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Rating: Saturday night, not the Navigli but down there, at the counter next to a New Young of current days. Talking like a madman, for twenty minutes.
Davide is in line ordering drinks. A mile-long line, a horde of pseudo-ultras that between the first and second half has flowed along the narrow corridor next to the taps. In some unknown historical era, Davide will come back here with my beer.
I'm starting to get bored. Damn it, let's see what the young man of today has to say.
"No, earlier I was listening to the latest Muse album, hadn’t heard it yet, not bad"
Yes, but who the hell is he talking to? He's alone, sitting at the counter, with white earbuds which I assume are emitting the self-celebratory notes of the latest "not bad" from Muse. With eyes full of confusion, he stares at the guy in front of him who is distractedly washing glasses in a filthy sink, with a medium beer under his chin.
"Yes, I've got the money, and I'm free next week"
What? Is he talking to me? And if he is, what the hell is he trying to communicate? I'm starting to have the eyes of confusion too...
No, no Christ, NO.
He removes the white earbuds, pulls out a fruit-branded phone from his pocket, and starts typing.
In a pub, alone in front of a beer, chatting with friends via SMS, MSN, iPhone, and various other acronyms. To this guy, the alienation in Blade Runner is nothing.
He puts the earbuds back in, never (NEVER) shifting his confusingly visual field to any human presence that fills the four walls of this hole-in-the-wall venue.
"Done, waiting for a response, but it's okay with me, now I'll call Federico and see if we can also organize for Alt-J"
Alt-J, already better than Muse...
"Hi Fede, I’m at my place, at Riki’s, it's awesome, the place is packed"
Yes, but you might as well be alone in your room, and you’d pay less for the beer...
"Shall we hit up Alt-J in Cologne next month?"
My boy, you’ve got the elevation that makes Drexler envious...
Davide arrives, no beers.
"Where's the beer?"
"John called, his wife's out till Monday, he's asking if we'll go to his place. He has wine and tons of beers, he just asks if we can pick up a couple of bags"
"I’ve got no money left."
"I’ll send, but you go pick it up"
"I wanted to make it quick tonight"
"Come on, a couple of hits at John's, and I'll get you back before 3.00"
Damn it.
I dive into the pedestrian area soaked with Friday night teeth-grinders, hipsters, and wannabes doing laps checking out other people's chicks.
First Muse, then Alt-J... Alt-J in Cologne, and chats in front of a beer through WhatsApp... what kind of times are these?
The bridge arrives; the niggas are there.
"Sciao belo"
"Hey, do you have two forties?"
He does, forty seconds for eighty euros. Eighty euros for crap. In front of everyone's eyes who see, know, and don't care. Everyone.
I go back to Davide, as soon as he sees me, he gets King Kong eyes and something starts climbing up his back.
"Done?"
"Done."
"We could have a hit from the champ if you want, I've withdrawn money, we can get more"
"No, let's get out of here, I already don’t know how or when I'll pay you back"
"No problem"
"No, let's leave"
The guy with confusion eyes and white earbuds keeps talking, and I just now notice he hasn’t touched the beer since I first came in, but he talks a lot. Alone. Or with his phone, depending on your point of view.
Alt-J in Cologne.
A flight for a concert, but when you go out, you're still as stuck as ever from the place you have under your house...
We leave the almost Navigli and get into the Davide-mobile, a maroon Fiat Tipo from nineteen hundred and went to middle school, equipped with four wheels, an engine, and a cassette to plug in the mp3 player.
Davide motions to the pocket.
"So? How did it serve you?"
"You know what I was thinking? That if we both shut up and put on the 2007 recording of APTBS at SXSW studios, the one I gave you yesterday, maybe this crappy night could start to make sense"
"The recording of what?"
"Ah, screw you! Let's have a hit from the champ and go back to the niggas.
But screw you and start listening to decent stuff because in this world I feel surrounded by withered talking peonies.
No offense, since you’re footing the bill."
For all the Friday night teeth-grinders, hipsters, wannabes, and all the withered talking peonies wondering what SXSW is and who "A Place To Bury Strangers" are: Google exists, I’m fed up with you.
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