli

2005-04-20T14:41:00.000+02:00

I'm in Milan only two days and it's already time to go back and visit my favorite town of freaks, Pordenone. Friday I hop on the train, miss my connection at Mestre and have to take one of the local three-level trains that stop at every po-dunk town between Veneto and Friuli. Finally we pull into Pordenone and I'm greeted by pouring rain and Ionela. We walk quickly to the New Pick and catch up with Ghetto King Fred and when Flavio meets us it's time to hit the road back to Mestre for the Interpol/Spoon show. It's strange to walk by my old apartment and think that I don't live there anymore....by now I should be used to this feeling, but somehow all the places I've lived in still seem like MINE...

Flavio and I are of course late to the show and get to hear like 5 seconds of the last Spoon number. There are a lot of PN friends, Nicky, Isa, Lucy, Flo, Paolo, Cristina and Francesca and I am trying to catch up with everyone. It's good to see them all.

Later we make our way backstage and set up an interview with Spoon for Nicky's show. He's got his portable tape recorder and starts asking Brit questions and somehow I take over since I'm more familiar with their music....but apparently that is not enough to make for a good interview. Hopefully this tape will never see the light of day. Maybe if I were drunk, I would have seemed like I had my shit together, but alas...

Apparently the guys in the band need to use DSL and Cri tells me that it's available at the New Age club in Treviso, so after the show we pile various band members into small Italian cars, drive them around for 40 minutes, find the club and get them drinks and internet access. We enter while some italian band is playing and they are asking me who it is, but I have no clue. It's typical rah-rah-happy-crazy Italian pop music. For the next few hours we dance, drink, smoke, and make sure the guys are taken care of. Carlos D is so put together it's scary. The boys from Spoon are super nice. Everyone is sorta getting drunk. By the time I check my watch it's 4am and Jeesh, I need to get some sleep.....

After totally passing out at Cri's house, it's nearly time to take the train back to the big city. I sleep the entire way, trying not to drool all over myself.

Benvenuto in Italia

2005-04-17T08:36:00.000+02:00

After an entire day of travelling, I arrive in Milano bleary-eyed and thirsty, with cockney accents rolling around my head because of a stopover in London. Ally comes to collect me and my duffle bags at Badthought airport and after we drop everything off at her place and I take a quick shower, we head out to see my friend Russ play some jazz. We make our way to a place called Corisco, which you get to by following the Naviglio, and when you arrive there are candles on a path that lead to what seems like an old church plopped down in the middle of a train station. Once inside you can see the headlights and feel the vibrations of the trains that speed by, but the music is clear and good. Russ plays so well -- considering he must be even more jetlagged than I am this point. The Swiss dude he's playing with is awesome too.

We continue the conversation we had started just two days before in his kitchen in Brooklyn....and then by midnight I am ready to crash so Ally brings me home and I sleep for what turns out to be 11 hours.

A nice welcome to Milano, with a dash of Brooklyn thrown in for good measure.

Leaving New York's Never Easy, But I Am

2005-04-06T06:48:00.000+02:00

The ticket is booked. The furniture has been sold. Old love letters burnt, old photos placed in albums. The three Enricos came and went. All that's left in front of me are GOODBYES.

Hate those.

The past two months flew by. Almost immediately after landing at JFK I fell ill. And I am still ill. Two months of a cold I can't shake and a rash that won't go away. The cold knocked me out a few nights, the rash acted as a cockblock to any sexing it up I was hoping to engage in (uh, NO, it's not VD, you evil naughty people). But it still didn't prevent me from living it up for these past 9 weeks. Friends I hadn't seen in over a year re-entered my world and we started up where we had left off. There were nights of honky-tonkin and broken debauchery, a few good shows (Autolux and Go Team! come to mind) and way too much alcohol and illicit things that I shall not divulge.

I love riding the NYC subway. I love that you can't understand the conductor EVER, I love the crazy people who talk to me even when I have my iPod up full volume, I love the deadly whistle of the brakes and the rocking of a fast train. It may be what I miss most when I am not here....the good ole transit system. Last week I was on the R train heading out to Bay Ridge and I caught a Chinese guy playing violin on the 59th Street platform. It was the sweetest sound I'd ever heard -- interrupted by the ding-ding of the closing doors, and during those few seconds before the train crept off, I felt like I had just witnessed what makes my hometown the most amazing metropolis on this planet. These tiny bits of beauty that you don't look for, they just appear....like they are just spat on you....and they can make you feel human again.

I don't know what lies ahead of me. Another adventure, which also means a chance to fall flat on my face. But at least if I do, I have a bunch of people ready to pick me up and disinfect my scrapes and bruises. With vodka and gin and rum. And that is exactly the sort of support system you want, lemme tell ya.

My Life In Five Bags

2005-02-04T21:59:00.000+01:00

A quick few days in Milan before heading home to the Big Apple. After rushing to clean the apartment and pack my life into five duffle bags, Cristina, Flavio and Tonto help me to the train station across the street. I'm on the direct train and I watch Pordenone drift away. I sigh.

Ally and Barbara meet me at the train station. The next 4 days are spent wandering around Milano, trying to discover the city of my future. We eat risotto Milanese and I catch up with the famiglia Buffa. Little Giacomo likes the way I say 'occhio' with my Frulan accent, so much so he calls me "Kellie O-cho."

I catch Kasabian on Saturday night and somehow end up in a circle of shirtless gay men bouncing around to L.S.F. Ahhhh, some things never change....

Tuesday night I take Ally and Barbara to dinner: Mexican with a huge pitcher of sangria. Good times. Ally starts singing a Grace Jones song, but she's off: "Slave to the riverrrrrrr." Ally, what river is that? Naviglio? Hudson? Noncello? Barbara starts explaining an episode of "Sex And The City" and starts screaming in a thick Italian accent "I'm coming! I'm coming!" More retardation. I'm gonna miss them tanto tanto...

But I've got two months in Brooklyn to sell everything I own, even my soul to corporate America, for the big move back to Milano. The next adventure starts April 6th. I will keep all 11 of you posted....

So Long, Farewell, Au Revoir, Arrivederci...

2005-01-18T09:34:00.000+01:00

The year long adventure in Pordenone is drawing to a close. In fact, a year ago yesterday I arrived at the Treviso airport from London. It was cloudy and gray and cold, a dampness in the air that made me shiver and made me doubt that I was actually in Italy....maybe the plane had just circled and landed in the UK?

I'd never been to Pordenone before...much less Friuli. I had no idea what to expect. Actually, I didn't expect much. The first three months were really tough: the bureacracy was frightening, the language barrier made it impossible to meet people, and without Internet or enough money to call home, I spent a lot of time with Sam, listening to music and watching DVDs.

By Springtime, though, the world warmed and opened up. Flo, the grumpy indie music store owner, made sure I met the Pordenonese music lovers. It's funny, no matter where you are in the world, you can be rest assured that music lovers will find other like minded peeps. I was lucky....and little by little I found people to go to concerts with, drink with, dance with, burn CDs with, and drink with some more....

Now I have to say goodbye to all the Enricos, Nickys, Cristina, Sara, Ottavia, Isabella, ecc ecc. Wouldn't it just be easier to stay and work in the porno palace for another year? Yep, it would, and I'm sure the year would be even more fantastic than 2004, if possible. But a new adventure is awaiting me....

Thanks PorNdenone. Except for a few dead weeks in August, I had a really swell time.

But Don't Forget The Songs....

2005-01-08T09:18:00.000+01:00

Last night, we payed homage on air to the greatest band ever: The Smiths.

Isa, Norway and I head to Udine to join Nicky in the booth. The drive to the station is spectacular...the fog is so thick you can't see two feet in front of you, though somehow this seems appropriate. A crisp sunshiney day would seem too much like listening to "The Queen Is Dead" on a yacht in the Florida Keys. Norway drives slowly and two hours later we're on air.

We all take turns playing our favorite Smiths tunes. Nicky's is "Asleep"...mine is "Death of a Disco Dancer".....Isa's is "Some Girls Are Bigger Than Others." Isa talks about how this song reminds her of autumn, that particular time when everything shrivels and dies, the air outside turns into an enemy, and the beauty of winter snow and bright midday sun is right around the corner, but still out of reach. This song stirs up sadness and melancholy for her, while for me it is hysterical, makes me laugh to no end. Which leads to a discussion of when you first hear a song and it hits you....when you hear it for the thousandth time, it evokes the same feelings, albeit not as strong, like a sort of faded photograph. And it hits each one of us differently, reminding us of different seasons, tastes, moods, etc. I tried to explain why I found some Smiths songs more relevant than others, but again my limited language skills got in the way...tried to explain why Morrissey matters like Keats and Yeats....but I end up sounding like a 17 year old miserably failing an oral exam....

