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It's the school party, you'd like to be Carrie White, but you're just a guy with no talent nor direction, wandering invisibly in a setting that is a sort of insipid comedy turned horror. Damn, in a fog of smoke and hormonal imbalance, the air smells of sweat and white martini, and every inch of a young girl's skin is like a pinprick, every glance a pair of bright and evil stars. There must be at least fifty candidates for the next lonely ride. To be honest, I also have a sweetheart, a super busty blue-eyed girl who kissed me once, but it was just a passing thing, at least on her part. So there’s really no point in being romantic, even though it's an option not to be completely discarded. Always better than this sickly sweet sensation that nails you to a ridiculous and nearly incapacitating bodily stiffness, where you keep your fists clenched in your pockets and it feels like you're still wearing your confirmation shoes. So, there you are, caught between the urge to flee and the desire to be even a little bit more at ease. Then luckily the band arrives, they play Cocaine by Eric Clapton, a track that rocked back then, followed by the cat, and then they play Back in USSR, which I remember as a fragment of happiness captured on the radio in an afternoon lost in the night of times- And then, almost like a scribbled shadow jittering its legs, I am hit by a kind of unhinged joy. With the singer, a sort of exclamatory and hopping imp blowing a cloud at me that is no longer fantozzian, but very colorful. The scene then transforms into an imprinting entirely similar to an epiphany, and I am no longer Carrie White, but a white and very happy honking little goose. Carrie in the lake with diamonds...
With the exclamatory and hopping imp we later became semi-friends, but good luck trying to bring back that memory, “The Beatles, oh please!! After all, at least a couple of centuries had passed since that afternoon, enough time for the guy to become a detergent sniffer, a devotee of psychic drops, as well as the most perfect aspiring suicide I ever met. Not only that, he played in a rather cool and rather wave band, meaning fog, melancholy, and dramatic sunsets. Fantastic was that time he pulled off the Algerian chicken recipe from one of my mom’s cookbooks and, after translating it into French, turned it into the lyrics of a very avant-garde and very bontempi organ piece. Damn, we were all caprese existentialists with no Totò on the horizon. Yet if you overcame his reserve and played the blue anthology, which he had at home, then the afternoon Back in USSR would come back. The Beatles, what can you say, the Beatles are like chocolate cake, like the girls one-third cloud, like spring. A celebration of the heart, senses, and spirit. And if it is a celebration, let even the somewhat silly things come in, the various Lovely Rita, Yellow Submarine and, of course, Back in USSR. But now, let's get back to the beginning of the story and take this happy ending signed Lennon/McCartney...
Damn, Lulù, what is this energy? The magical power of imprinting makes you rummage through your pockets and through the power of addition, you reach the sum needed for a glass of port. You drag your young carcass to the parking lot, and there’s a step waiting for you. Port, cigarette, a feeling you don't know. My goodness, is this how heroes feel? Then a stocky, bespectacled girl emerges from the door, not exactly miss world two desks behind yours. But she has her inches of skin too, and they don't sting like pins. There's nothing left but to double together around the cape of good hope...Trallallà...
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