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Tour Diary: 2003 > Page 4

THE SHROUD OF TURINO

Italy is fucking great.

Though Jean-Louis says about our impending attempt to try to catch a train to Italy "You know when the train leaves...but when it gets there..." And he shrugs and his friend from the night before who told the bleeding ass story, from his vantage point as a worker for the Train company agrees, and they both shake their French heads, looking slightly amused at the foibles of their southern brethren's total inability to get anywhere on time for any reason whatsoever.

Fuck that.

Like Hitler said, A nation run by Negroes. Beautiful. And this is more true than they themselves will even believe and so I'll say it again and not for the last time but I think Italians need to understand that NO ONE, absolutely NO ONE but other Italians believe them to be or even qualify as any version of WHITE PERSON. Same with the Spaniards. I mean I now KNOW that you THINK you're WHITE. That you believe your swarthy skin is not really dark enough to qualify you as BLACK but, and this might come as a shock to you, really, NO ONE ELSE DOES.

And so it is with great joy that I find myself in Italy. With all of these goddamned Italian women doing that Italian woman thing of looking so fucking hot AND returning your looks before turning away in this slather of shyness. Very Catholic and very fucking becoming and my cock is awake and happy to be here even if it is freezing in Turin.

But Jesus I can't walk. My knee joints from all of the fighting, training for fighting, and stumbling down flights of stairs are angry at the weather and like the Tin Man (whom I played wonderfully in a musical theater version of the Wizard of Oz way back when) I creak everywhere and everywhere seems to require that we climb flights and flights of stairs to get to it.

But we get picked up by Fabrizio of the band LARSEN. Kind of the Italian Kevin Martins. Kind of a bit like the white rabbit in Alice in Wonderland. Rushing hither and yon. Almost running actually but devoid of any real outward signs of stress. He talks about going to a branding seminar in San Francisco. A THREE day seminar.

"What the fuck do they need to tell you in THREE days about branding?!?!"

"Well how to do it and.."

"You take something hot and you stick it on...that leaves 2 days, 23 hours and 58 minutes..."

"Well there's the philosophy and all of that and..."

"Yeah yeah..the Amway of body modifications...whatever."

He's a curious study though and I watch him while he goes through the standard song (and dance) of trying to figure out if we're assholes.

I mean you wouldn't think this needed much figuring out but Niko is so nice and retiring (read: drunk on the liquor) that I figured this would provide all of the protective coloration that I'd need but I'm watching him watch me and so I ask right away.

"WHY ISN'T MUSSOLINI BETTER APPRECIATED BY THE AVERAGE ITALIAN?"

Well, he laughs and I figure he's all right and we eat and then off to the show.

THE MOMENT OF DOOM: We asked him how many he expected for the show tonight. He said "well usually we have like 200 but with the Jarboe show last week we had the worst showing ever. Only 75 people but tonight should be good."

And then I know as surely as I know that the sun will rise and the moon will set, that we are doomed.

And I'm right. 32 people and now OXBOW Acoustic holds the record as the most poorly attended show in Turin. But we care not at all. Daniele Brusaschetto opens and he is very cool and Paul the American Ex-Pat takes care of our Merch and he sells a shitload of it while I drink drink drink but idiot savant like I am, though drinking like I am, I do note that when he gives me the merch money it's 10 Euros lighter than it should be but then again these guys are taking us to Milan tomorrow so fuck it. Live and let live is what I say and we take off post-show to Alessandro's house where we'll stay and he's like a real Oxbow fan and has all of the hard to find shit and is a DJ besides so he spends the next morning playing cool music for us and I ask him how you say the word "BETRAYAL" in Italian.

He says "what's 'betrayal'?"

I say "well it's like if you ask Fabrizio to give your girlfriend, the one with the ass that makes me want to cry while fucking it, to give her a ride across town and you later find out that he's fucked her."

His eyes get hard and in his Italian mind I can see the video playing itself out for him complete with the requisite Italian knife of JUSTICE and he says quietly

"tradimento."

I'll remember this.

A few things to note:

1) Alessandro is limping as a result of a scooter accident and I'm limping due to the cold and when we walk down the sidewalk together we look like we're doing an Italian revival of Waiting for Godot.
2) All of the food in Turin is fucking toooo salty. What the hell is the problem?
3) Fabrizio hates anything South of Florence. I'm not sure why but perhaps it's because he doesn't know that he's ALSO a Negro.
4) There's an earthquake in the early morning. I thought it was Niko jerking off in the same bed I was sleeping in. I resolve to not mention this. However at breakfast that's the first thing I say. He, of course, denies it. I remain suspicious.
5) No one in Italy stops for stop lights. There is no traffic law at all in fact. Pedestrians instead of assuming like Californians that their humanity will be recognized and appreciated know to get the fuck out of the street if they want to keep living.
6) I LOVE ITALY.

