When the pizza man found himself at the crossroads of his life, between the babe and the dumpling, (but Prof. Buridan would say: between the trivial and the sublime), he chose the latter.
Halfway, however, since he ended up with the sugary lady anyway. After the pizzas, the dumpling. A big step forward, no doubt, my compliments. In short, the carnival, for our handsome pudgy boy, never ends.
We realized immediately, with the explosion of his “popper beats,” that we were heading towards the extra-large, the hearty laughter, the boisterous beat, the heavenly socialism, the chemical brotherhood, pop skewered like a turkey at Christmas. Phew, the Eldorado of breakbeat, in short (but this one was suggested to me mumbling by Prof. Buridan).
In this magical fairy tale that is life, the pudgy boy plays it like a bemused Sgt. Garcia bombarded by hailstorms of beats, cheerful samplings to the groove, such that the ingredients used in the house of love to test the pizza and the dumpling are emblematic of a bonhomie of scythe and stove (and limoncello).
The paradise of the pizza maker cannot wait: happily confused between Lenin and Shulgin, the psychedelic basket of heavenly socialism is embraced in the many daily ecstasies that happen to him at a frantic pace for weeks and weeks. Everyone needs a carnival, right? Forget about work or justice. Socialism is in paradise (“Warning to non-communists! Even God is equal for everyone” those of another mocking brotherhood, the damned French, said it more than a century ago!), here on earth we need a 303, an XL carnival, and a series of rhythmic zany acts. If the Georgian big mustache had known, he’d have applied it literally (or to the central committee).
But let's not burden the pizza maker with the weight of History, he is a Lazarillo of Brighton. For him, breakbeat was a farce. Not that the freakpower in merry cosmetics has ever strayed from its main path. On the contrary, from the tender age in the gloomy 70s, he amused himself with the punk and naturally got outraged by the Imitation 69, the greediest apostles of gaining through chaos, rather than the parody of the situational circus from Pistoli. After the white riots, the gunmen on rooftops, and the shootings in Brixton, our future pudgy lad relived the carnival life, with those bell-ringing martinis a bit slow on the uptake, so naive as to reach the hit parade poker in the eighties without cheating.
But then, what an Assyrian beard, the climb to the charts, the concerts, the interviews, the stardom waiting for you. Better, much better, the dance, Dionysus, Bacchus, and Tobacco. And since in his youth he really liked the metropolitan western, down again with the shootings of Brixton, because the International is of the Beats, the drums, not the workers. The times for the revolution, but for dancing, are ripe. The pizza maker departs for the Eldorado of breakbeat with the militant shout of: Lenin, Shulgin, Mao Tze Tung!.
He enrolls in the P.C.I., the Party Chemical English, confuses raves for political demonstrations, illegal gatherings for revolutionary mouth-watering, MixMag for Pravda, the 808 for the AK 47, cheers for revolt and incites for communist ambush from the stadium stands, instead of cutting the corporation wires as an act of sabotage, he cuts dub plates, in short a great confusion, you get it. And this, oh comrades of the breakbeat, is fantastic. Because our pudgy lad has a spirit of self-denial, he proselytizes, becomes charismatic like Jim Morrison enough to dream himself as Leader of the Breakbeat Komsomol and opens a Fifth International, entitled Big Beat Boutique.
The Saturday night socialism, but Friday is fine too, was a contagious explosion, the Gospel of Norman is life lived through chemistry, forget the Chinese little red books. The last act of socialist faith and self-denying pursuit of failure at all costs is that little pearl “Halfway between the babe and the dumpling,” where amidst chemical-like rhythms worthy of Captain Fracassa and gospel nonsense, sober hammerings from late-season raves, and psychedelic witchcraft complete with Morrison (freakpower to the power!!) in heavenly socialism mode, the circus-carnival closes.
It was tough, but paradise (and socialism) didn't have to wait long.
The handsome pudgy boy has finished all the pizzas around...
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