The Italian Corner

Look At My Chillies 2

2008-06-30T21:34:00.004Z

Here are the Scotch Bonnet instead on the same day:

But now I realize I didn't take a picture of the best plant, potted and more than 15 cm tall: that one might start branching and thus flowring soon. The other two potted plants sit on my windowsill, in full sunlight from late morning till sunset and the position seems to be optimal for their fast growth - as fast as the naturally slow-growing Scotch Bonnet can do.
The other saplings, including the one not shown, have spent some time in the greenhouse, and the difference in growth was important. Now, the two on my window are gaining ground. The majority of the first batch of sprouts survived, but did not begin to grow in earnest until May when the temperature rose enough.

Look At My Chillies 1

2008-06-30T21:21:00.004Z

First, a parade of Bulgarian Carrot plants:

(I told Blogger to align all the pics to the left - see how well it worked)In part for reasons unknown, and in part because of my carelessness, the first batch of Bulgarian Carrot sprouts died, and also a second batch did not perform so well. Finally, a third batch survived and grew; this is the situation at June 29. The tallest plant is around 15 cm (the smallest is 2 cm). Those out in the garden are growing fast, not so much for the one in the pot (next to a cherry tomato bush). Sunlight seems to be the main factor, even if my balcony is bright. Maybe I should get rid of the screen even if it works as wind barrier. Some of those plants have been grown in a small greenhouse for a while, but there is no important difference of performance between the two situations.

One Rainy Day - A Short Story

2008-06-17T14:42:00.002Z

Luca left work barely five minutes after the beginning of the lunch break – it was always like that, a few minutes more here and there. But the environment was nice enough, his colleagues were pleasant to be around and the boss wasn’t much of a ballbuster.

He opened the door of his second-hand Rav4 and settled on the seat with a gigantic yawn – so much that his eyes almost watered and he had to rub them. What made him so horrible sleepy each day was the sheer boredom of his job: writing, correcting and printing quality manuals from the drafts various firms sent. And quality manuals are the most boring genre out there, even when they’re written well – but many of them were not; they looked like the authors made their best efforts to be obscure and confuse. But saying “Yessir!” even in front of the most egregious crap was an important part of his job. However his caffeine intake had reached alarming proportions.

Luca didn’t bother to let the diesel engine warm up before leaving the parking space: with nearly 200 000 km on it, there was little left to wear out. He yawned again before turning the wipers on, and realized with a bit of horror that he swerved and was about to climb onto the sidewalk when he regained control.
“Fuck it” he muttered – at least, in that industrial estate there wasn’t much pedestrian traffic; he then pressed the power button on the car stereo and the sound of pounding drum’n’bass filled the car.

Work wasn’t the only source of boredom and ennui for Luca: his meteoropathy played a big role too. A few cloudy days in the mid of summer and he got the blues; now it was mid-November and the Lowland was throwing its worst weather at him: one month passed with no glimpse of the sun except for brief visions of a pale, cold, grey disk above the fog; it had rained or drizzled the whole time during the last week, and now the temperature was dropping; snow was expected too.

All that would have been bearable, tho, if Irina was there and two could spend warm nights together, and bollocks to the weather. She looked exactly like you can imagine: tallish, blonde, blue-eyed, fit and toned and foxy. Unsurprisingly, she came from Estonia and she spoke correctly Estonian, Russian, Polish, German, and of course English and was working on perfecting her Italian. She worked as freelance translator; Luca met her when she got a contract for the translation into Polish of some manuals his company was dealing with. The immediately liked each other, but Luca had to court her a while before succeeding – but hey, his first job was salesman, and a successful one at that: being convincing was one of his strong points.

But Irina was not there: she left for Bruxelles the Sunday before to work as a translator at some EU conference or get-together of bureaucrats and she’d be back on the next Saturday. Because she’d get paid 1000 Euro – on top of free accommodation and largely free food and drinks - just for one week, she said.

So it was Thursday and Luca was bored and tired and down, and driving under the lead-grey sky along a dismal road in an industrial estate towards a canteen where to have a dismal lunch before going back for another three hours of the most boring job he could conceive – because that morning he had to dash and couldn’t make himself a sandwich. When in the distance, he saw a kind of familiar figure walking at the side of the road, under a large red umbrella.

He slowed down and recognized that tacky, boorish multicoloured leather jacket: not many people dared to walk around with a Corona beer towel sewn on the back like a patch; that fad was already crass in the ‘90s. Luca had no doubt about the identity of the man: he had to be the jock nicknamed The Marpion for his habit of having a crack onto every single girl he met – and despite his being rude and crass and uncultured, he often succeeded. Of course his habit attracted the hatred of a number of men, but The Marpion’s considerable physical size and lack of repulsion for violence kept him relatively safe. Relatively, because some blokes, either through brute force or intelligence managed to get back at him. The only odd circumstance was that he was just walking around that industrial estate instead of zooming around in his tackily tuned-up VW Golf.

How did Luca know him? Because before meeting Irina he had been in a relationship with Marzia, a nice but naïve local girl. They hung around the same old establishments where also The Marpion prowled – their town after all isn’t that big. Eventually, the hunter chose Marzia as his prey and moved in for the catch; after a few weeks Luca realized something was amiss and one night confronted The Marpion. The ensuing fight ended more or less with a draw, but the poor girl was so shocked and disturbed that she finally decided to take a journalism internship in Milano and was barely seen again since.

Luca went through a serious down and a couple more brushed with an enraged The Marpion; finally they got to hang around in different circles and ignore each other; Luca got his new job with a better, more stable pay (but he didn’t expect the boredom) and moved to Parma. Still, Luca hadn’t completely given up on the idea of getting some sort of revenge: not only he liked Marzia and their break-up did hurt, but it was a matter of principle; The Marpion had taken Luca’s woman and couldn’t get away with it.

And, that rainy day looked like a great occasion for revenge – there was little traffic, no other pedestrians on the road, only factories and warehouses around.

So Luca pushed down on the gas pedal letting speed build up; The Marpion was getting close any second but he still did not suspect anything and kept walking on. Luca was seeing all that like a slow-motion.

Sixty kilometres per hour, and Luca kept the pedal down; he decided to swerve at the last second not to give his target time to react.

Over sixty, reaching seventy kilometres per hour; The Marpion was only a few meters ahead and Luca steered to the right, into the enormous puddle of dark lurid water at the roadside. The prey realized what was going on too late: he turned with a horrified expression on his face, but couldn’t move, frozen in shock. Luca instead was grinning and kept the pedal down, even wondering if the puddle would cause loss of control. But at that point, it didn’t really matter.

Luca corrected the trajectory and observed in amusement the wave, almost a miniature tsunami, of water, mud and sand that the front-right wide tyre of his Rav4 raised from the puddle. It rose as high as The Marpion’s chest and hit him dead-on, drenching his sweater and jeans and shoes. The car itself passed less than half a meter from the target, and that was Luca wanted since he saw him at the side of the road: to give his opponent a nasty soak in lurid water; surely he did not intend to run him over.

From the rain-covered wing mirror, he thought he saw The Marpion cussing and cursing and making rude gestures, but Luca had gotten a bit of his revenge and happily speeded onwards: the rest of that day was going to be good.

