Italia 90
Italia 90 III

That morning, I'm walking on my day off, head down minding my own business, familiar with my surroundings and avoiding them, going from point to point to do my things, and I bump into an acquaintance, hello Miki Nigagi! Gaia the florist greets me, my friend Elena who always throws at me these volodinian flow fantasies, what a coarse choice for you all nature and naturism, where could you ever see such a floral medley if not in a greenhouse, damned fool, and I don't even answer her, what does this walking still life want? I don't even look at her, the little maid comes from the countryside, it's Monday in this horrendous city, and on my feet are the extraordinary of June, my new blazing grey and green Busenitz, all my concentration on not stepping in shit, because since the soles are new I wouldn't want to prepare to decorate them, when I go and bump into a priest, failing the mission.

Yesterday's closing killed me, I have the idea that the last two customers were Siamese twins, Polfer agents, they ordered a soy macchiato and a pink grapefruit juice, while Radiofreccia, Rock Time, was playing the Cranberries and German car ads were interrupting a ridiculous show, the Ark of Art and Free Thought, that's what they called it, with Kevin Spacey's voice advocating the creativity of a youth with no age limits and private economic initiative, but I was already busy cleaning the machine and the citrus squeezer and was getting ready to scrape the last half-hour of pay reading my favorite Balestrini in the back, who had just died recently, so I gave them two nice hot barley drinks in cardboard and with maximum courtesy asked them to leave and not turn around, good work guys, tomorrow is another week.

What is this short prelate doing here dazed? he stopped to look at a poster from the Cheap collective, in slender block letters, black on white background
RECLAIM
OUR [sesso grezzo]
CITY
and maybe interpreting my phlegm apologies as a gentle and respectful disposition to his collar, he addresses me young man, can you tell me what this means, he stammers as they say, reclam ur citi? and yes, I think, old rascal, as if you hadn’t understood that what interests you about the poster is the raw sex, some drunk kid must have interpolated it overnight in uniposca, were you perhaps looking for a phone number? but my profession deforms me, leads me to fulfill requests from all sorts of subjects this dreadful reflex of obedience that I fear will become chronic, and reclaim our city I translate it for him, sufficient and contemptuous subjugated.

Yesterday's closing killed me and down the shutter I went to drown and waste myself, I opened the door to my reputation and did the before you, always gallant, never shall it be, I introduced myself and good evening make me a Varnelli, we're at the counter just me and a failed writer I know, at a little table three Romanian day laborers, people who mind their own business, at another one a group of four artists who've rented a studio nearby, I've been there a couple of times, but no one wants to talk to anyone, make me another because the one before got stuck, I ventured a reasoning with my writer friend and then my friend Alessandra already tipsy entered with a guy I'd never seen, obviously English, must have been a Six-foot-two ‘96 in a polo, dressed properly, good evening, make me another because I haven't even seen the ones before, what do you want?

I’m about to leave but the Don lights up and says oh well, it's a nice message I’m glad that you young ones make yourselves heard, bravo! and I light up too, want to see that I've caught the catholic communist priest, Don Camillo & Peppone one and combined, the two Siamese twins of Polfer last night who wanted two different things in a single body, and this little man obviously eager makes me tender that I stop for a moment and tell him well, you do what you can, now they want to clear out another place and apparently we're at the end of our rope, a couple more months, and he seems troubled, he tells me that we have to reclaim our spaces, it's not possible that these mafia from China and India come here and buy all those shops with drug money and prostitution money that pretty soon we'll even sell them churches, and I’m not sure how visibly I was taken aback but I barely have the strength to say look, maybe I wouldn’t interpret the poster quite like that, doctor goodbye, I'm leaving in peace, turning the corner and expectorating in a gasp my last morsel of youthful delusion, mixed with the previous night's Varnelli.

I played the alpha a bit and I'm not proud of it, even though with Alessandra there was no longer any story and good luck, but the situation turned for the better because the English was nice, and he knew a lot, he did a round of Borghetti for everyone and we talked about football, he’s with QPR, smart, Le Coq Sportif wonderful jersey! but fuck Ecclestone and fuckin' Briatore that fuck, make us another Varnelli because we've got to toast, I asked him if he knew that Ecclestone has in his garage the Lancia Astura that Mussolini gave to Hitler, he told me about this new group called Italia 90 and they’re half skin and do post punk, and maybe Bradford came to mind, but zero, no melodies, just a voice you'd expect on an Oi group, and he played me a track that only repeats good intentions/agents of antagonism/disrupt the capital, they've got drive, tomorrow I'll listen to them better, Alessandra said they seemed like Idles to her, but in my opinion, she's never understood shit about approach, do you remember when I wanted to go to XM and you took me to that shitty place with cutting boards? I asked her, and the anecdote came to mind, usually, I'm stingy with anecdotes, but by that point, I was tipsy too, and the image of two Siamese twins from Polfer was forming in my head, an omen of doom, possible? anyway, I threw them into the story. Give me the last Varnelli. Hear this. One day last summer I bumped into a fuckin’ priest.