Oh well...
The other night we celebrated Fra's official entry into the turbulent club of the -sixties, finally. In the morning, excited for him, I sent him a little WhatsApp message ''Hey, big guy! How do you feel?'' ''Like shit... the hacked free Brazzers account isn't working anymore, damn!!!''
It's a tough world...
Turning thirty is a milestone for everyone. I know they've always told you that, but I wanted to confirm the concept: it's true. You see people around you changing for work, changing for women, changing to get rid of the mayor, changing because they're convinced that at thirty you MUST change, due to some fictitious but equally compelling rule whose non-observance would result in the loss of one's masculinity. ''We're not kids anymore, come on. Act seriously, we're thirty!'' People who used to blast the car stereo at astronomical volumes even just to straighten it in the Hypermarket parking lot now won't go to a concert even if it’s for free in their living room (since with Netflix I can indulge on demand Monday morning while on parental leave...)
That’s why it’s important to constantly remember who we are, where we come from, and, most importantly, where we want to crash.
And the other night it was Andrea's shadowed house's turn. After all, we couldn't do otherwise; the special occasion deserved a worthy celebratory location, considering also the not negligible fact that it's bailout time and meal vouchers need to be preserved for the usual raids at ‘’Il Lercio’’ Trattoria, or at least for the 7-speed curling iron on offer at Conad. So... profusely feasting among the 147 square meters of attic in B/8 was a sensory, almost mystical, experience, in the sense that the host writhed the whole time praying to whichever God so that my forearm, in its wild adventures, would never cross the path of the Murano glass collection placed right behind the seat (but does anyone still have a glass collection at home in 2017? Come on...).
To the humble menu of pasta with meatballs, pici with pork ragù, half a kilo of 'nduja, and Andria's burrata that made us inhale enough air to twice block the ventilation system, I added my own touch: plum grappa from my dad, with an alcohol content oscillating from 70 towards infinity. By the third drop-shot, Fra's complexion was changing as if we were at the rides in Fasanolandia. The concern in the room became palpable, enough to seriously consider the idea of even uncorking a bottle of water, until the celebrated himself, after a barrage of reflux coughs, while making a cigarette with the machine (but does anyone in 2017 still not know how to roll their own cigarette? Come on...) reassured us by thundering:
<<Damn... I can't stand virtuosos anymore! The G3, impossible scales... the six-string bass. I loathe even more the fans of this stuff and their technical comments meant to analyze alleged imperfections in execution. That face of James LaBrie, who looks like a cheese vendor, and all those who wear his band’s shirts thinking it says Beethoven on them disgusts me. I find it pathetic those who appreciate this crap and talk about great musicians, real artistic merits, and at the first side project named ''John Petrucci and Joey DI Maio’s Super Epic Poem of Masturbatory Steel'' they rush on SlSk to evaluate the product as if they were a new Morandini with varicocele. I don't care about being sophisticated or cultured; I'm the one who draws dicks with keys in the elevator, the one who sticks boogers onto the office bathroom handle and purposely pees outside in the Kitsch Bar toilet where they're playing House as background music. I have a '95 Peugeot euro 0 with 450,000 km with a F**K OFF BODYSHOPS sticker on the back. When I let a woman go first, it’s not out of etiquette or whatever... it's that I have to check out her ass. And now enough, rascals! Don't linger... give me my gift, come on... and if it's not the '‘Jane Live’' by Converge recorded at the Roadburn last year your damsels will be happy to start counting the coins you'll leave them with your survivor pensions...>>
After an endless silence of about a minute, only broken by a plethora of acidic sewer-tasting farts from Fra, Andrea, innocently: <<And who the hell are these Converge!?!>> (but does anyone in 2017 still...)
CRASHBADABAMSPRAAAAT!!!
Sounds of Murano glass shattering on the red tile of a living room on a cheerful Easter evening of jubilation
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