Parma, 17 June 2008

Stuffed Peppers

2008-05-29T12:00:00.002Z

I'm sure there are already many stuffed peppers recipes around, but this one I really like. It is inspired by the stuffing apparently used for horn chillies in Indonesia. There will be no exact doses here, because I did not record them.

- Bell peppers (red or yellow)
- Mincemeat (I used a mix of beef and pork)
- Potatoes (roughly twice the weight of meat, when cooked)
- Parsley
- Olive oil
- Spices

Peel the potatoes, cut them in inch-sized pieces, boil the pieces in slightly salted water and finally mash them.

Wash and dry the peppers, cut them in half (lengthwise) and get rid of the seeds; place the halves in an oiled or buttered baking tray.

Mix the mincemeat with the mashed potatoes, add chopped parsley and your favourite spices, salt and just a splash of olive oil. Add a little more salt in the pepper halves, pour in the stuffing, smooth the surface and if you have it cover with grated Parmigiano cheese (or other cheese of your choice). Stuffing in excess can be shaped in bite-sized balls and baked or fried.

Baking peppers takes some time; in order to reduce it you may pre-cook the halves in a microwave for a few minutes. In any case, I baked my peppers for about 45 mins at 180 °C in the mid of the oven, then another half a hour at 200 °C to give the stuffing a bit of crust and to nicely brown the underside of the pepper.

Garlic & Chilli Pasta - Illustrated!

2007-03-23T13:46:00.000Z

150 g of pasta (spaghetti or bavette)
3 garlic cloves
half scotch bonnet chile

For one person!

Chop chilli & garlic and fry them in plenty of extra virgin olive oil until garlic becomes golden. Turn off the heat.

Pour the pasta in a large pot of salted boiling water and cook as per instructions on the box - 8 min in my case.

You may prepare a jug of ice-cold shandy for mouth relief in the meantime

Drain the pasta and sautee it thoroughly with the garlic and chilli.

Serve, top with grated parmigiano cheese and enjoy!

Wild Boar Ragu

2007-03-05T21:53:00.000Z

Ragù - often known as bolognaise sauce - is the typical pasta sauce of the northern Italian tradition, particularly of the city of Bologna and surroundings.

The traditional version is made from beef, but basically any kind of meat can be used: lamb, goose, duck, chicken, turkey - and mixed meats. The following recipe will work fine with any of the above. The meat of old wild boars becomes hard and fibrous, so young specimen of about 60 kg are better.

Ragù is a sauce that takes time to make. Don't start if you cannot follow through; quick versions of the sauce aren't really worth it.

First, hunt and kill a boar... joking, but that would be a great start.

Ingredients:
- 350 g of boar meat, on the bone.
- 1 medium/small onion
- 1 medium carrot
- 1 celery stick
- Tomato paste or sieved tomatoes
- extra virgin olive oil
- Butter
- 1 glass of red wine (optional)

First, cut meat away from the bones and use those to make some stock: pour 1 liter of cold water in a pot, add the bones; another carrot; a celery stick; a hefty pinch of salt; a crushed garlic clove, skin on; and 2 crumpled bay leaves. Bring the whole thing to the boil and simmer covered for 45 min - 1 h. At the end, filter th stock through a colander (here we usually eat the vegs used for stock, later). If you think this is too laborious, normal beef stock will do.

Cut the meat into 1 cm cubes (if you happen to have a grinder handy, don't be shy with it...) and set it aside; chop the onion, carrot and celery - some people like them coarser, some finer. The indicated tool here is a Mezaluna.

Take a saucepan - best of all, a china one - and cover the bottom with oil and a heaping teaspoon of butter. Place on a medium fire and add into the saucepan chopped vegetables and meat, then fry them for some 15 min - until the meat is nicely browned. This phase is important to let meat and vegs exchange flavours; if everything is done properly, the aroma will already be mouth-watering.

Add a couple cups of warm stock and one heaping tablespoon of tomato paste (about 1 cup of sieved tomatoes): ragù must not be pale, but rich and dark in colour. At this point, add also the red wine if you like it.

Proper simmering is of paramount importance for ragù. It must simmer on a low fire for at least a couple of hours; keep an eye of it to avoid the sauce burning or sticking to the pan: add more stock or just warm water if required (and probably it will be). For that special touch, cook the sauce about 90 min, let it rest for a few hours and cook for another half to one hour.

Ragù is excellent with pasta and egg pasta (with plenty of grated Parmigiano on top); it is the sauce that goes into lasagna an you can eat it even on a slice of toasted bread.

Islamists of Autumn

2006-06-18T15:06:00.000Z

I've been slacking off and even forgot about all this, but finally here's what my eyes saw last November:

Keep in mind the purported reason of this demonstration

Massive, innit?

It was for women's rights. Can you spot the gals?

Yes, hidden and submissive at the back

A truly lovely bunch

Chapter 4

2006-04-22T15:18:00.000Z

We scan the entrance hall: it's clear. To our left, there is a control room, its blood-spattered door dented and hanging precariously from the frame. Yoko walks toward the door while I cover her back: another sucker staggers in the hall from the corridor on the other side, and I smoke her with a burst to the chest - then walk my fire to her head. She drops down, and she'd better not to revive again.

"Got two!" Yoko says, and the strangely muffled roar of the MG-12 fills the room for a second, then it's over. "Two more down", she confirms.
We quickly inspect the room, and it's clear as well. So we move on.

I hook into the surveillance network again: there are three more rooms opening on the corridor, and a dark glass door at the end. The lateral rooms are all clear, except one with a zombie sitting on chair. Why in hell a zobie should take a rest I don't know, but I do not stop to ask questions, and blow his friggin' brains.

"It's going nice and smooth, I love this!" I tell Yoko.
"If it lasts", she replies.

And indeed, it doesn't fucking last: the surveillance network goes down, sparks back to life and crashes completely. Shit, fucking hell.
"Bondi, what the hell is going on?" I almost shout.
"We lost the backup transmitter. The zombies smashed it", he replays in dismay.
Fucking great. Now we also have smart fuckers.
"It seems we have to do this the hard way", I inform Yoko.
"Copied. There were two hostiles in the corridor behind this door".
"Right: we'll go in and fire at will"

I slam the door open and sprint to the right; Yoko follows immediately and takes position to the left hand side. Our coordinated targeting systems assigns one target to me and one to her, but we saturate the corridor with fire anyway. The two suckers go down, but then another one pops up from behind a cabinet, a meter in front of me. My magazine is empty, fuck it. So the zombie grabs my rifle and pulls. I won't let go, but can't fire a grenade so close. For a few couple of seconds, we struggle like complete idiots.
"Need help?", Yoko asks.
"I can deal with it", I reply. But I'd better do something. I let go my right hand to grab the Desert Eagle - and that bastard is strong: the rifle slips from my hand; the zombie staggers back; its feet get tangled and it falls backwards. It's like a demential comedy, for fuck's sake. Then I see a blur of motion, and the zombie stops writhing. After that, I see Yoko slipping her sword back into its sheat.
"Thanks"
"You're welcome"
When I go to take my rifle, I see the zombie's head has been neatly severed. And I realize only now that our saturation fire has made quite a mess of the corridor. Nevermind. There are two big open floor offices, one on each side: unless the suckers crouch down between the desks, they don't have many places where to hide. If the goddamned fate doesn't decide to shaft us again.