I read a couple of passages from a Smiths book, commenting on some of the history behind the tracks. Nicky asks pointed questions which I can't follow, and end up responding to something he never asked, confusing everyone. We play a couple of covers, including the pre-requisite Jeff Buckley, but also Weezer and The Afghan Wigs and Bobby Bare Jr. But mostly we just play the songs we LOVE, the songs that made us smile, the songs that made us cry, the songs that saved our lives.....you get the drift. And there's not enough time to fit it all in, to play all we want to play....I'm dancing in the booth, people are coming in and out, the guy who comes on air after Nicky is running late, so we go and on....never wanting it to end.

The air is light....we are carefree....we are young.....the world is right this night.....I am ever so happy as I sing along "...and if a double-decker bus, crashes into us...to die by your side, is such a heavenly way to die...."

If there happened to be a double-decker bus lost on the autostrada in the middle of foggy Friuli and if it just happened to hit us on the way back to Pordenone, I would have indeed died with a huge smile on my face.

Pan e Vin Brulee

2005-01-06T20:54:00.000+01:00

So today is some sort of holiday. I can't really explain it, but a lot of people have referred to witches and brooms and not getting married and other tidbits that I feign to understand. More importantly, the night before the actual holiday is great fun. Pan e Vin: there are bonfires all over the place and people give out free vin brulee and cake. The free part is awesome, if not dangerous.

Tonto and Ottavia and I head to a festival in the middle of a field. There are tons of people milling around, fireworks randomly exploding and the biggest bonfire I've ever seen. Like Burning Man. The sparks are floating over our heads and and the ashes fall down on our shoulders. The bar is crowded, but Tonto and I squeeze in to get some free brulee, the first of too many. There is even entertainment, a one man band in military garb, playing a strange mix of pop and traditional songs. Some people are dancing. We're particularly fascinated by this one fella, completely wasted, doing a sort of masturbation dance, touching himself as if Madonna is inhabiting his 60 year old body. Tonto requests "Smoke On The Water" and when the military one man band gets around to it, we do the best classic rock dance we can muster up at this point.

When the fire has receded, and the thought of downing yet another vin brulee has lost its attraction, we all hop in the car and go to Velvet. Everyone there is in good spirits. I'm told that if the ashes from the bonfire make their way towards the ocean, it means this year will rock....if they head towards the field, it'll suck. From everyone's festive mood, I'm gonna assume that the ashes were heading to sea and that this is the start of a very good year.

At 6am we're all in the 24-hour cafe and I'm about to fall asleep in my plate of french fries. Tonto and I are comparing our balance problems, how we have no equilibrium due to various ear ailments and such. I tell him that I'm dangerous in a car, even more so on a bike, cause my depth perception is nil.

And then I am in bed and it's 2pm the next day and I have to step on it to open the shop. All in all I think a bonfire and music and vin brulee and crazy Italian friends isn't a bad way to kick off 2005. I think it's pretty awesome actually.

So This Is Christmas

2004-12-27T13:41:00.000+01:00

My standard Christmas ritual usually involves a big dinner at my apartment with lots of potato dishes (mashed, scalloped, au gratin, etc), much alcohol consumption, The Pogues' Fairytale In New York blaring on repeat, and random NYC orphans (friends who have neither the money or desire to travel back home for the holidays) joining in the family festivities. It's a big party that goes all day, or at least until my grandma passes out on the couch from one too many Baileys.

This year, I was the orphan, spending my Christmas Italian style. After I closed the shop on Christmas Eve, Renato picked me up and brought me out to Fontanelle. Sabine made cheese fondue which we all attacked with a vengenance. Her 91-year old grandfather was visiting from the States and he had loads of stories to tell about NYC back in the days of trams and the Dodgers. After we scraped the pot of all the fondue, Sabine served some sort of animal dish. When I asked what it was, she couldn't really answer. Never a good sign. I did my best to be polite and eat my serving, the whole time thinking "Oh, I hope it's not horse. Don't let it be rabbit. No bambi, please."

Christmas day was spent with Renato's family. Lots of fish and other mystery animals served. When I saw the mashed potatoes, I filled my plate up high, leaving no room for other dishes. One of Renato's uncles turned to me and asked me why my plate was meatless, to which I responded, "Well, I'm Irish, really, and we eat a lot of potatoes."

When I got back to Pordenone later in the afternoon, I was really hungry. I stopped by my friend Davide's house where Tonto was cooking up a storm, chicken curry and vegetables and basmati rice. No pasta, no mystery meat, but lots of wine. We put the gift I bought Tonto for Christmas (the Hedwig Covers CD) and we danced to Origin Of Love. Then we hit the road and went dancing at Velvet til the wee hours. Tonto is a fantastic dancer.

I don't know if this is a typical Italian Christmas or not, but I sure had fun. I'd been missing the NYC magic that occurs during the holidays, and wasn't sure if I would make it through it here without a strong case of homesick blues. But being an orphan wasn't so bad afterall, specially when you have friends to take care of you. And a little wine too.

Food Glorious Food

2004-12-21T11:26:00.000+01:00

Food plays an important part of life here. It is not just something that you throw together in order to make it through the day, it is closer to an art form. Italians are serious about food, and are serious about when they eat as well. The world sorta stops between 12 and 2 as everyone enjoys their favorite pasta dish, followed by a small but potent coffee.

Now I am ridiculous with food. I don't like anything. I don't drink coffee, I don't like fish, not too crazy about cow either. But I don't mind pig, and the prosciutto here is incredible. A simple ham and cheese sandwich here is better than any I've had in the States. I've also had some amazing pasta dishes, like tagliatelle with peaches and tomatoes, creamy risotto with leeks and sausage, strawberry ravioli with smoked ricotta shredded on top. Now that Christmas is right around the corner, I'm indulging in vin brulee every night. The warm chestnuts that turn your hands black are way more festive than the roasted nuts you find on sidewalk carts in NYC.

The ties between food and sex are another thing altogther. I've learned that words like patata (potato), finocchio (fennel), pisello (pea), banana and salame have double meanings. Hmmm, it seems Italians love food so much, it invades their sex life too. A hot girl (and her private part) is a potato? For me and my Irish blood, the potato has a different significance altogether. This is gonna take some getting used to. But it could be sorta cool to turn around to a guy in bed and say, "nice peas!"

Then again, maybe not.

Good Mooooooorning Vecchia!

2004-12-15T21:14:00.000+01:00

OhMyGod. I cannot believe I turned 36 yesterday. I am now closer to 40 than to 30...and I have moved into a different marketing category altogether. No longer am I in the 35 and under group. Next thing I know AARP will find me and start sending me retirement information.

I don't feel 36 and I know I don't show it. People usually guess 25, 26, 27, 28...perhaps they are just being kind. Or are BLIND. In any case, usually I feel no different than 20 years ago, maybe a little wiser and a little bit more skeptical, but all in all, the same. I still where the same clunky black shoes, the same shade of lipstick and I still change the color of my hair every 6 weeks.

I DO feel old when I see an 15 year old dressed up in leg warmers or shirts with skinny ties or sporting a new wave haircut. Once I saw this teenager who looked exactly like ME...circa 1985. The really scary thing is I know these kids are listening to the same music I did in the 80s, except they are discovering The Smiths and Joy Division NOW, on CD instead of vinyl. Yep, this makes me feel ancient, as though images of my adolesence have been stolen and distributed among the cool high school crowd today. I wanna scream, "Yo, I was there first! I bought The Queen Is Dead in '86, dude! On vinyl! AND I have tons of 12 inches too! AND dying your hair green and getting piercings and tats was a big deal back then, not like today when even the prepsters get an extra hole or two! We were pioneers!"

JFC, I'm getting bitter.

Drunk At Twilight

2004-12-15T08:46:00.000+01:00

The Twilight Singers came to Treviso to shake things up a bit. Greg Dulli is amazing onstage, he's a bit of a loose cannon but so filled with passion and rawness, that you can't help but think he's rock and roll incarnate. The show was so much fun...and yet the place wasn't even half full, so I could actually SEE the stage and had enough room to bounce around.

Rachael was visiting from London and after the gig we headed backstage, which in reality is just a tiny room with flourescent lights (flattering!). The guys in the band were super nice...except the Italian. I guess I should know who he is as Dulli has worked with him on stuff, and he's some sorta superstar here, but to me he looked like some kind of aging Euro pop star stuck in 1989, and he had an attitude to match. I pretty much ignored him. Greg and I somehow exchanged words about Rumanian porn which was beyond retarded. The drinks at this place cost 5 euro and for that you get plenty of vodka in your screwdriver, so needless to say by the end of the show I was loaded. I mean, do I even have to mention this, can we just assume that I am drunk as a skunk at every concert??

At 3am, Cristina literally pulled me outside so we could hit the road. Neither Rachael or I were ready to leave, but Cri was being the voice of reason that night, reminding me I had to get up to open the shop in a matter of hours and did I want to be drunk yet again another Saturday morning in the DVD palace? I guess she had a point.

Sparkle Motion

2004-12-06T13:01:00.000+01:00

Donnie Darko is not an accessable and straightfoward movie. It requires numerous viewings. Now imagine if your first full viewing is in Italian. I was beyond lost.

