"There are persons who love life. I'm evading it.
I never understood why folks are thrilled by society events. As far as I'm concerned the restaurant is for eating. I suspect who thinks otherwise. Public relations make me sick.
If one wants to take drugs and listen to music he can do it at home, there's no need to go to the disco. You can hang out with a couple of friends, or even better, alone.
But discobar culture is blossoming in Milano. In spite of the blood-curdling quality of life people goes out to socialize, without even dropping by at home after work to cry, as they should. Moreover it seems that most of the people don't use tranquillizers. These are disturbing facts. One asks himself what their eyes are seeing, Laguna Beach? (...)"

For one thing, I have a problem with this exhibition of athletic knacks, with this show of pointless power and nowhere-bound energy. I can get excited on the moment, because someone gets first when it was supposed to get last, because of the revenge-of-the-loser that for a second it represents to my eyes.
But the whole point of these competitions, the battling and defeating, the fighting and crying and exulting it's not in my chords. Prolly, because I find it an even too accurate picture of what life really is: a whole crazy nonsensical thing of fighting and defeating each other callously and without remorse. Well, without the sex, the pleasures of the mind, and the contemplation: the three things that help me to carry on.

So if I see them athletes competing, I just think: "where are you running, fella? What's that for? Life is going to get you anyway, you know. Which means Death is going to get you, too. Don't take it too seriously. We all know life is about crushing the weaker, but let's not make a celebration of it, OK?"

Well, that's just a problem I have I guess. I can find heroic who struggles against the disaster of an earthquake for example, or people accomplishing difficult things that can change people's lives, creatives, nonconformists, or just simple honest fellas who, under certain situations, act heroically. But I will never find heroic an athlete. Again, that's I problem I have I guess.

On the other hand, there are more poignant and general reasons to dislike Olympics. One for all? they cheat. They are drugged so much they all risk to die young. It's a competition among the best chemical balances, not among who has the best working muscles and nerves. It's not like only Austrian athletes cheated.
EVERYBODY does. Not only with Olympics, but with sports in general.

Now they say this guy coach wants to commit suicide and is guarded in the mental ward. Poor fella. But it's no news. Italian cyclist champion Pantani, who is even getting a statue somewhere, ended up drugged and suicidal too, and a bunch of other stories are similar to his, only you don't easily hear a lot about them. After all, the drugged are celebrated even more than the cleaned ones, because they're there to justify our right to cheat.

I think everybody cheats in sports. Everybody take drugs. They just want to win. Morality in sports has been wiped out by money and television a long ago and everybody knows that. Olympics games suck, they are the biggest lie, forget about it.

If you really want to see something heroic going on, why not point our morbid cameras to the folks in Afghanistan coming out of the hardest winter ever, after an earthquake, and under military occupation? They held it out, you know. Just to make an example.

Although, I think we should just forget about television & its twisted quest for heroisms and struggles: even if life is all about that (if we include sex in the same picture) that's barely a way to remind us of it, not to get out of it, at least in our imagination.

Last new years' eve I got drugged against my will. I was at this fancy party in Bologna, entouraged around a celeb italian rockstar who is engaged with an ex-girlfriend of mine, and I didn't know nobody except her and him, and wandering around dark rooms with my mouth dry I accepted this sip from a girl's bottle of water. I kind of drank a quarter of what was left in the bottle. Later, since I was still thirsty, I went around, found her and got myself another large swallow from the bottle again and kissed her on the cheek. She looked at me funny though, but I didn't mind it. I was feeling great, a mix-up of affection for everybody in my field of vision and some tender erotic weakness in my legs.

The next day, I met my couple of friends at a bar opened on the Bologna's afternoon. After the whole night awake, sex with an unknown girl (not the one with the bottle), having strolled around Bologna hills and streets all morning, having checked out from the too much expensive hotel where I didn't even sleep, so much I was surprised to be well awake still, and with a strangely fast-beating heart, I finally learned it was MDMA I had liberally drunk from the bottle of water that night.

People is still having fun to this day from my reaction in that bar.
My, how many neurons I burned?! I cried. I won't be anymore the cleverest guy in the room! And all I've done tonight... that means nothing because it was all for the drugs, right?

But you had fun, said the rockstar.
I did. What a night!

The rockstar and my ex-girlfriend conceived a little girl that same night, who is today looking around the world with delicate beautiful eyes from her nervous still postion in the cradle, and I had my share of rockstarrish life. On the downside, yesterday I fell in the bathtub and hit my head badly, and my ass too, saw a white flash, and thought it was all the effect of that one-year-old drugged magical night which ruined my sense of balance for good. Damn those drugs.