Italian Food #3: Salami

2006-04-09T22:11:00.000Z

Pork has a prominent role in the Italian diet, especially in northern and central regions. There is a saying that goes "Del maiale non si butta via niente" - Of a pig, nothing goes wasted, more or less. While a lot of pork is eaten fresh, long-term conservation of meat has always been a paramount issue. Salting is gthe obvious answer, and in Italian the collective word for all salted pork products is salumi - you can see some of those in the picture. This is the plural of salume, that refers to one single (unspecified) product. For some unfathomable reasons, the word became "salami" in English; why this is funny will be explained shortly.

Salumi can be either cooked or raw (cured), and cooked ones are generally regarded as second-rate, even if that's not always the case. Some are made from whole chunks of meat, while for others meat is minced, mixed with spices and salt and packed inside a gut. There are probably hundreds of different varieties, so this article will necessarily cover only the basics.

Prosciutto (ham) is made from a whole pig thigh on the bone with rind on, salted and cellar-cured (well, nowadays maturing is performed in rooms with a controlled atmosphere and temperature) for at least a few months. Parma Ham (Prosciutto di Parma) is one of the most well known; it is meaty and mild-flavoured, almost sweet. By contrast, Tuscan ham is much stronger and saltier - but Tuscan bread uses no additional salt. Ham can also be cooked - steamed or roasted. Sometimes this is done with poor quality meat that would not withstand the curing process, but when quality raw ham is used as feedstock, the result is very good. On the other hand, pig's shoulder (spalla) is generally cooked, and delicious with the fried pasty (torta fritta) typical of the Emilia region.

Among estimators, the best salume is thought to be culatello. It is made in the Parma area from the very rump of pig, packed inside bladder and matured for at least 12 months. Culatello is mentioned and praised in the chronichles since the 14th century or so.

Pork belly (pancetta) is roughly the same cut of streaky bacon - but better, eh. Smoked (affumicata) pancetta is usually traded in slabs with its rind on; the unsmoked variety is rolled up instead (the light brown cylinders in the picture). I tried a special pancetta: boiled in Barolo wine before being rolled up with salt and spices and cured. Delicious does not even begin to describe it. Speck is a variety of pancetta affumicata typical of the Trentino region: it is more deeply smoked, and its top side covered with a mixture of salt and spices based on crushed peppercorns, giving it a strong, smoky and spicy taste.

Very hard to find out of Italy, there are two more obscure salumi: gota (or guanciale) and gola: they are made from the cheek or throat, salted and aged. Guanciale is the fundamental ingredient for the amatriciana sauce (with garlic, onion, tomato, chilli and olive oil) typical of Lazio in central Italy. The people of the village of Colonnata in the Apuane Alps take slabs of lard, rub them with sea salt and spices and put them to mature in holes dug into the marble rock of the area. The resulting Lardo di Colonnata is another sublime product: wood-oven baked pizza with melting lardo on top is almost worth killing for.

Salame (plural salami - notice the subtle linguistical issue?) is made of mince meat, salt and pepper seasoned inside a gut. Though second-choice meat can be used, the best salami are made mincing together good lean meat and a measured amount of quality fat. Salami often sport a thin layer of mould on the outside, but that is perfectly harmless. Some people use a mix of pork fat and wild boar meat for their homemade salami, while in Tuscany fennel seeds are added to the meat to make finocchiona. In the south, crushed chillies are added (up to 50% of the total...) to make those small and hot salami known in the Anglosphere as pepperoni (peperoncino is the Italian for chilli, anyway). Italian sausages (salsiccie) are made with the same quality mince used for salami, but a little more salty and not cured (though one can mature sausages into small salami); some recipes also put a little of wine, spices or chopped vegetables in the mince.

Ah, mortadella! It is a poorer cousin of the high-brow salami, but still very good. It is made of a fine mince of meat mixed with bigger chunks of fat, the ubiqitous

salt and pepper and whole pistachio nuts - in some versions the pistachios are crushed, making the whole thing greenish. The mix is packed into plastic bags and then steamed; a nice thing about mortadella is that it comes in many sizes, from a handy half kilo to 300 kg monsters - really.

Remember, of a pig nothing goes wasted. So also parts like brains, gristle, feet and even blood find their way to the table. Zampone is the skin of a pig foot, stuffed with a salami-like filling and then boiled. It's a typical Christmas and New Year food, together with lentils - in a casserole with lentils if you dare (not to be confused with cotechino, which is a gut filled with a mince of rinds and other low-quality parts) Only people very into pork eat zampone's rind. Brains etc. are boiled together and, in Emilia, pressed into rectangular forms to make cicciolata or soprassata; despite their origins these salami are good as well. In Tuscany, pig's blood and fat chunks are mixed together and cured inside a gut - I don't remember the name of this thing now, tho.

Bresaola, on the other hand, is salted and matured fillet beef, but still a salume at large. I've heard of something called tetun, which is made of cow's breasts, slice, salted and pressed into a cylindrical form. Well, of all the things I listed, this is the only one that doesn't really tempt me.

Italian Food 2: Polenta

2006-02-12T19:27:00.000Z

While pasta is known all over the world, there is another very traditional Italian dish that is relatively unknown: Polenta.

Polenta is simply coarse, yellow cornflour (cornmeal) boiled with water until it becomes a paste. It is a definitely poor dish, a cheap but filling one. In a sense, polenta in northern Italy has a similar role to rice in Asia: a filling accompainmet to more tasty and precious food, like meat.

To make polenta, one simply has to add cornmeal to a pan of boiling water (I don't remember the exact doses; anyway it is relatively little water), little by little and stirring vigourously with a wooden spoon all the time to avoid the formation of grumes (but as an heretic I prefer to add the cornmeal to cold water and then bring the mixture to the boil: it is the thermal shock of cornmeal being poured in hot water that causes it to coagulate); then add salt to taste and continue to boil stirring until the polenta is quite solid: if you stick the spoon vertically in the middle of it, the spoon should not fall over. When polenta is almost ready one can also add to it a little of olive oil or butter. Typically polenta is then poured on a wooden board as in the picture and served.

Our lovely dish can then be eaten alone, but usually it is topped with a vast choice of food: parmigiano cheese and olive oil for a basic version; other cheese such as gorgonzola for a stronger taste; tomato sauce; sausage (the tasty Italian ones) sauce; mushrooms sauce; bean stew and finally wild boar, rabbit or hare casserole - and even more outlandish things such as snails or frogs. Of course back in the time sauces or even cheese were already luxuries, so the peasants often had to content themselves with whatever they could scrape together: some had one single smoked herring for a whole family, so they lovingly rubbed the herring over polenta to transfer the flavour, and allowed the fish to last for more than one meal. Another recipe involves adding pork and cabbage to the boiling polenta, and the poorest could afford only crushed bones- while people more well-off could add to it even fresh sausage if not fillet meat.