This gem has finally hit the theatres in Italy. Dubbed into Italian, which meant I spent the entire movie reading the characters lips while they were speaking Italian. It was tough to follow, but at least when Echo or Joy Division was cued up, I could sing along with ease.

Oh, and I learned that Smurfs are called Puffi here in Italy, and apparently they don't consider them to be communists the way we do.

A Drunken Bloc Party

2004-12-05T21:39:00.000+01:00

Fifteen hours in Milano spent in a drunken haze.

I hop the 11am train to get to the big city to walk around and take in all the Christmas lights and holiday energy that is lacking in my present hometown. The walk from the station to the center only takes 20 minutes and I have the next two hours to shop and sip red wine in that beautiful Galleria they've got there. One wallet purchased, two glasses of red wine downed and I finally meet up with Ally and Rara at 6pm to continue with the red wine consumption.

I need to make it to Naviglio to get to the Interpol/Bloc Party show, but the wine is so good and we're laughing our asses off, and when we make it there, I'm totally late and a little loaded and Bloc Party has already played. Corrado brings me upstairs to meet the band and to my shock and amazement they are NOT thirty somethings from NYC, but cute young guys straight outta London. It takes me a moment or two to digest this and for a few minutes I am completely amazed by my own misformation. I must be getting old, and my brain just doesn't function the way it used to and retains so little....

The Interpol show was exactly the same as every other time I've seen them. No need to embellish.

Somehow I get to the club where the after-party is held and the Bloc Party boys are dj'ing and doing a fine job. I decide to quit the alcohol and start downing 8 euro cokes and I chat with the boys after their set. They are delightful, very fun boys, and they give me a CD of one of their live shows (It rocks, btw). The rest of the evening is a bit of a haze, as the place is packed, there are a few people here and there that I know but I'm not coherent enough to make conversation and I do remember dancing a bit and...and.....then....it gets fuzzy....

At 6am I get to the train station to make my way back to PN as I have to open the shop at 10.30. Christ Almighty, I am in no shape to deal dvds, my makeup is smeared, my fishnets are torn and this l-o-n-g walk (ride?) of shame will certainly go down in the history books. I find an empty car, spread out on the three seats and doze off, only to be woken up an hour later by some freak who is in my train car, has stolen my cigarettes and gum, and is now caressing my left leg, the exact spot where the fishnets are ripped -- and he's just making it worse. He keeps whispering "smoke smoke smoke" to me and when I finally realize what's happening I tell him to go away and I grab my stuff out of his hands. He's still going on and on about smokes and he's not moving along, so I yell at him in English with the toughest Brooklyn accent I can muster, including lotsa foul language, and with that he finally slithers off.

Sweet!

My ears are still ringing as I open the shop and somehow I make it through til 8pm when I come home and crash hard. I'm lucky in that I've got another 7-8 weeks here in the land of tranquillity, a land of no torn fishnets, no drunken conversations, and no walks of shame. I think now I'm just gonna sit here and listen to that Bloc Party and relax, unwind and not do much of anything for a while. Perhaps I'll even recover some of those brain cells I've destroyed with wine and screwdrivers...

Kellie Can't Dance...Or Sing Apparently

2004-12-01T22:35:00.000+01:00

Yesterday my friend left me a CD under the door of the shop. This CD contains my debut as a rock singer. One night I journeyed up to the mountains to my friend’s band rehearsal. Unbeknownst to me, he recorded my attempt at singing. Be afraid.

I’m not gonna lie to you: it is the most hideous thing I’ve ever heard. I couldn’t get the CD out of the damn computer fast enough and all the while I’m thinking MAKE IT STOP MAKE IT STOP JUST MAKE IT STOP.

Funny that I never considered myself to have an absolutely awful singing voice (but I guess in reality we all think that way, don’t we?). I mean people have even complemented me when I bust out with the tunes...but this was pure torture. Out of tune. Pathetic. Like two alley cats in heat.

Maybe it was the song? Maybe it wasn’t me really? Maybe I really DO need 7 screwdrivers before I feel comfortable on the mic?

I never fooled myself into believing I can dance. Now I know I can’t sing either. Best to get back to practicing my theremin....it’s a perfect instrument for a retard like me. No singing, no dancing, just some subtle airy movements of my fingers. Now that I CAN do.

Up and Loaded With Onde Frulan

2004-11-21T13:01:00.000+01:00

My friend Nicky does a radio show called "Up"on the local station in Udine, the next big town in Fruili about an hour away from here. As I undertand it, on this station everyone speaks in Frulan, which is more than a dialect, it's like a completely different language. Meaning, I wouldn't understand a word of it. But every Friday, Nicky presents indie music to the masses and this week I was his special guest.

I got out of work early, met Isa and Norway Nick and we embarked on our transmission mission. The show airs from 7-9pm and at 6:45 we still weren't in Udine so I told Norway to step on it. We finally found the station, which is essentially an apartment, and made it with about 3 minutes to spare.

I brought 2 hours of Brooklyn music with me. Nicky supplied 4 bottles of wine (good man). We got our headphones on, I explained the track sequence to Alberto, the booth guy and co-host, and suddenly we're on. I hear my pal Tonto's music in the background and the first words out of my mouth are "Tonto is fantastico!"....sweet.

Basically, I can't remember a lot of what I said, and as I downed more wine, I laughed and became even more incoherent, as if that were possible. My Italian is at like a fourth-grade level, so everytime I tried to describe a track, I ended up saying things like "It's rad!" or "This band has two men and one woman and one man has sex with the woman of the band" or "Doesn't this make us think of the 80s? Oh, the 80s"....well, at least that's what I think I was saying. Some serious grammatical mistakes were made on my part, which Isa and Norway did not hesitate in pointing out by LAUGHING and POINTING while holding their stomachs.

There was some talk about TVOTR's beginnings, the retarded cabaret laws in NYC, Luna's break-up, how amazing stellastarr* are, and how none of these "Brooklyn" bands are actually from Brooklyn, how they can meet in Brooklyn or maybe collectively move to Brooklyn to get famous. We didn't get to play all the music, and some of the songs actually skipped, not in that scratchy yet soothing way albums do, but in that CD robots on acid way. It hurt.

Nicky was a gracious and calm host, a true professional. The show ended on a sad note when Alberto asked me about September 11th. If we ever do a round two, I'll make sure we end happily. Bring on The Scissor Sisters.

I Would Drive 500 Miles

2004-11-16T08:23:00.000+01:00

On Friday we ventured off to a club in the middle of nowhere to see Mark Lanegan. Now I won't even pretend to be a fan. It's not like I hate his music, it just doesn't do too much for me. But you know, it's something to do. The club was in the middle of nowhere, packed tight, the sound was a little warped, and being height-challenged, I couldn't see a damn thing. But I was particularly enraptured with this one fella in front of me. For a half hour straight, he did the air guitar dance. He was hopping around with the music, playing his air guitar like mad. At one point he turned around to face me and I got a full on solo. AMAZING.

Enon came to Velvet on Saturday night. More my style. This club was pretty full too and Enon delivered. I was thrilled to have some Brooklyn peeps so close by, a little piece of my hometown right here in Fruili. After the show I headed backstage to try to get some local news out of them but they got me very high and that was the end of any sort of decent conversation. In any case, it was the best show I'd seen at Velvet since I've been here and it served to fill that Brooklyn craving I've been feeling lately.

At home there are hundreds of bands playing every night, you just pick a place and you hop on the subway and go. Here you have to organize yourselves to drive for hours (or in my case, hitch a ride). It's so strange, I've never ever traveled so long and far for live music.

I'm So Sorry & Blue

2004-11-05T13:52:00.000+01:00

I'm tired of explaining to Italians the reason why that idiot was re-elected. I mean, is there a reason? What were the red states thinking? Oh, clearly they weren't.

In any case, I'm trying to perfect a what-can-you-do shrug to be performed with a dramatic roll of the eyes. Usually I just respond by saying "Americani" while moving my hand in front of my face and whistling. It's the Italian sign for CRAZY.

To stand in solidarity with my fellow Americans who do not base their votes on the moral values of a cocaine snorting, drunk driving, God fearing, oil spewing, Saudi Arabia ass-kissing, silver-spooned mouth imbecile, I'll burn all the red clothes in my wardrobe.

Go blue!

Italy, and all the rest of the world, accept our apologies: www.sorryeverybody.com

Watch Them Come Alive In Minutes!

2004-10-24T22:24:00.000+02:00

The lazy days of autumn have arrived. The shop is picking up speed, there just don't seem to be enough copies of TROY or THE DAY AFTER TOMORROW to keep everyone happy. People's tans have faded, sweater weather is making a comeback, and my desire for 4 gelatos a day has subsided, to be replaced by a strong yearning for hot chocolate.

The shop is now back to being open 7 days a week. I think this means I'll be stuck in Pordenone for like 90% of my time. Now, I've been told that it doesn't really snow in town...I will need to go to the mountains to build a snowman or fall off a sled at high speed. This poses as a problem as I only have a bike, and given my 20 years of smoking, my lung capacity is somewhat diminished, so I don't think I could possibly pedal even as far as the city limits, nevermind up a mountain.

