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Thinking is the greatest quality that distinguishes the human race from the animal one; however, it is also the greatest flaw. Continuously questioning the reason for things creates in the thinker a permanent state of doubt, which prevents them from living their already miserable existence spontaneously. That is, sometimes knowing is not so important, yet it is in the name of knowledge that current society is built.
Take my case: I think about Den Harrow and I ask myself, why? No, I mean, why?
Well, many of you may have known him as the Rambo in diapers from "L’Isola dei Famosi," but for those who are a bit older, you cannot forget that young man, legally named Stefano Zandri, who, at least twenty years ago, with his makeup, bleached hair, somewhere between Duran Duran and Billy Idol, sold a bunch of records and had a series of videos on DJ Television. His songs weren't even that bad, to be clear, nothing exceptional, but still worthy of that glossy electronic pop that was all the rage in those years. Don’t break my heart, Bad boy, Lies, were a clear example of the music that dominated the time, unremarkable but inoffensive, as plastic as you wish but not inferior to many other releases of that period. But there's one thing many don't know: Den Harrow didn't sing. I mean, he put his, forgive me, silly face, and someone else sang for him, while the good Den just moved his lips.
Like saying: I need to have a good round, call Rocco Siffredi in my place and then I take all the credit. Now I say, let him be a model and let the other person sing, give success to two people, what's the point of being a singer if you can't sing? Okay, maybe the singer has an awful face, but it can never be uglier than Lucio Dalla, so give him an opportunity! Then I understood. Den Harrow is the anglicized pronunciation of Denaro and then my naïve childhood mind opened up and I understood the perverse mechanisms of the show business. Today we complain about Tiziano Ferro, Duncan James and the Blue, but realize what was around two decades ago! Forget Paris Hilton, at least she put her goods in her hard videos! If today I have become what I am, it is also because of people like Den Harrow who posed too many doubts in my fragile psyche. But revenge is a dish best served cold, and I exacted my revenge one August night 15-16 years ago. The Den Harrow phenomenon was already waning so much so that to make ends meet he accepted a cameo in a nightclub where I was vacationing. It was my chance, I convinced my little friends to go see him and I waited for the right moment to do what any sensible Italian would have done. I took a cocktail, one of those served in a half melon, drank it, and kept the melon; when the waiter came to clear the table, I shot him a dirty look, but my damn melon stayed where it was. When the bleach-blonde made his appearance on the runway, amid the crowd’s cheers, I squeezed in and like a modern-day David against Goliath, I threw with all my might the half melon that splattered against Den’s white jacket. He looked at me dumbfounded, with those insane eyes we saw on the island, he made to lunge at me, but was stopped by a bouncer who hauled me outside. As long as I live, I'll remember the bouncer's good-natured face who winked at me and said, "Too bad they're not serving cocktails with a hand grenade!"
No lie, the nightclub was called either Nettuno or Tritone and it was located in Marina di Schiavonea, right where Ringhio Gattuso was born. Anyone who remembers the event will know that the melon stain on the jacket was made by El Minchia!!!
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