When polenta cools down, it becomes firmer and can be sliced into slices to be deep-fried or grilled later; then used again as a base to be covered with cheese or some sauce. Wafer-thin cured lard, that will melt on the polenta slice, if you really want to try something heavenly.

Gawd, I'm hungry now...

Wild Nights

2006-02-05T20:42:00.000Z

Last night I went to a metal gig: one of the bands (Nifelheim) had this guy as singer. Aren't you all envious now? Envious of that balding head, punched-in-the-eyes face painting, spikes and roofing nails?

But let's go by order: I needed to drink a beer or two, eat a burger (straight from the microwave!) and withdraw some cash from a cash machine with a long queue in front of it, so I missed the first band - Necro Ritual. But my mate told me they weren't worth it.

The Dutch band NOX (nitrogen oxides are not involved in this case) followed, and they played a no-nonsense canonic death metal. Nothing too original but very fast and well done; I quite enjoyed that gig.

Next band: Adorior. It seems I am always the shortest chap at gigs, so I have to struggle to see what's happening on stage. This time, first I heard a female voice announcing the band, and then a barely human growl over a maelstrom of furious guitar and drums. Finally I managed to find a clear spot, and I saw a chubby Asian girl in full metal attire (ammo belt included) growling into the mike with a truculent expression on her face. I'm not sure I would like to have her whispering sweet things into my ear - also because Cockney isn't a very sexy accent. Probably it's the least sexy dialect in the world. Adorior's music could be described as Sodom meet Venom and go out to raise hell with Darkthrone - or something like that. Classy? Not a chance in hell; they're a textbook example of how to be gross with thrash/black metal (not that Sodom have ever been posh anyway) . But Adorior have a powerful live impact, and know how to raise hell. And they're regulars at my metal pub as well - thus I went down into the pit. In order to introduce the last peaceful song, our sweet girl said "I wanna see blood, I wanna see broken fucking bones!" No thanks: I'm up for some moshing, but I actually broke my nose at The Haunted's gig, and it wasn't fun. I'm sure it underlined well the musical violence of the band, but I spent a miserable night in an A&E department and now my nose sports a slight bend at its top. Adorior's gig ended without accidents, and I went to have a beer.

The following band, the German Desaster failed to interest me although they weren't too bad, I think.

Then things began to degenerate, with the alcohol level reaching safety limits for many of the people in the venue. The idiot pictured above walked on stage, and graced us with songs such as "Satanic Sacrifice": that may sound outrageous to newbies and puritans, but actually it's so 90s. And due to the kind of sounds used by black metal - that is, full-throttle reverb over distortion - guitar is most often an undistinguishable mess. I prefer to actually hear riffs and eventual melodies. So I loitered around the bar area chatting with my mates. And what can you do when you meet a good-looking girl so drunk she is pretending/convinced she can only speak and understand Portuguese? I don't know about you, but I proposed her to communicate using body language. Anyway, a friend or whatever of hers arrived and dragged the girl away before things went totally downhill. The idiot on stage replied with a "Fuck you" to the crowd asking for more music when it was just 22:30 and the gig thus ended - and I decided it was time to have a last greasy spring roll at the food outlet next door to the venue and finally head home.

Elements of Monster Movies

2006-01-16T19:57:00.000Z

Reading the movie reviews page of Something Awful, I had the inspiration to write a rigorous, academic piece about monster movies.

You don't believe me? Here it is:

The Elements of Monster Movies

- A Monster, or monsters.
Said monsters can be semi-plausible or utterly preposterous, but they must kill people - especially in unusual and unpleasant ways; break things and be generally monstruous. A good monster must either a real bitch to take down, or spawn innumerable offsprings. A middle way are medium-tough monsters generated only once but in huge numbers. Often this is required to give the movie a minimal required duration. The origin of said monsters does not need to be explained in great detail; a neat trick is to make them aliens so you don't have to work any explanation: they just jump off their spaceships and start wreacking havoc. Often monsters are portrayed as been almost invulnerable, except for one single ~~incredibly stupid~~ weakness that will their downfall. All this would seem pretty straightforward and fool-proof, but the history of the genre is chock full of completely botched monsters. If your monster is huge, it must be very tough - lke in shrugging off 120mm armor-piercing direct hits like they were mosquitoes. On the other hand, small, quick monsters are more difficult to hit. You cannot have a dinosaur 100 meters tall, and still soldiers missing him; that's a no-no. In recent times monsters are also shown as having motivations or being generated by the foolish humans messing around with Mother Nature most intimate secrets. Who cares, we watch those movies for the mayhem, not the message.

- A Setting.
Most monster movies (from now on abbreviated as MM or mike-mike, because I'm fed up with writing it all the time) occur in Small Town, Middle of Nowhere. That's pretty easy to understand: out-of-hand locations are much cheaper than mainstream ones and the cast needs to be much smaller. And if you're filming in a suitable backwater location, you may even save on makeup by hiring local rednecks. On the serious side (aehm...), an isolated town gives the necessary plot elements of isolation and being unable to call for help. I mean, if a monster invasion occurred in Central London it would attract quite some attention. Unless it begins on a saturday night after 11pm. Of course there are noticeable exceptions, and cities like Tokyo get trashed by overgrown radioactive dinosaurs, giant robots and more mysterious entities known as Angels and EVAs.

- A Hero.
This is another fundamental element of the mix. No good hero, go good mike-mike.
Heroes fall generally in two different categories: the Conflicted Hero and the Badass. The CH generally has suffered a childhood trauma that makes him initially ineffective: when carnivorous kangaroos attack, a CH is initially paralysed remembering how his pet kangaroo died in an horrific wood chipper accident wehn he was three years old. He has to overcome this burden before building himself a portable wood chipper and start grinding the monsters to pulp.
On the other hand, the BA just loves to blast monsters to hell since the first second of the movie (sometimes he may be paid to do the job), and his biggest existential questions are "Bud or Miller? Hamburger or Chilli? Shotgun or Assault Rifle? Blonde or Brunette?". The BA also utters one-liners. This is a commandament. The apex of Badass is Ash in Army of Darkness, hands down. Whatever the kind, the hero must be able to figure out the monster's weakness, even if that takes ridiculous plot contrivances. After all, the life of the nation is well worth the sacrifice of a plot.
What about female heroes? Well, we still are pretty much sexist, and the role of hero is seldom covered by a woman - but women have their important parts in MMs.

- Cannon Fodder
As I said, monsters must kill people and Cannon Fodder is there exactly to be killed. Generally CF are innocent, common people being in the Wrong Place at the Wrong Time, but often the screenwriters grace us with moralistic twists and the folks getting killed first are the ones impure with lust (or maybe it isn't morals, but just an excuse to show some bare skin) or smoking a joint or doing another of those obnoxious activities that teenagers seem to prefer. Sometimes the monster(s) do kill someone actually evil, and this makes them a bit more sympathetic. Particularly disturbing (at least for me) are those innocents killed while taking a leak or a healthy crap. Often it happens that female victims lose most of their clothes (besides doing absolutely dumb things - although this is more the realm of slasher flicks rather than mike-mikes) before being transformed in food for mutant ticks. If they're Western gals; Japanese tentacled monsters instead prey on schoolgirls for reasons that I cannot explain in detail without making this weblog X-rated.