I have to come up with something good to keep me entertained here. Knitting, aerobics, and 1000-piece puzzles are out of the question. My theremin is in Sanderson's hands and my calligraphy supplies are packed in my basement, both in Brooklyn. Damn. I saw that Sea Monkeys are back in fashion. Might try to pick up a little kit and Sam and I can pass rainy nights in my tiny apartment watching the Sea Monkeys hang out in their village.

Tranquility indeed.

Lingua Fah-Cock-Duh Lesson Two: The Magic "S" And Other Valuable Consonants

2004-10-21T20:41:00.000+02:00

The difficulties I have with this beautiful language number in the millions. Everything from rolling my R's to making sure a double consonant is elongated is an insurmountable challenge. Note the difference between 'penna' (pen) and 'pena' (pain) -- that little annoying N can really screw up your sentence -- "can I borrow your pain?" Dipthongs are a killer too. I can't seem to master EU or AE together. So when I try to say Euro, which I have to say like 500 times a day, I sound like a right idiot. Practice makes perfect, my ass.

One amazing thing about Italian is the magic letter S. You can put S in front of almost anything and it does a 180 on the meaning of the word. So you can change "mi piace" -- I like -- to "mi spiace" -- I don't like -- with just one little letter. Now of course, if someone speaks to me really quickly and they run their words together then I totally don't get whether they like or dislike something. The change is subtle, and so you are left to guess whether Fulvio likes anal sex or not. That S can be tricky.

You Say Tomato, I Say Tomato

2004-09-23T21:08:00.000+02:00

Some DVDs keep their English titles when they are marketed in other parts of the world. For instance, "Dahmer" in the US is well, "Dahmer" here. No need to embellish the names of serial-killing cannibals. Others are translated exactly -- "Lord Of The Rings" becomes "Il Signore Degli Anelli." Then others, well, this is where the marketing geniuses get to work.

For instance:

BRINGING DOWN THE HOUSE, the rip-roaring comedy where cracker Steve Martin gets a little chocolate in his life and learns to speak jive, courtesy of Queen Latifah, is called UN CICLONE IN CASA here (A Hurricane In The House). Now if I were the Queen, I'd have my peeps get on this, as who in their right mind wants to be referred to as a hurricane? Hurricanes destroy trailer parks in Florida, they don't pose as spokespeople for Maybelline.

AMORE ESTREMO/TOUGH LOVE...now can you guess what movie this might be? One hint: BENNIFER. Yeah, this excuse of a movie was called GIGLI in the States. Remember what problems everyone had pronouncing this (while slamming it?)....GIGGLY, GIGGLING, JIGGLY, GEE-LEE, etc. Well, here in Italy where the peeps CAN actually pronounce the title, they've managed to come up with a really creative title that is HALF IN ENGLISH. Good going guys. Let's make it globally tough on the DVD renting public.

JUST MARRIED is now OGGI SPOSI, NIENTE SESSO (Today You Get Married, No Sex). Right. um, isn't the honeymoon the part of the marriage where you do it like rabbits? Doesn't it go all downhill after that? Oh, I get it, it's wit, Hollywood Italian style. Also note how the word SEX has to be inserted. Again, it's an Italian thing.

THE SOUND OF MUSIC, the classic do-re-mi WWII tearjerker musical is called TUTTI INSIEME APPASSIONAMENTE here. Which roughly translated means All Of Us Together Passionately. Sound incestuous. Ew, yuk. I mean, I can see how the Bradys could be all incestuous, but the Von Trapps? Like I said, ew, yuk yuk yuk.

Now there are definitely more floating about to be shared. The Hollywood marketing geniuses NEVER rest. They like to keep DVD store clerks on their toes. Crackerjacks they are.

UPDATE.....

My friend Enrico (http://tontos.splinder.com) sent me some other wonderful translations after he read this post. It seems Italy doesn't do justice to John Waters. Here ya go:

DESPERATE LIVING is called NUOVO CINEMA PUNK (New Punk Cinema). Well, okay....I guess so.
HAIRSPRAY is translated as GRASSO E' BELLO! (Big is Beautiful!). Um, wasn't that the name of a Lane Bryant ad campaign?
SERIAL MOM is LA SIGNORA AMAZZA TUTTI or The Lady Who Kills Everyone. That seems straightforward enough.
CECIL B. DEMENTED is A MORTE HOLLYWOOD! Which is....um....I dunno...how do you translate that exactly? To Death Hollywood? Whatever. Doesn't work.

Sam Says Move

2004-09-19T04:52:00.000+02:00

Five in the morning, smashed on iceless screwdrivers and ears ringing from a night out dancing to new/no wave, I stumble upon a strange sight: firemen, firetruck, ladder and blinking lights in front of my building. Since I'm a little loaded, it takes a while to discern what happened here...

Yep. Fire.

Some a-hole set fire to the restaurant attached to my apartment. Everything is black and smoky and the Vigili Del Fuoco are cutting off the branches of the trees that burned just a few hours before. There is a small crowd gathered outside checking out the scene, and I spot one of my customers. He approaches and starts telling me he had a problem returning DVDs the other day and can I look into it and blah blah blah. I'm like, dude, YO, this is neither the time or the place to talk about this. I am way too wasted to understand what you're telling me and besides, I need to check out whether the firemen are as hot here as they are in NYC.

When I eventually get away and climb the stairs, Sam is at the door yelling at me. Poor guy, the sirens must have freaked him out. He's already made it clear he doesn't like this apartment and now I'm worried that this might have pushed him over the edge. I cannot live with an angry and bitter cat.

I don't know when it happened, but somehow I've turned into one of those cat ladies who live alone and read a lot of books and get excited by the fact that firemen are RIGHT OUTSIDE MY DOOR. Next thing you know, I'll be buying cat magnets and firemen calendars and little cat figurines. You might even receive a hand-calligraphed invitation to Sam's 14th birthday party.

God help me.

The Drunk Blogger

2004-09-16T09:58:00.000+02:00

I am missing terribly bagels, grocery shopping at night, BBQs in my garden, drunken nights at the Merc, rainy Saturdays at Mercer Street Books, summer concerts in Prospect Park, the subway, and the chaos and insanity of my hometown.

I am missing NYC so much I keep playing my NYC soundtrack. Walk On the Wild Side, Chinatown, Blonde On Blonde, NYC, Down 42nd Street To The Light, Stop That Train....ah, I could go awn and awn. Please feel free to add your NYC soundtrack. I am so open to suggestions.

But I am drunk. Paolo got me drunk on screwdrivers. Not even WINE. Screwdrivers without ice, God help me. I miss cider too.

This is the closest I will get to melancholy. Enjoy.

The Italian Malaise As Told To Lucy Van Pelt

2004-09-15T09:57:00.000+02:00

If someone asks you how you are, you usually respond "fine" - right? In the office, passing someone in the maze of cubes, "how are you?" "fine, and you?" "fine, thanks." Same at the bagel store, the dry cleaner, the Gap, the bake sale, wherever.

It in inbedded in you as an American that things are generally fine. As a whole, as a nation, we are fine. There is no need to embellish. "Good" can be substituted for "fine" but in the end, the appropriate response conveys a sense of well-being, of happiness, of success and stability. Your cat may have died yesterday, you may have just won a 17 million dollar lottery, you may have just been evicted, but all in all, you're fine.

Right. Well, I've had trouble getting used to the Italian response. Here, when asked "how are you?" the responses vary from "well enough" to "so-so." Rarely fine. Almost never good. Alas, you may consider yourself lucky if that is the end of it. Basically, this sort of response leaves the giver open to revealing the various reasons they are not fine. And you, on the receiving end, best be ready for the onslaught.

Now, I never thought a part-time job as a DVD clerk would lead to a new career in mental health therapy. I mistakenly believed the chit chat with customers would be minimal and revolve completely around new Jackie Chan releases. It is extremely hard for me to say "Buon Giorno" to a customer without the follow-up "How's it going?" and this has lead to a litany of confessions, complaints, and soap-opera like stories -- a somewhat simple question, a COURTESY, basically gives the green light to a 25-minute therapy session.

I have heard stories of men cheating on their wives and girlfriends. I have met their mistresses. I've witnessed their anguish over cheating on the mistresses with other mistresses. I've heard about their deepest fears, their grandest dreams, their longest days, and their happiest moments, and their current ailments. Considering the people here tend to be pretty closed and somewhat reserved, this invasion of privacy, albeit welcomed, seems a bit strange.

I can only surmise that this is the typical repartee of shop clerks and their clientele (somewhat unlikely) or that word has spread around town that the American chick in the DVD shop asks you how you are and cares about the answer! If you say "so-so" you can lament infinitely why this is the case -- and the American will listen, nod in the right places, not interrupt, and basically feign sym/empathy.

