Mew
And The Glass Handed Kites

1) I get on a crowded bus in Tel Aviv: next to me is a young man with an agitated appearance named Ahmed, with a belt tied around his waist, continuously muttering disjointed phrases about a garden with 72 virgins.
2) I go out with a girl who takes me to her house, promising all sorts of sadomasochistic activities. I gladly accept, eager like an Andalusian caiman. It's only when she hoods me and ties me to electrical wires that I realize the girl in question is none other than Lynnie England, the Abu Ghraib prison guard.
3) I start reading, compelled by my girlfriend, the latest book by Moccia, and I discover with horror that I will no longer be able to achieve a complete orgasm until I find out if Step manages to get back with Babi.

The three episodes recounted above are autobiographical and demonstrate how I am a true super-young person of the third millennium, ready to accept with dedication the risks that derive from my status. It's futile to seek any form of consolation: the Christian Democrats are always in power, with the only
difference being that today there's not even the cheerful face-lifted figure against whom I can vent my frustrations; if I seek refuge in music, I discover that Attrezzo has made a god-level 74-minute record (screw you if you say otherwise) to say that Maynard's relationship with his mother is similar to Renato Pozzetto's with his in "Per amare Ofelia" (1974).

What balm can soothe such sufferings? How many letters do I have to write to Io Donna to make you understand? Did you think I needed concrete answers? Revolutionary utopias? New subcommanders Marcos to entrust with my vanities? No, idiots, I just wanted 4 blokes with the courage to mix My Bloody Valentine with the theme song of Georgie; Yes, dear sociologist whose name means "screw you" in Aramaic, I just wanted a band that I could write without having to break a line, which in the Italian transcription had the accent on the last letter and which, when spoken of, could be confused with Muse. I wanted the Miù, you annoying grinder, can you hear my heartfelt cry from the vast plutonium shores?

Then I discover that said group plays right in my city, on an innocent Friday in May, and then – I tell myself – why not go? After all, it's a beautiful day, and after all, I am legitimately authorized to not care about the sturm-und-drang of the transoceanic struggle for freedom, the Iranian threat, SARS, and the cross-dresser under my house that I have to accompany home otherwise he'll get beat up by the cops (damn, if only I were perverted like that Communion and Liberation guy across from me, who after mass opens up Brazilian asses like cream, I could at least get something useful out of it); yes everything seems to play in my favor, Mew plays at the Rainbow for the reasonable amount of 13 bucks and I'm already savoring their dream pop mixed with MDMA-distorted Cristina D'Avena...and what do the young twinks do? Cancel the concert with less than 24 hours’ notice?? And then I have nothing left but to shout conspiracy, to hurl curses at all deities, and hope that my hot tears quench the thirst of injustice that rages in the world.

All I want to say is that today, in this damn 2006, he can talk to you about market liberalization, the noumenal gap in Kantian thought, but always remember that in '41 his grandfather was a soldier of the Reich, while mine was singing partisan hymns, bitch