- A Damsel in Distress.
The main difference between a DiD and regular CF is that the DiD usually lives until the closing credits - and meets the Hero; this is another commandment cast in stone. Sometimes the DiD and the Hero find time for a gratuitious, happy couple gymnastics session between being chased by some monsters and fragging some more. The DiD screams a lot, is most often good looking and not camera-shy, especially when the monster molests her in the shower or some similar situation. And when the Hero arrives but the hideous mutant octopus lying in ambush slaps the gun off his hands leaving him unarmed, the DiD can only stare in panic at the fight without doing anything useful. And if she finally grabs the gun and fires, it's in a sort of hysterical frenzy before ending up sobbing in the strong arms of the hero (at this point the movie may end, or the monster may revive and grab her ankle. Always her ankle).

- A Tough Chick
This is a role gaining importance in these more equal times. A TC is also good looking, maybe with a penchant for skin-tight latex suits (or at least tight tank tops, let's not be fussy here). If she screams is to yell taunts and obscenities at the monsters, and she rarely is caught unclothed (of course if the movie is not hentai; in those basically no-one remains clothed and inviolated). If the hero drops his gun, the TC is ready to pick it up and pump two .45 bullets in the monster's head at close range. Or she may even kick it unconscious with a series of expert spinning kicks. And never, ever grab a TC's ankle. However, heroines in mike-mikes are still pretty rare. But at least TCs are more likely to do up-and-down with the Hero (especially the BA variety; often the CH has a loving family already, or revels in the memory of his beloved wife) , and that's the good thing.

Scarcity

2005-12-13T12:18:00.000Z

Also postin on this blog is scarce due to work pressure - and the pressure of things going badly and scientific instruments playing up during said work.

Chapter 3

2005-11-28T22:54:00.000Z

"Here I marked the locations of the... er, security cameras, and the possible exits..." says the boy - while his ears turn almost glowing red.
"Good" I reply, while Yoko scans the drawing intently: she's memorizing it.
Bondi is almost seething. He can stuff it; if he's a moron it's not my problem.
Bahir goes on:
"I think we have twenty-five zombies, and all of them pretty... er, fresh", and he takes the look of someone who just told bullshit.
"Fresh" I echo him grinning, and then "I don't really wanna know what shit turned them into zombies - but is there something else we should know? Will they go down for good if we pump two bullets in their fucking heads?"
Murphy speaks up:
"To the best of our knowledge, there should be no bad surprises."
"If there is any, we'll pull out the thermo-fucking-baric grenades, and go Mongol on their asses, understood?". Ok, I admit I'm a bit overplaying the part of the hard-as-nails merc here. But can't I have a bit of fun?
The lad in the shadow looks imperceptibly amused.

"Mr Bondi, can oyu patch us into the surveillance system?" asks Yoko, very neutral.
"We use a standard VT-3 broadcast ring for our security men; I suppose you have that in your gear" he replies sharply.
"Sure we do. Encrypted?"
"Yes"
"I gather we need the decryption key, then"
Bondi shots a glance first at the mystery chap, who does nothing; then to Murphy who nods instead. So Bondi opens a small safe with a fingerprint lock, and hands Yoko two H-BUS sticks.
"Here you are, the keys. Our voice comms are on channel 17, band Y."
"Thanks, sir" ends Yoko fully earnest. She's a good girl her after all - just stay out of her target list.
"So we have the battle plan: we go in and blast the motherfuckers. You keep your eyes well open and smoke any zombie that may eventually make it out. Got it?"
Murphy mutters a "Yes"; Bahir just nods and Bondi replies with a clear "Affirmative".
The Man in Black barely moves a muscle.

So I and Yoko head out in the heavy sleet to take the guns: I have an M8 with 25mm grenade launcher, plenty of magazines and grenades - and the sidearm to fucking impress: a replica of Desert Eagle .500, black with gold parts. Yoko says that's the tackiest gun she's ever seen. She'll use the MG-12, her katana and a discretely efficient .40 semiauto.

I load the water and nutrient an medical packs in my suit, then don the helmet and switch all the systems online; Yoko dons her too but she's got integrated comms and sensors in her own body. Our deeply encripted low-intensity communication channel comes online too, and she comments:
"Nice bunch of folks we have. The man in the black suit had dealings with the Space Navy"
"Ah, fuck me. He knows about you then?"
"Definitely. But I don't think it is a problem"
"If you say so. Now let's go to work!"
I had my contacts with the Space Navy - the whole Freezer Raid affair, and Yoko's dark past - that she decide not to know, and I think it's much friggin' better like this. Anyway, the Spacers are the sort of force you want to cover your ass. But while we Mountain Hunters can be nasty bastards, the Spacers are downright scary. I mean, for them the fun begins with megaton-fucking-class nukes, bloody hell.

We pass in front of our merry hosts, and finally the Darkman speaks:
"Our miss here is pretty damn strong for a lady..."
"Fuck off" I think.
"Not funny at all" Yoko informs me on out private channel. We trudge on without even caring to wave.
We stop in front of the armored main door, and hook into the surveillance feed. Some cameras and sensors have been disabled, but we have good coverage: we can see a few zombies loitering. I notice there's a friggin' bunch of them just behind the main door, so I think we should enter with a bang.
"I'll shoot a grenade in as soon as the door opens" I inform Yoko.
"Copy that"
I take position a few meters back, with Yoko at the side of the door, ready to spring into action. I set the fuzing for the granade launcher on Proximity, and then on the open channel:
"Bondi, open the door and let's rock!"
The door slids rapidly open; the zombies barely have the time to turn around that I pull the trigger. And the grenade detonates smack in the middle of the bunch. When we walk in, we find that most of the fuckers now is sticking to the walls as mince meat. It'd be a most repellent experience, if we weren't seasoned badasses.

A Quick Job, Chapter 2

2005-11-21T22:35:00.000Z

We get back home and carry the crate inside - and inspect the MG-12. It's one hell of a beauty; clean and oiled; the fuel cell for the barrel spinning motor is filled up, and the starter battery fully charged. Yoko can carry the gun and all the ammo without any effort... I should get a friggin' cyborg body for myself too. If I can save that half a million quid, and Yoko can contact the right folks, that's it. One day, one friggin' day.

Then we just go to sleep: tomorrow it's going to be hard work. I hold her hand while we fall asleep. So fucking sue me. The alarm clock rings at 06:00, and I wake up ready to kick ass. An energetic breakfast, a visit to the loo, then I'm ready to don my semi-armored combat suite, more than enough to stop teeth and claws of the bloody zombies. It's not like that crap in the B-movies that being bitten by a zombie turns you into another friggin' one, but zombies carry a lot of godawful diseases. Yoko does not have these problems, so she dons a skin-tight fatigue. Very cyberpunk, and clad in that outfit she almost gives me a boner. And she straps her katana at her waist: a scary black blade with a core of titanium alloy covered in nanostructured silicon carbide, she told me. Whatever it is, it can cut right through fucking steel.