Little do my new patients realize that I do not understand half of the things they tell me. I try, I do, but I usually get lost when a new word is thrown in and then I spend the next minute or so trying to figure out what that word means and I just concentrate on that damn word and lose my place in their story. If I look lost, they will stop and ask if I am following, and I nod and say "si si si certo" and they forage on.

I want these people to be fine. Sometimes I want to shout at them "Hey, you're fine! You got a house, a car, a size 4 pants wearing wife, and a mamma that cooks really well for you! It's all FINE!" But mostly, I just realize that this slight cultural difference is absurd, that in no way is anyone FINE (Americans OR Italians). Sometimes the DVD shop is just the place to purge your malaise, get a movie to escape into, and leave half an hour later feeling, if not "fine," then better than "so-so."

Happy Independent Day!

2004-09-07T13:58:00.000+02:00

How do Italians celebrate Independence? With a music festival in Bologna!

We venture south by train, which means no stopping at Auto Grills or Burger Kings. We arrive in Bologna at 10.30 and walk around the market in the center of the town. Lots of Che Guevera t-shirts, incense holders, and used Levis on sale. I leave empty handed and grab a gelato before hopping the bus to the Parco Arena. The sun is a killer today, it's already like 90 degrees (I still don't know what that is in centigrade). I see a day of sun poisoning ahead of me. Hmmm, pretty.

This time the Independent Days music festival is part of a larger festival being held in the same "park." It's explained to me that the Festa d'Unita' is some long-running communist festival that now just celebrates the "left." There are more Che Guevera shirts on display, plus rides and tons of food and some makeshift dance floors that will come alive later.

We get to the arena while an Italian band is onstage. I head straight for the bar and order two waters and an iced-tea. It's even HOTTER which means I shall be sober today. If I even touch alcohol, I will dehydrate. A very original thought: seeing a concert stone-cold sober. It's like the 7th grade again.

It seems like half of Pordenone is at the show sweating their Italian asses off. When Colour Of Fire take the stage, everyone seems way too hot to move. The band seems pretty pissed off by the cometose reaction to their set, which makes me feel bad. For like a second....cause their music makes me feel much much worse.

Let me cut to the chase:

Mark Lanegan, I like your new black hairdo.
Libertines, oh Libertines, there will never be a point in time where I can't stand ya. You rock.
Franz Ferdinand, I want to marry you. All of you. Or any one of you. Non-stop dancing + Scottish accents = orgasmic.
Sonic Youth, lying on the grass, still sweating from the FF dance-a-thon was the best way to hear ya. Kim, you are my idol.
Radio 4, you made them get their groovy Italian arses moving after 12 hours in hot hot heat. So small feat. Be proud.

Once Radio 4 leave the stage we embark on the long journey back home. This time by car, but without Auto Grills, we go express, baby. I pass out in the tiny backseat between Norway Nic and Isobel and I am so completely out of it I am sure I drool while sleeping. I just hope I don't drool on either of them. Grody.

I did end up suffering from some bad heat stroke, despite being sober. Two days later I end up with a high fever and bad cold. But it's worth it all the same. So worth it.

This Is My Soapbox

2004-09-02T14:41:00.000+02:00

One of the strangest experiences was going to see 'Farenheit 911' in a theater here. Surely, I was the only American at the showing, let alone the only New Yorker.

As anyone who has seen the film can attest, it's pretty powerful stuff. And while I won't pretend that I understood the entire voice over (done by an Italian with a particularly grating tone), I had read enough about the film beforehand to get the gist of the arguments being made. The Italians got it, too.

I left the theater conflicted with emotions. Ashamed of my government and its actions in the past 4 years. Sadness over the loss of life on 911 and the wars that followed. Giddiness over the plain, arrogant and sadly, sometimes amusing stupidity of our 'Commander and Chief." Fear that this administration will be given 4 more years to propagate lies and line their pockets with oil money. Regret that I am not able to protest the RNC is NYC this week.

There is an American airbase 15 minutes from Pordenone. Somehow I doubt that 'Farenheit 911' is on their weekly roster of films.

I've been thinking way too much lately about world events and my brain needs a rest. "Starsky and Hutch" is in order. Nothing like a good old-fashioned-let's-remake-another-70s-TV-show movie to dull the senses.

Plus, I always forget how cute that Owen Wilson is. I'm pretty sure it's his nose that does it for me.

The Ghetto King Of Sacile

2004-08-29T23:37:00.000+02:00

Let me tell you about my friend Fred.

Fred works as bar manager at a local cafe called New Pick. He's originally from South Africa, but moved to this area with his family 10 years ago at the ripe old age of 15. He's tattooed and pierced, with a very Italian face and a very South African accent.

I met him one night at the bar when he made me a most excellent mojito. Since then, he has gotten me very drunk on many a Friday night, and of course subsequently, a fast friendship has formed.

Now, Fred has an unlikely past. His family is from Sacile, a neighboring town -- a quaint, charming, postcard perfect paese complete with cafes by the river and a cobblestoned piazza. The last place you'd expect to find gangstas. But see, we're jumping to the conclusion that life is serene and easy for these affluent Friulians. Under the guise of an Italian small town is a violent underworld of troubled youth, hooligans and dealers. Yep, apparently Sacile was once a ghetto, one that could rival The Bronx or Compton or Brownsville.

Fred was a hip-hop artist. He even recorded some tracks, which were then sampled by the Gypsy Kings (yo, that shit is whack). He commited petty crimes (he stole a BIKE). He and his homies, the Original Parkerz or "OP" (um, isn't a "P" missing?) RULED the park, they were bad and were not to be messed with. Deals went down. Peeps were cuffed and jailed. There was even a drive-by shooting. Okay, granted the shooting happened in a cafe. And granted, the gangtas were on a Vespa. And, oh, they wore ski masks...and shot blanks. But STILL.

Sacile was a hotbed of trouble, and Fred and his gang, OP, were the root of the problem.

Now, Fred shares his stories with me, punctuating them with some sort of hip hop speak, emulating Jay-Z. He moved on after OP was broken up by the police. His friends did time while he got his life in order, shaved off his Coolio hair-do, and found steady work as a bartender. Word.

A happy ending indeed. But if you ever stop by New Pick, make sure to ask Fred about his Wu Tang Clan tat. Or better yet, ask him to moonwalk for you. See, you can take Fred outta the ghetto, but you can't take Sacile out of Fred.

Lingua Fah-Cock-Duh: Lesson One

2004-08-22T22:46:00.000+02:00

Yep, my Italian is improving. Slowly but surely. But mind you, I've had a few bumps along the way. It is still a struggle to get my point across. Especially in a shop when I have to buy something, like, oh say, an extension cord. Usually the conversation goes something like this:

Me: Good day, I need to buy the thing that is electric that you put your hair dryer into.

Salesperson: Hmmm.

Me: Yes, you can also put your computer into it. You can put the tail of your computer into it.

Salesperson: OK, the tail of the computer and a hair dryer. Hmmm.

Me: Yes, it is a thing of electric that holds other smaller things of electric.

Right. At this point I should just say what I am looking for in ENGLISH and stick an "O" at the end of the word. Like, Extenzione Cordo. Or, I dunno, bring an English/Italian dictionary with me. Way to go, Kellie.

Anyway, for those of you with any interest in tackling this beeee-u-ti-ful language, here are a few pointers...

1. People use the exclamation CAVOLO here a lot. As in "Cavolo! That dude is throwing up!" Now, at first I thought everyone was saying "Horse!" (which is CAVALLO, see the difference??). And that seemed a pretty strange exclamation. "Horse! That dude is throwing up!" So after hearing what I perceived to be HORSE a few times, I tried to use it. Like "Cavallo! What a tan you have!" The people laughed. "Oh, Kellie," they shreaked, "we don't say CAVALLO, we say CAVOLO." Um, okay. What does CAVOLO mean? Cabbage. Right, you wouldn't be so silly as to use HORSE as an exclamation! Not when you can use CABBAGE!!! Right, and you all laugh at ME. Horse! I mean, Cabbage! These Italians are mad!

2. Just as in English there is a big difference between being occupied and preoccupied. For some reason, the Italian translations of these words stumped me. Occupied = occupata. Preoccupied = preoccupata. Seems pretty straightforward, si? Well, for the first 4 months or so, when someone asked me to go out and do something fun, when necessary, I replied with "sono preoccupata," which in turn spawned some strange looks. Until my friend Ionela taught me another word for busy, as in "I have plans," I just kept telling people I was preoccupata tonight. Earning myself the reputation of the VERY worried DVD clerk of Pordenone.

3. Some words that three years of college Italian didn't teach me: Cool. Loser. Hot. (as in "Cavolo! That dude throwing up is HOT!"). These are necessary yet mindboggling. See if you can follow:

FIGA/FIGO - hot guy/girl (also refers to a body part)
FIGHETTO/FIGHETTA - cool person only (can't be used for, say, a cool SHOE)
SFIGATO/SFIGATA - a geeky thing or person
SFIGATONE/SFIGATONA - the most UNLUCKIEST loser
FIGATA - a cool thing (like a cool SHOE)
FIGONE/FIGONA - an EXTREMELY hot guy/girl

I have a load of trouble keeping these straight, so I usually end up calling someone who is hot a loser, and a loser a really cool person. I think I actually said Neil Diamond is hot and Jack White is a loser. And these crazy Italians responded "Cabbage! Neil Diamond is FIGONE? You have a strange taste in the men!"