YOU SAY MILANO, WE SAY MILANO, MILANO, MILANO, MILANO, MILANO, OH LET'S CALL THE WHOLE THING OFF

Fabrizio and Paul drive us here and make their graceful and amusing exit.

"Um. We're going to, ah, leave instead of staying for the show and um..."

We let them off the hook, "go, fly, leave...fuck, man. You drove us here, no WAY we expect you to suffer through ANOTHER show."

And so they do.

And dinner comes and unlike when we were here in September I don't knock all the glasses off of the table and stain my suit and the woman who booked the show, the beautiful Silvia even talks to me this time. NOTE TO SELF: WOMEN LIKE A MAN WHO DOESN'T KNOCK ALL OF THE FUCKING DINNER CROCKERY ON THE FLOOR IN A TORNADO OF DRUNKENESS.

And the show is cool. 200 people show up. For Simon and fucking Garfunkel. We are still amazed. But despite the amazement some things stay the same and there he is. I mean you don't KNOW who he is but you KNOW he's going to be there. I'm talking about THE TOWN DRUNK who at first is doing this drunken guy pirouette in front of me. Toasting me with his drink and then with his drink and cigarette, and just generally ASKING for the kind of treatment that predictably guys like him receive at the hands of guys like me.

I jump into the orchestra pit though and try to get him but he escapes and the show cruises to a close and the promoters are quickly sticking up the screen for the movie and while I'm getting dressed behind it the drunk comes back to where I stand behind the screen. His English is bad and my Italian is no good but we both speak Drunkonian so we're fine.

Until he grabs me.

And then I grab him and then in yanking away from where I've got a fistful of his sweater he makes the universal "let's fight sign" of hands now raised in the air and now I grab him tight and hold him tighter right as some of the promoter guys get there to break it up.

"He's going to get hurt."

And they talk to him in Italian and he wanders off but he wanders off in the direction of the screen and I grab him again and this time they hustle him off the stage.

He later tries to get Niko to come to his house.

But as I'm exiting the stage this woman comes up to me with her hand outstretched.

"Hi. My English is bad and I only saw one song but I liked it."

"That's because you only saw one song."

"No, no. It was good. And spotting me now standing on the dance floor THE TOWN DRUNK descends and he forces us down to a table and through her he asks..

"Is he Gay?"

I ask her, "Is HE gay?"

"He says 'No.' Well, wait. He says 'Maybe' He says he wants you to come to his house."

"Eh. And find out?"

"He wants to know why you pull out your, how do you say..."

"Cock. How do you say that in Italian?"

"Cazzo. Why do you pull out your Cazzo?"

"Well he probably pulls out his Cazzo several times a day, doesn't he?"

She's hanging with the translation. Not embarrassed at all. I tell you I LOVE these Italian women.

"He says 'yes,' but not like that."

"Well he should try it." And that's when I notice her handbag with the big silver letters on it that say LOVE & SEX. Fuck. Genius.

Cave Whores! Get Your Cave Whores! Can a city that boasts of Cave Whores (also
known as Grotto Gash) really be THAT bad?

But then the famous Mirko Spino Spino Mirko (he has two names that both seem like first names to me consequently I can never remember the order) from Wallace Records comes up to me (2002 European Tour Diary PART TWO > Page 5) and says in total life and death fashion.

"Eugene. I need to speak to you."

Well I know this voice, having heard it out of the mouth of many a man and it usually then goes on to say something like

"..I understand that Mariah spent the night at your place last night...and I understand there was some, um, activity, fondling, of some sort and I just want to hear from YOU whether it's true or not."

And sure enough he says "I finally sat down to read your," and he almost spits these words, "tour diary." His pupils are dilated and he's clearly in the grips of something and I'm trying desperately to remember what I said since I can't recall what with all of the Italian vino that's been flowing and whatnot.

"Yes. I was at my girlfriend's house and I sat down to read it for the first time. And I got to that part where I asked her to drive you home and I started..." And here he paused for effect with his hand over his heart. "..to not be able to breath. And then I'm scrolling down to read 'WHAT NEXT?!? WHAT NEXT?!?' and I when I finally get to the bottom and read that nothing's happened...well I could breath again."

And he finishes spent and still just staring at me quietly and so I say.

"Hey man. I'd never have fucked your girlfriend. I LIKE you. Haha. I mean you need to worry if I shift the emphasis to I like YOU, but fuck man...what kind of guy do you think I am?" And he seems temporarily mollified and almost on cue his girlfriend comes up and I shake her hand and then figure Fuck It, and I give her a long, passionate hug, kisses on both cheeks, the whole bit.

She says, "I tried to tell him..." And we all share a laugh. Some more heartily than others, but I think he's left with, most importantly, a truism for the ages: There is no WAY that Eugene is going to be good for your relationship no matter what.

And one more: True love becomes more pure through continued betrayal.

On to Rome.