I may be a hitman, but I don't like living in filth: I've got a nice detached house in the eastern outskirts of the city: No punks bothering me and crap like that. Quickly, I and Yoko load our stuff into the replica Land Cruiser, and this time she drives. The weather is even more miserable, if fucking possible: a steady wind is blowing specks of heavy, damp sleet against our windscreen, while dark clouds race low overhead.
"How many suckers do we have to dispatch?" I ask.
"They couldn't tell exactly; between twenty and thirty"
"It's not that bad then"
The research facility is a few kilometrs inland - at least they got this straight. We're following a secondary road climbing up the hills, and from here I can see the sea: like a goddamn wrinkled sheet of lead.
"Winter up here is absolute crap" I state.
"So let's go somewhere nicer. What keeps us here?"
Yeah, what the fuck? I can't really tell.
I look into Yoko's beautiful slanted eyes and what I see is... well, you know, she isn't a stupid chick talking about feelings and crap like that all the time. But neither a ice-cold, almost scary character like my old time business partner Sara. What I see in Yoko's eyes is a deep, sincere affection. I stroke lightly her cheek with my hand, and that's all I can do to answer her. She smiles, and speeds up a bit.

We get at the lab a few minutes before eight, and avery nervous, uneasy guy wearing a smart winter coat lets us through a solid gate and in front of sort of guard post near the high fence. The rest of the compound is less than one hundred meter away, surrounded by security guards wielding riot control rifles. Well, it's up to us dogs of war to clean up the mess another time. Now and the fucking centuries of motherfucking centuries, we do the dirty work and nobody even says "Thanks". Amen. The guy in the coat introduces himself as Professor Murphy - he is the one who talked to Yoko yesterday. And boy, I've seen people in front of the firing squad less nervous than him.

He leads us into the guard post and introduces the others, two of them sitting around a table in front of coffee cups: Mr Bondi, a fat-ass chap in the security uniform, and a totally fucking clueless look on his face. Dr Bahir, a young bloke with long hair and a scraggy beard, wearing faded jeans and with an intent look in his eyes. And in the shadows at the back of the room, an unnamed man with broad shoulders and a straight spine, black suit, crew cut hair and a shaved face as expressive as a block of granite. I can tell he's military special projects from a mile away. Fucking great, this is really the company of the special occasions. Anyway, I and Yoko have been in far tighter spots than this.
"Can we see the money first?"
"Sure... here..." Murphy takes a bag from a cupboard, and with almost shaking hands shows us the wads of banknotes. We're traditionalists and work with cash as much as possible.
I take five thousand Sovereign, and put them in my pocket.
"Now, let's debrief this goddamn mission."
Bahir pulls out a big sheet of paper, and eagerly unfolds it on the table.
Bondi begins:
"My men are securing the perimeter, and no zombie can get out", and he points vaguely at the area around the central compound. There isn't a marker, a sign on the blueprint indicating where the perimeter is, the access and exit routes, the number and position of men. Fucking amateur.
"But we did not try to go inside... anyway this blueprint is very detailed; it should be really helpful"
I am close to snap, really. This Bondi is even more an asshole than I suspected. I shot a glance to Yoko, and she shakes her head.
"This is helpful my ass. We need to know a lot more before we fucking go in!" I almost yell.
Bondi looks at me with a panicked, pitiful expression. Murphy turns white, dispaired. The shady chap does not move a muscle... and finally Bahir speaks out, looking at me with an unwavering gaze:
"I think I can help"
"Go on then" I encourage him.
He takes another sheet out of a bag on the floor, and unfolds it covering the previous one. It's the same blueprint, but with red and green marks and annotations. Maybe this guy understands something about the job.

A Quick Job, Chapter 1

2005-11-17T13:05:00.000Z

Ok, here's the first chapter of my first short story in English. It's unpretentious, maybe even silly - just warming up for a longer story I hope I will eventually write someday. Enjoy!

A Quick Job

I just had a good day: a quick job in the morning – busting the kneecaps of a couple of fucking chavs who bullied the wrong kid at school. They were all gangsta-tough at the beginning, but with two .40 bullets in each knee, they squealed like pigs at the slaughter, the wimps. Half a grand and a lot of personal satisfaction in a couple of hours.
Then I spent the afternoon at the bar, hanging with the lads. There’s a hell of a lot of people coming and going from the planet, with this resumption of space exploration. And many of them need someone to protect them, or to keep an eye on their rivals. Or to smoke them, as well. So I began discussing a bodyguard assignement with some chap from a spaceship servicing company. Loads of green with little hassle attached, it seems.
It’s just seven in the afternoon, but it’s already night, up here. I leave the bar just to find myself in the fucking cold, damp winter weather. At least my place isn’t far, and today Yoko had nothing to do, so she promised to cook me a dinner. Yoko, what a woman: beutiful and sweet, but she kicks ass like no one else. Well, that’s not too difficult when you’re a Mk4 combat cyborg. And she even does the good housewife, when she’s not out for a job.
I look into the lens of the eye scanner on my door: the lock cliks open and I walk into the warmth, and the smell of… seems like beef teriaki. Good. Yoko is in the living room, sitting in the Japanese style on the floor, cleaning a semiauto shotgun.
“Hello, the smell is delicious!” I say.
She looks at me with her reprimand expression:
“This shotgun was rusty, you know?”
I don’t really know.
“I can’t friggin’ remember that shotgun. Where did you find it?”
“It was at the bottom of the closet”Now I recall: someone gave it to me as part of the payment for a job I did. But I don’t really like semiautos, so I just put it aside and forgot about it. I explain Yoko, and she replies:
“Fair enough, now works smooth like silk”, and puts the rifle aside.
She stands up and kisses me, hot as usual. Maybe it’s because she moved in with me only a month ago, but just a kiss is enough to arouse me. A lot.
“I’ll serve dinner in a minute” she says, and walks to the kitchen. I can’t help but stare at her nearly perfect rump clad in tight shorts. Just time to take off my coat and boots and wash my hands, and I’m back to find a plate of beef teriaky, rice and a bottle of white wine on the table. Life as a couple is fucking good, I think. Yoko as a cyborg eats almost only sugars and carbohydrates; proteins are of little use for her incredible nanomachines metabolism. But she drinks wine. We do some small talk while I eat that delicious beef, and she munches on a potato starch tortilla. Then she says:
“I fixed a job for us tomorrow”
“Yeah? What job?”
“You aren’t gonna to believe it: another research laboratory had an outbreak of a virus that turned the people there into flesh-eating zombies.”
“Don’t tell me. Another fucking time… what the hell are those assholes doing?”
She raises an eyebrow to my profanity, then goes on:
“They need someone to clean up the mess, and will pay ten thousand”
“Ten grand… fucking hell!” I reply grinning.
“And they said they can accept serious damage to the facilities; they want to get rid of the zombies at any cost”.
That’s good, because the last time we had a situation like this, our clients raised a fucking fuss about collateral damage. We could not use grenade launchers, for god’s sake… that’s the best weapon against fucking zombies.
Then I remember that I already have a commitment for tomorrow:
“Oh shit, I didn’t tell you… tomorrow night at nine Massacre are playing at the Seaside Arena”
Massacre are the fiercest thrash metal band on the continent, and I ain’t gonna miss them, no fucking way. We aren’t, because Yoko likes a good mosh session too – I bought the tickets one month ago, dammit. She thinks about it for a fraction of a second then:
“I told them we’ll be there at oh-eight-hundred tomorrow… if things go smoothly, there should be enough time. I sure don’t want to spend twelve hours in there”.
Neither do I, especially considering that a cyborg does not have all the needs of a mere human.
“We’ll need some kick-ass firepower then. I’ll call the Tennant and have a MG-12 ready in a couple of hours”.
“That’s a sensible thing.”
So I call the Tennant, and make the deal; it’s four hundred Crowns to rent the machinegun, plus a 1000 rounds belt. Good chap, the Tennant, he always does discounts to friends.
There's still a couple of hours to go before it's time to go ank pick up the artillery, so we prepare the guns and gear for tomorrow. But temptation is strong... so when we finish the preparations we shag, on the sofa in the living room. And her artificial body is absolutely perfect for that, as well. Or maybe it's just because I think I love her, but it's never been like this with any other woman.
Our little couple gymnastics have kept us busy for quite a while, so I have a quick shower, and Yoko just after me.
Then, I and Yoko jump into my offroad and driving defensively like the most friggin’ honest citizens reach an anonimous warehouse in an industrial district way to the south of the city. Fucking grim place, but we’re not here for fun. The Tennant is already there; he lets us into the building and he and a young bloke take a crate with the machinegun. We inspect it: it’s a five-barrel, 6mm beauty. Money changes hands, we load the crate and leave with the Tennant grinning “Have fun!”. No questions asked, because that’s how it works in our business.