Now, you are now armed with a good solid basis of Italian slang. Go back to your work, and try to look worried. And if some loser walks by your cube, make sure you scream FIGO, it will make his day.

Bagnata Pulita Prugnata Salata

2004-08-19T14:26:00.000+02:00

Ohhhhhh, the joys of a midnight swim in the Adriatic. Who knew?

I've spent a good amount of the last 15 summers completely avoiding the beach. The only thing that brought me close was Siren or the Mermaid Parade - but then Coney Island has never been beach capital of the world. It's sorta, um, gross.

But here. My lord. The water is warm. The stars are out in their full brilliance. The beach is lined with huge umbrellas and matching lawn chairs...which goes on to infinity....and begs the question: who folds up the umbrellas when the sun goes down? (Is it a teenager working the beach for the summer? A retired postman? How long does it take to close up shop each night? How much beach do they cover in a day? And do they come back and open them up the next morning or is that another shift?)...

The benefits of swimming at night: No sun poisoning. No offensive bathing suits. In fact, no one else is there to gawk at you, kick sand on you, or just plain bug the crap out of you. You are at one with the mighty Adriatic.

Anyway, for some odd reason the water only reaches to your waist no matter how far out you go. The waves - if there are any - are pure child's play. So body surfing or diving or anything remotely ocean-like is out of the question. Makes the entire experience tranquil and strange.

Sorta like Italy.

(Oh, and my friend showed me an article that pointed out where most people drown in Italy. Rest assured Friuli is not one of those drowning man hotspots. If I WERE to drown in 2.5 feet high water, well, then I deserve it. Idiot.)

OY! You Need Plastic Surgery!

2004-08-04T14:03:00.000+02:00

Okay, so I forgot to post something about the amazing UK weekend. Yes, it was last month...but the experience needs to be documented, however poorly, so bear with me.

The amazingincredibleubercool weekend started with the Belle & Sebastian/Rapture concert in Ferrara. Hmmm, a strange pairing, cause The Rapture are all about getting down, freakin out, dance dance dance and then...B&S...who yes, do inspire dancing of a particular kind, more swaying than hopping. It was like "Everyone Dance! Now Everyone Chill!" Nonetheless, it was gorgeous: the concert was held in a piazza with this grand castle (yeah, a moat too). To tell the truth, it was a bit difficult to dance on the cobblestones. I looked more spastic than usual. And Stuart Murdoch (sigh) looked as cool as cucumber.

The next morning bright and early I head off to the land of lager and fish and chips. Pale-legged people who speak my language. Ahhhh. I arrive in London, hook up with Sands and Greg and then next morning we're off to Manchester. Three glorious days of music in the rain and cold.

It would tedious to go into ALL the details, so here's a summary:

-The Cure did a fine job. Yes, Robert has gained some weight, and yes, they are all a bit older, but when they finally got around to 'Boys Don't Cry'...well, I felt 16 again and that is good enough for me.
-The Pixies brought the place down. So much so that no one stuck around for that day's headliners Stereophonics (What? These people are MAD. How can the Pixies NOT be the headliners?? We showed them, ha!). We (like 5,000 of us) all went to the VH2 drinking tent after they played and demanded 2 continuous hours of Pixies music. And we got it.
-The New York Dolls were fun and yet scary at the same time. I think one of them died right after the show.
-The Beta Band are (were? Why must all the bands I see in concert break up right after? First The Veils, now them) amazing. Big big drums and stuff. Whacky synth guy in a space costume.
-Goldfrapp has the nicest, palest legs in rock and roll.
-The Ordinary Boys are NOT ordinary. They are sorta HOT. Jailbait HOT.
-Elbow. Sweet Elbow. The best part of the body.
-Keane. Sweet sweet Keane. I wish they at least had an air guitar.
-Morrissey: There is NO doubt and shall never be ANY doubt why this man is a GOD to so many of us. It was the best set I've seen in years. Tales of a youth spent on the streets and in the schools of Manchester. "The Headmaster Ritual" finally made complete sense. He still has it and he still flaunts it and we ate it up like greedy schoolkids. There is no more ELVIS, there is only MOZ.

There ya have it. Much more went on of course, including drinking blue cocktails in gay bars, munching on overpriced pub grub, catching the latest Romanian pop on SKY TV in the hotel, and learning the correct way to say BEER up north (BEE-ahhh). And some dancing and some drooling at boys with cute accents. Oh, and lots of Nirvana videos too. And tram rides. Ooooo, trams!

We LOVED Manchester. Manchester ROCKS.

Kellie and Her Dream of Rock Stars

2004-08-02T23:24:00.000+02:00

Stuart Murdoch is the hottest man alive.

Witness him dance and sing and you will then KNOW like I KNOW.

Sigh.

Only Freaks Don't Go To The Beach

2004-08-01T10:25:00.000+02:00

So summer in Pordenone is a thing to behold. Yeah, it's hot. Too hot to eat anything but gelato. The sun is so strong sometimes you swear your fingernails are melting.

Hence every free minute is spent at the beach. Now being that I am somewhat allergic to the sun, I have been avoiding the beach like the plague. A day at the beach, and I look like a ripe Sicilian tomato. It is NOT pretty, especially when everyone around here looks like they just finished filming a Ban De Soliel commercial.

The town has significantly less people milling around during the summer. Peeps have packed up and headed to the 'mare.' But I am here, eating 5 gelatos a day, and passing time in the shop. And the customers that stop by -- they are the ultra freaks, the super fantastic freaks, the uber pale-like-me freaks.

A new one has found the shop. He's a little guy named Benito who wears flip-flops as he saunters around town...looking for shop clerks he can torment. Benito called on the phone first, looking for '100 Ragazze' in DVD. He kept me on the phone for 15 minutes, as everything he says he has to punctuate with 'giusto o sbagliato?', which means 'right or wrong.' So he's asking me all sorts of questions like, how much does it cost to rent the film, how much does membership cost, how much just to buy the DVD, and when I answer him, he repeats what I said and finishes with 'giusto o sbagliato?'

I've got some other freak customers to tend to (including the shit-faced porno renter, but that's another story altogether), so I just tell him to come in. Big mistake. Okay, he sounded strange on the phone, like he had marbles in his mouth, but still, I figured it would be easier to explain it in person. He comes in, asking me the same questions I just answered on the phone and it's pretty apparent he rates high on the freak scale. He wants to buy both 'Unfaithful' and '100 Ragazze' and this process turns into a half hour of sheer entertainment...I think I said 'giusto' in repsonse to his questions about 37 times in one conversation.

Unfortunately this is not the end. He has called or stopped by EVERY FREAKIN DAY since the first phone call. He has repeated the same questions, and has now asked 'guisto o sbagliato' about 86 times. Yesterday he asked me if he was 'brutto o bello'...I didn't have the heart to say bruttino (a little ugly) so of course I wimp out and say 'bello'...and so now we've moved from 'right or wrong' to 'beautiful or ugly' and I just have a really hard time telling this total and absolute freak who drools when he speaks and is absolutely a nutcase that he is NOT bello...and he's totally digging it. He won't leave the shop until I tell him repeatedly that he is indeed bello...if I don't respond, he just keeps asking. And asking.

I am such a pale gelato licking loser and this is why the freaks find me and love me.

Guisto o sbagliato?? Giusto o sbagliato?? Giusto o sbagliato??

A Punk, A Writer, A Cartoonist, And A Grumpy Indie Music Store Owner

2004-06-27T17:27:00.000+02:00

I came to Pordenone without any prior knowledge...just what Sabine had told me about the town and what I could scrape up on the internet. Now that I have been here 6 months, allow me the courtesy of making some judgements...

This is a very nice looking city. By that I mean, the people take care of themselves, they dress well, their hair is perfectly highlighted, they drive nice cars, they are clean, coiffed, pedicured, manicured, waxed, tanned, and above all, wrinkle free. People look nice even when they are grocery shopping. There are no diners filled with hung-over 20 somethings smelling like last night's loft party and looking like they aged 10 years in one night. Instead you find fashion victims sipping caffe, smoking cigarettes, talking on their Matrix-like cell phones (you know the kind with photos, video, internet, etc), and generally....pouting.

To say I stand out like a sore thumb is....well, a gross understatement.

So in the past couple of months, I have made it my goal to seek out another type of Pordenonese person....someone more MY style. No fashion victims, no fancy cars, no one with jeans that have the word RICH sewn on the ass (um, by the way, can you imagine spending 200 euros on a pair of jeans with RICH sewn onto your ass? A bit much, right?). To my infinite delight and heart's content, I am finally meeting some cool peeps, peeps who appreciate good music, art, writing, and all that other stuff, who inspire and amuse me, whose minds are open, and who generously include me in their adventures. They even get my retarded jokes.