Yes, the formatting is rather awkward, but Blogger did it.

Lemon Sole Rolls With Asparagus

2005-11-13T16:15:00.001Z

Yes, this is a recipe. If you want to eat something nice and unusual, or even impress a partner, why don't try it?

Ingredients (2 people, main course):

- 4 skinless lemon sole fillets
- 20-24 thin asparagus heads
- White wine
- Olive oil (extra virgin recommended)
- Lemon or lemon juice
- 1-2 garlic cloves, chopped
- Salt, pepper, parsley

In a pan, bring a little water to the boil, add the asparagus heads, boil for 2-3 minutes, drain and set aside. Pre-heat the oven to 180 C.

Place the lemon sole fillets on a chopboard, sprinkle with salt, pepper, olive oil, white wine and lemon juice. Put 5-6 asparagus heads on each fillet, add 1/4 of the garlic and a little parsley then roll the fillet up around the vegetables. In a deep-sided baking tray, pour around 4 tbsp of wine and 4 of oil, then whip with a fork: a creamy emulsion should form.
Place the rolls in the tray, turn them around to cover them with the emulsion, and bake for 20-25 minutes in the middle of the oven.

Allow to stand for a few minutes, then serve covered with the wine sauce that will have formed in the tray. A crispy white wine (eventually the same used for cooking) is suggested with this dish.

Italian Food #1

2005-11-04T21:10:00.000Z

Wild mushrooms have an important part in the Italian food culture and roaming the woods in search of mushrooms to pick is a favourite hobby of many Italians. Some also do it for the money, because there is also a thriving trade of mushrooms - that is a physically tiring but mind-cleansing job. The ones in the picture* are Boletus Edulis, better known as Porcino (plural: Porcini). These mushrooms can sprout from July to November if humidity and temperature are right, but the best months are September and October, when woods are (usually) damp but not cold. During the autumn a competent folk can find several different varieties of edible fungi, in the woods and grassy fields. Other mushrooms sprout in other times and habitats: April is the time for the exceedingly pregiate Prugnoli, which sprout in the thick of undergrowth and have an almost inebriating smell (the infamous Phallus Impudicus can be found in the same places and times, tho). In November, it is easy to spot those known as Trombetta dei Morti. One day I found a giant specimen of Meadow Mushroom - Prataiolo Gigante - (actually, a slightly different species) which weighed 1.2 kg and was some 30 cm broad...

When the conditions are right, fungi can sprout in huge numbers. I personally found quite a few kilos of them in a day, and this year my mate picked 140 kg (!) of them during September and October. Mushrooms, especially certain varieties, tend to sprout in precise spots that can last for many years, and the knowledge of those spots (called fungaie) is a jealously held secret. Some folks died before revealing them to anyone, while others set out to follow the most reknown fungi hunters to steal their secrets. And sometimes it's a pre-dawn race to the most productive woods; or, my mate found his own eclusive place: it takes half a hour by offroad (from the nearest hamlet) and another half by feet to get there, at the head of a remote valley where there isn't even cellphone signal. Not to mention the never-ending struggle between fungi hunters and Rangers (a police force devoted to harassing hunters, fishermen and mushrooms hunters, basically) and guards of all sorts.

These hard-earned mushrooms can be consumed in many ways. Young Porcini and Prataioli can be sliced thinly and eaten raw after seasoning them with oil, salt, pepper and Parmigiano cheese shavings. However, mushrooms are most often sauteed in a pan with oil and a touch of garlic and parsley. Especially with Prugnoli, you can add them to freshly cooked pasta for a heavenly dish. Mushrooms can also be pickled or preserved in oil. Porcini and other Boletus often are sliced and air-dried for conservation.

But the most honourable end for them is sauce. Making a good mushrooms sauce is a reason of pride for anyone with cooking ambitions. It starts with chopped onion or scallion slowly browned in olive oil, and then it can be made with chopped tomatoes and mushrooms, or pure Porcini for the real connoisseurs. Some add double cream, but I recommend against. Then the sauce must simmer for at least one hour for best results - and possibly used to season a dish of hand-made egg tagliatelle.

Fungi can also be battered and fried, or grilled. If you find some Mazze di Tamburo, which often have a cap as broad as a table dish, you can spread oil, sieved tomatoes and mozzarella on the inverted caps, and bake the whole thing like it's a pizza.

Americans may want to check out this cool website about fungi.

*Foto © Marco Floriani - Passo Campo Carlo Magno (Dimaro, TN), VIII.1994

Fuck The Bureaucrats

2005-10-09T18:00:00.000Z

Yes, for god's sake, I can't stand them anymore. Bureaucrats are always working actively in order to find the most intricated and unexpected ways to royally screw the common folks just triying to get on with their lives. And private estabilishments are only marginally better than public institutions.

You know, I haven't received my payment (a research grant) for the month of October yet - while it is scheduled on the 7th of each month, and is never late. I'm running low on money, so I was wondering what the problem is, and today I discovered it: FUCKING BUREAUCRATS.

You see, it's not enough to go through the pain in the ass of registering with the College each year - oh no, the infernal machine is not content with that. I also have to sign another ass-wiping form in my deprtment, otherwise no greens. Where is the problem, you may ask. The problem is that no-fucking-one knew it had to be done; it was said in an abscure e-mail circulated long ago together with the usual mount of nearly-useless internal communications.

Something so goddamn important has been relegated to a stupid e-mail not even flagged "URGENT". This has to be a bureaucrat's work; no one else can be so stupid and inept. People with a pinch of sense would have made sure that anyone involved would had been informed properly of the steps to take. A lot of people are in the same situation now, thanks to the fuckheads mentioned above. I'm so angry and frustrated that I could strangle someone, shit.