I could learn a thing or two about patience. About hanging in there. In NYC people meet and form bonds instantly (at least I found that to be the case). Here, like everything from the Post Office to the Internet service you ordered, it takes time. Time and infinite amount of patience. If anything, I am learning to hold out and be patient.

Death To the Pixies

2004-06-22T23:42:00.000+02:00

Fun fun fun road trip to Slovenia to catch the Pixies in action. We -- me, Davide and Luca from the Italian rock group mentioned below -- set out from Pordenone Sunday afternoon and made our way to Trieste, in the midst of a hail storm, to pick up the others and cross the border.

To date, Estonia had been my only experience of a former Communist country, so I was pretty excited to see Slovenia. Crossing the border involved a toll booth situation with an Italian guard, and then driving a few feet ahead to a Slovenian guard. A quick 45 minute s later and we are in Ljubljana, the capital, a really charming city. After asking directions from several pedestrians -- always in English -- we found the concert....you could tell instantly by the HUGE lines of people sporting Death To The Pixies tee shirts mulling around. We parked far enough away and took a brief walk through the city, which is filled with cafes and bars and casinos (Italians cross the border to gamble here)...and made it to the line. And we wait. And wait. What's the holdup? We need to file through two narrow porticos to get inside, but first we need to be checked by security, which consists of meaty Slavic Communist looking men who push you inside once they grab the ticket out of your hand.

We enter as a local band is playing and again I understand nothing which is being sung. The concert was held in an old building -- the first thing you see is a beer garden and off to the side a babushka is grilling hamburgers. We make our way into the hall by slipping through two more porticos and find oursleves under a tent with about 4,000 other people, It's actually quite small with concrete steps to stand on. We find a spot and wait....

Finally the Pixies. I've waited years (like everyone else) to see them and it was well worth it. They were in great form -- all SMILES. I shook my arse all night and sang along with all the Slovenians around me (they knew ALL the words) and sorta freaked out during "Debaser" and almost fell off my concrete step. Kim said they had played there in 1991 and she seemed happy to be back. So were we.

By the end of the show, my calves were bleeding from my boots and my back was sweat covered and I was in ecstacy - the kind of ecstacy that comes from seeing an amazing show that will cause additional damage to the eardrums but is all so worth it the same. The ecstacy of being in a beautiful place with new friends who have open hearts and minds, surrounded by Slovenians who love this American group as much as I do and showed it in a big way.....hearing the 19 year old kid next to me singing along to "Monkey" in a strangely accented-English as his entire body jerked to the music....this is the ecstacy I look for at every show and when it happens...the world finally makes sense.....

Long Live Pixies!!

There Is A Light That Never Goes Out

2004-06-14T12:41:00.000+02:00

Sunday I ventured down south to Bologna for the Flippaut Festival, a day of music in a big ditch that was called a "parco arena." Due to the rain it would be more aptly called a "mud arena." The drive down to Bologna should have taken um, well, 2.5 hours tops....instead it took us over four. Why? Well, of course, we had to stop our little mini-van at EVERY Auto-Grill to have coffee...then beer....then more beer...then Burger King (pronounced: Booooorrrgare Keeeng). I was getting a little antsy since the whole point of getting up at some godforesaken hour with a bad hangover is to make it to the show on time. Forgive me, sometimes I forget I'm on Italian time now.

We finally arrive at the mud/park/arena and I hear TVOTR well into their set, which means we missed Kaito completely. By this point, my mood is deteriorating, so I walk a very NYC pace around the mud/park/arena so I can get inside and see some of the set....leaving my concert co-horts behind in a trail of dust/mud.

Once inside, I notice how few people actually are there, the mud/park/arena is only 25% full maximum...and selfishly I hope this holds true for the rest of the day. At least until the GREAT ONE arrives. I have to wait several hours before Morrissey hits the stage and in the meantime am treated to sets by Jet, The Veils, Rasmus (lots of teenage girls screaming at this point), Zutoons, etc. I am drinking some sort of lemon alchohol concoction, sort of like a Bacardi's mixed with Mike's Hard, and getting a little smashed. The mud + the lack of Burger King + the Lemon thingie = my head spinning a bit. At 6pm it's time to get sobered up and ready for Moz.

What can I write at this point? I was backstage when he was driven up in his black limo and left by the stage 5 minutes before he was to go on. We were ready...those of there who worship all things Morrissey were tense and shaking with anticipation...the stage was lit up with MORRISSEY in little white bulbs a la Elvis at Vegas. The show started with a British woman's voice looped...and then he finally hit the stage, opening up with "First of The Gang To Die" - of course, he played a lot of stuff from "Quarry." I moved from the backstage area out into the crowd (still only 25% full) and found a great mud-free to spot to dance, sing and sway. Five feet away from the lead singer of The Veils, who seemed equally enraptured. Three, count 'em, three Smiths songs were played (this is where I really freak out) - "There Is A Light...", "A Rush And a Push," and "Rubber Ring." He had attempted to sing "Headmaster's Ritual" but the sound went out briefly and he didn't even attempt to restart. He was in fine form....witty, sarcastic...giving the finger to some little cretin the front who kept shouting MUSEMUSEMUSE....

Which leads me to this: Muse were the headliners. MUSE. MUSE! MUSE? Yeah, the knock-off Radiohead (um, they even had a lame version of Radiohead's stage set). I always had my sneaking suspicions, but now seeing the debacle in person, I am qualified to tell you they SUCK. The kids went crazy for them.....we cut out 1/3 of the way through their set as they were offending my ears and integrity in a BIG way.

Boggles the mind, Morrissey opens for Muse. Humph. I'm just gonna chalk it up to some whacked cultural differences.

I won't even go into the ride home (which involved even more Auto-Grill stops), but hours later I still had Morrissey ringing in my ears as I plopped into bed...and he sang me to sleep as only Morrissey can....

The Wonderful World Of Rocco OR Yeah, Guy, I Wanna Buy Dat House!

2004-06-08T00:01:00.000+02:00

Welcome to my world! Welcome to my world! Welcome to my world...of porn!!!!

I had managed to avoid porn for most of my adolescence and beyond so I had a lot to make up for when I took this job. It wasn't just the Catholic education, it was the fact that I never really had a TV. And all my boyfriends never had TVs either. No TV, no porn.

Now, don't get me wrong, I don't work in a PORN shop, per se...porn is actually just a small part of the business we do, and yet, it's pretty steady. So, being a completely astute and dedicated employee, I decided to take home a porn DVD, and my lovely colleague suggested I watch a Rocco Siffredi uh, film, as he is the best of the best here -- real, honest to goodness Italian porn king.

Now, the porn was pretty much as I imagined it. Lots of moaning and groaning and position switching, etc. BUT the best part is the "trama"...or the story that sets up all the wild anal sex that will soon take place. In this case, Rocco and his buddy are thinking about buying a fancy house that is under construction. The house stands on a nondescript Eastern-European street, and Rocco and his bud are standing across the street from it, and the following exchange happens:

Rocco: Hey, guy, you wanna buy dat house?

Porn Buddy: Yeah, guy, let's see dat house.

Rocco: Okay, guy, we go see dat house.

Porn Buddy: Yeah, guy, let's go see dat house.

(They attempt to cross the nondescript Eastern-European street, but there is too much oncoming Eastern-European traffic)

Rocco: I dunno, guy, let's check out dat house.

Porn Buddy: Yeah, guy, I wanna see dat house.

(They now run across the street, darting between little 70's style Eastern-European cars)

(They are in the house now, in a big room with just one couch)

Porno chick in business suit #1: You guys want to buy da house? Eeeet's a nice house.

Rocco: Yeah, I dunno, da house is pritty cool. I dink I wanna buy da house. What you say, guy?

Porno Buddy: Yeah, da house is cool, guy.

Porno chick in business suit #2: We show you how pritty da house is.

At this point the chicks whip off their business suits and wigs and, well, we all know what happens next. Yeah, guy, we see just how pritty da house can be.

Okay, I never found out if Rocco and his Porn Buddy actually bought da pritty house as the "trama" ended there and I soon lost interest. The fact that they all spoke in broken English was a lot more intriguing to me. I'm assuming Rocco is not just an Italian Porn King because of his God-given talent, but also because of his, ahem, linguistic abilities.

Yeah, guy, I am learning sooooo much in Italy.

When The Moon Hits Your Eye

2004-06-01T22:18:00.000+02:00

Let's put the entire Mammoni phenomenon aside for a moment, and just discuss how HOT the men are here. They are hothothot. Even their eyelashes are hot. Even their little dirty crooked teeth are hot.

And what do I do when in the presence of these hot creatures? Um, I am neither graceful nor smooth, charming nor elegant. No, when one of these specimens enter the shop, I proceed to smile, blush, stutter when I speak to them, trip over my feet, knock my head on a shelf, knock DVDs all over the place, and basically make a complete fool of myself. All the while my heart is skipping around like a Rapture tune, and my palms are sweating. Now when this sort of thing happen in films, like when Julia Roberts or Cameron Diaz gets all flustered, well, everyone loves it and finds it quite adorable.

When I react this way, it's a bit more like Buster Keaton.

Let me introduce you to a few of the hotties who inspire such chaos. Note the names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Giovane - Just turned 23! I could soooo be his mom...if we lived in Arkansas. He is tall, with beautiful dark locks, and the best smile in town, hands down. One of those big toothpaste commercial smiles that makes me want to lick his teeth.

Tattoo - A bit older than jailbait, but still younger then me. Guess he could be considered Gen Y, although I'm not sure they have all that marketing lingo BS here. He's got gorgeous tattoos and these sparkly eyes that dance. They are like little stars, little stars that I want to lick.

Benigni - Yeah, he's got the whacky personality of Roberto Benigni. In truth, he's really funny when he speaks English, but when he speaks Italian I am just assuming he is funny, as I really don't understand a thing he says. But, hey is that necessary in order to, you guessed it, lick his face?

I tell ya, these guys help pass the time. I don't miss the days of being stuck in a cube in NYC, where NO hotties passed by to say ciao and there was no one to dream of licking.

The Return of Baby

2004-05-31T23:22:00.000+02:00

Okay, so Mr. Baby-Can-You-Copy-It-For-Me has come back to the shop. Instead of getting his nightly porn from the 24-hour machines outside, he instead enters the shop at 3 minutes before closing. I see him coming but can never shut off the lights quick enough. And he's a chatty one. So, I know I have a good 20-25 minutes before I can get outta there.

Mr. Baby is about 35, with wild Barbara Bush blue eyes and a pot belly. Usually he likes to tell me what he is going to cook for dinner. This in itself can take 10 minutes since it's never just one course. It's more like 5. I am sure he is a fiery little cook, but since he speaks in an incomprehensible dialect, I can't really follow his recipes too well. I hear "Dee do dee da blah blee do FUNGHI dee maaa caaa dooo PENNE caaaa deeee doooo BELLO." Um, okay. Sure, it's delicious but can you get your porn now and go home to cook your penne so I can close??

Last night he showed up exactly 8pm and got me as I was bringing the doormat inside. All I said was "Buona sera, come va? " and then the litany began. From what I could follow here is what happened: His girlfriend was cheating on him with a stocky guy and she had just thrown him out of his apartment. She took his house keys, so he was all crazy and his Barbara Bush eyes were going in all sorts of directions, rolling back inside his head, and he said something about spending 500 euro on roses for her...and also when she wanted a TV he bought her a GRANDE TV (talking with his hands fiercely now)...and now what was he gonna do with the TV? Sleep with it in his car? And he just wanted to go beat up the stocky guy.

Then he asked me for a sentimental movie. No porn tonight, he was looking for a good cry. So I gave him some Minnie Driver chick flick and sent him packing.

He was still ranting about the roses, TV and stocky guy well after he had left the shop. To no one in particular.

Mammoni with Scarves

2004-05-30T09:32:00.000+02:00

Hmmmm, dating in Italy. A wee bit different here than in NYC. Let me elaborate...

Me (in NYC): Hey, you're pretty hot. Do you have a girlfriend?

Cute Boy: Uh, no.

Me: Cool. Wanna hang out sometime?

CB: Sure, yeah. You don't mind if my boyfriend comes too, 'k?

And now......

Me (in Italy): Hey, you're pretty hot. Are you married?

CB: No.

Me: You live with your mamma?

CB: Ma, si, certo. (But, of course)

Me: Well, do you have a girlfriend?

CB: Ma, non importa. Dai, andiamo a bere qualcosa! (But, does that matter? Let's go get a drink!)

Hmmmm.

Okay, some small observations about Italian men:

-They all live at home. Mamma does the wash, cooks for them, lets them do whatever they want to do, come and go as they please. With the money they save living at home, they buy fancy cars and clothes.

-If they do NOT live with Mamma, it's only because they are married. In that case, they live right across the street from Mamma. And Mamma STILL does their wash.

-Part of their fancy wardrobe includes scarves. They know how to sport them - they wrap them around their necks just the right way. It's like it's part of their genetic makeup. Looks pretty hot too.

-They check out every women who walks by. They just stare up and down. It's like a country made up of US construction workers. I've never been so checked out in my life.

I like the scarf-sporting. But to be honest, I have a tough time with the livin-with-Mamma thing. I just can't get past it, which, um, lowers my pool of eligible men significantly.

Rrrrrock & Rrrrrrollll

2004-05-27T21:23:00.000+02:00

So, one night my friend Paolo invites me to go see this Italian rock band. "Kelliiiieee, rrrrrock and rrrrrrolllll. Let's go!" I'm skeptical given the state of Italian rock music, but what the hell...I am trying to experience as much as possible here in Pordenone.

He and his friend Matteo pick me up in the prerequisite Italian small car and we're off. The only decent rock club in town is about a half hour drive from the center of the city, but long after half an hour we're still driving and we're passing small towns I never noticed before. I ask Paolo where we're headed, since I get a sinking feeling we are on a long road to nowhere. Turns out, we are lost. After another 45 minutes circling around a dark road, we see a tent. It's in the middle of a field, surrounded by NOTHING (although I swear I saw cows), and Paolo states, "That's it! The tent! Rrrrrock and rrrrolll!"

Yep, that's it alright. Stalls with people selling bongs and hand-carved wooden frogs, young kids selling their comic books, lots of beer...I feel like I am at some kind of Italian Phish concert. There's the TENT, where a bad knock-off of Television is making noise. But everyone is really there to see Tre Allegri Ragazzi Morti, the hometown rock legends. I will say that when they take the stage, it is NOT like anything I have experienced before, and they proceed to do a 90 minute set of, uh, rrrrock and rrrroll. Skeleton masks, a bunny costume, and lyrics that I cannot decipher -- sort of like a latin Flaming Lips, except I understand the Lips...kind of. The end of the show requires audience participation....the singer yells "Life is mean but I didn't invent it...the concert is over." At which point the audience yells back VAFFANCULO (this doesn't need translation, does it?). This banter by a lead singer in a bunny costume and the Italian kids is repeated 10-20 times and against my better judgement, I found myself shouting it too.

Ah, Italian rrrrock and rrrrolllll. Vaffanculo.

Italia-tainment

2004-05-23T17:30:00.000+02:00

Steven Seagal is BIG here. BIG BIG BIG. Like, David Hasselhoff is to Germany as Steven Seagal is to Italy.

In the US, he is some sort of action-star-new-age-bad-hair-joke, right? Here...they love him. In fact, his new movie, Belly of The Beast, is number 4 on our top rentals list this month. Did you miss it? Well, it's an intriguing movie. Steven plays Jake Hopper, an ex-CIA agent and martial arts expert, whose daughter, Jessica has been kidnapped along with the daughter of Senator Winthrope while vacationing in Thailand. The plot thickens and involves Islamic terrorits and Guantanamo Bay and other timely political twists and turns. And lots of martial arts, of course. The cover of the DVD describes it as an "action thriller of extraordinary intensity." I'll let you decide.

People rent a lot of DVDs since Italian television is so bad here. There is a lot of calcio (soccer) talk, a lot of supermodel chicks in band-aid sized skirts delivering the evening news, and a lot of American shows dubbed into Italian. The dubbing is supposedly some of the best in the world, but I can't stand it. I think the same guy dubs both Eddie Murphy AND Robert De Niro. Maybe Jim Carrey too. And plus, there is so much lost in translation here. For instance, a lot of the crime details are left out of Law and Order....so in the end it seems that Vincent D'onofrio is WAY smarter than he comes off, since he is solving the crime with almost NO clues.

Oh, and the guy who dubs his voice sounds like he ate a pack of Marlboro Reds for lunch.

Cheen Kway Chen Toe

2004-05-19T23:49:00.000+02:00

I am obsessed with the Fiat 500. My love of the original Mini doesn't even come close.

Check this baby out:
http://www.500clubitalia.it

If that isn't the coolest car you've ever seen, well, then, I don't understand you. I really don't.

I just need to get that pesky driver's license and I'll be good to go. I think this car will fit me, a 2-month old puppy and a toothbrush. If that.

Just Copy It For Me, Baby

2004-05-19T13:36:00.000+02:00

Last night a new customer came in the shop and asked if I would copy movies for him. I was like, Um, we RENT and SELL movies, we don't COPY them. He didn't get it. I tried to explain to him in my pitiful Italian that if we just copied DVDs for people, that we wouldn't be a RENTAL shop. Plus, how would we make money off of you if we COPY the movie for you? He still didn't get it. So I said really loudly, it's ILLEGAL. Actually, I think I said "Non e' legale, YO!", although the YO isn't as effective here as it is in NYC.

He got it. But he asked me again. And he called me Baby.

Look, no one puts Baby in a corner. And no one asks Baby to copy films.

YO.