Righe Bianche

2005-09-28T17:47:00.000Z

Non ho le energie mentali, né l'ispirazione per scrivere un articolo corposo, quindi diró la mia opinione a proposito di un recente fatto di cronaca: l'Affare Calissano.

Ecco gli ultimi sviluppi:

Un uomo distrutto. Che solo ieri ha cominciato a rendersi conto dove l’ha portato la doppia maledizione della droga e della depressione: in carcere con un’accusa di detenzione e spaccio di stupefacenti e sulle spalle la tragedia di una giovane donna morta di overdose al termine di un festino.

Eh si, essere beccati con le mani nel sacco, un cadavere in casa e finire in gabbia tende a far aprire gli occhi, dicono gli esperti.

«Calissano è ancora sotto choc - ha detto Biondi [avvocato difensore, ndr] -. L’altra mattina si è svegliato con una ragazza morta accanto. Lui stesso ha avuto bisogno del Narcan. È confuso e stravolto, ma consapevole di essere un uomo malato. E vuole curarsi».

Confesso che a volte ammiro, in un modo perverso, gli avvocati difensori: ci vuole una faccia tosta non comune per difendere certi personaggi. Mai come Saeb Erekat, emerito propagandista palestinese, peró. Ma di nuovo, c'é dovuto scappare il morto perché si rendesse conto della sua condizione, eh?

Depressione la sua malattia, cocaina il suo rifugio, dice l’avvocato, che non esclude di richiedere per Calissano una perizia psichiatrica che aprirebbe la strada a una estrema linea difensiva: la seminfermità mentale.

Certo, ecco un tipico dialogo medico-paziente:

P: Dottore, penso di soffrire di depressione. Mi sveglio la mattina e mi sento di merda, la vita non ha senso, passo tutta la giornata come un automa senza emozioni...

M: Si, sembra proprio depressione. Puó consultare uno psicologo, oppure prendere una pastiglia di Paroxetina al giorno, oppure tirare 5 righe di cocaina al giorno.

P: Penso che decideró per la cocaina...

M: Perfetto, é economica, non ha effetti collaterali dannosi, non dá dipendenza e la passa la mutua... eccole la ricetta.

E poi,non poteva mancare la ciliegia, anzi la pesca candita intera sulla torta: seminfermitá mentale. Chiamarla deus ex machina per salvare il culo ad assassini ed altri figuri non comincia nemmeno a rendere l'idea di quanto sporco sia questo trucco.

Prima, però, bisogna ricostruire il sabato notte iniziato in casa di Calissano e continuato fra locali, night, appuntamenti volanti, per trovare la sua conclusione ancora nella residenza «Le Rocche». Per un ultimo tour di «pippate», come gli amici di quella notte, ora testimoni, hanno raccontato alla polizia. Un fiume di coca che, mischiata a tranquillanti (sembra il Minias), ha provocato la morte di Ana Lucia Bandeira Bezerra.

Ora qualcuno potrebbe rimanere stupito e scandalizzato, ma questo é il genere di vita che attori, imprenditori, calciatori, modelle (alle modelle in genere la coca viene offerta in cambio di quello che potete facilmente immaginare) - e chiunque con abbastanza soldi - fanno regolarmente. Altro che depressione. Tirano perché la coca fa sentire bene, forte e deciso, confidente ed inarrestabile. E fa anche molto figo. Poi ogni tanto qualcuno esagera e ci scappa il morto - o comunque qualche casino tanto grosso che non puó essere coperto - ed allora tutti a piangere lacrime di coccodrillo. Fino a quando le acque si calmano, e poi si ricomincia come prima.

A Morning Of Fall

2005-09-24T11:34:00.000Z

Last night I learnt that when at the chinese restaurant near my worplace say "fried rice with garlic etc" the really mean a trainload of garlic. That's why I was up at 4:30 this morning drinking a cup of hot tea: to resettle my stomach that felt like a garlic-flavoured brick was in it..

However, that wasn't the only thing that disturbed my sleep. Another thing was a long lost love, in a way so bitter and painful that it left scars in my very soul.

Living on my own in London I learnt do deal with my loneliness. Yes, I'm not a bubbly, always happy guy. I'm not filled with angst either, but I am more on the depressed side of life. It sucks, I tell you. I'm dealing with it, and for most of time I don't really have problems. But when you sum the ripping claws of nostalgia, a rice with too much garlic, a few drinks and my few friends being nowhere to be found... that's the recipe for a miserable morning.

But I'll get over it, and be OK again.

Science Fiction

2005-09-18T19:21:00.000Z

I always quite liked science fiction, but recently I've become very interested in it. I began with the relatively light (but not at all silly) books of Elizabeth Moon, then sort of upgraded to the tomes of Peter Hamilton (not Night's Dawn tho!), and he's a brilliant writer. He can get very verbose, but usually everything is rather functional to the whole story, and he gives very detailed descriptions of how the future will eventually look like.

Ghost in the Shell is also excellent science fiction, albeit not a book. I tried to read manga, but it's not my stuff; I prefer American comics, Lobo and Hitman above all.

However, what's Science Fiction after all?
For me, SF is showing the scientifical and technical advancement of the human race, and how this will change our life on an individual and societal level - keeping in mind that new technical possibilities mean new cultures, new philosophies and ethical quandaries.

Obviously, the tale of aliens landing on Earth in these days would not be SF with this definition: there is no scientific advancement on our part. I think that those stories are more like fantasy... but the border is blurred.

Both Moon and Hamilton explore worlds and ages where humans are capable of space travel and a whole lot of other cool things: neural implants, prosthetics, rejuvenation, cloning, genetic engineering, biomechanical and bioelectronic devices, artificial intelligencies, powerful computers, intelligent materials, virtual reality... And most often all these possibilities are used for weapons and war; thank heavens they do not annoy us with the new age notion that in future humanity will finally evolve to a higher morality level.

Ghost in the Shell does not move to the stars, but it's set in a world where the difference between humans and machines are more and more tenuous, and all live almost permanently connected to a huge datanetwork, where even a self-conscious virtual being can live without a body. And when minds an bodies can be disjoined, when brains can be hacked and false memories implanted, when machines can become so advanced to discuss metaphysics... what is left of humans, of identity? GITS spends also a little of time exploring what sexual perversions can arise, and we are shown (not graphically, but in a rather suggestive manner) raffinate and powerful but decadent men swapping bodies with pleasure droids or other women.

I think this is what I most like of Science Fiction after all: exploring possibilities.

Ideas

2005-09-16T19:49:00.000Z

I want to try writing my first story in English... who'd like to read it on my blog?

I wrote quite a few stories in Italian, and even received positive comments from a writers' magazine. Now I think I master English enough to write in this language too.

Up And Running

2005-09-14T17:54:00.000Z

Welcome to The Italian Corner, a spin-off of The Italian Version.

This blog will mainly contain pictures and other items which are quite off the topic of the main blog, and other material if and when I'll be in the mood. Don't except very regular posting - I can't spend all my time online, after all.

But I'll try to put worthwile stuff in here.