I read that folks are disappointed by Tom Cruise's wedding here in Italy. They say he acted like a snob. Strange. Hollywood stars are usually so humble and totally not self-centered.

Tom married some Katie Holmes, who is, as singer Laura Pasini brilliantly remarked the other day, not the daughter of John.

My personal feelings for such events are, predictably, of complete disgust, boredom and bitter amusement.

First of all, even rocks should be aware by now that this marriage is once again a set up, that the guy is still in the closet but either totally gay or totally in love with his own image.
Second, what the fuck do they want getting married in Italy?
They fly in to a castle, hang there a quarter of hour, get the soul of Scientology to bless them, take pictures and fly away.
The only thing they know about Italy is that supposedly here there's something called La Dolce Vita. But where was it? Somewhere between the sky and the earth, probably.

Now, Tom and Kate: Thanks for nothing, guys. Once again it has been proved that all those fuckers who claim to love this country don't know shit about it, neither they really want to look at it.
You want to come and use Italy as the nice background of the phony postcard of your life? Be my guest, you're just another tourist. The only difference is that shameful lot of fans screeching and crowding the outsides like peasants at the princess' marriage, cheering for you everywhere you go.
You did fine ignoring them. I would have too, 'cause that's what they deserve.
Plus nobody was really participating. We are all a bunch of hypocrites around here, didn't you know it?

Luckily at the dentist's surgery today there's a Louis Armstrong cd spinning, and the volume is low. We are spared the ordinary anguish of loud radio music drilling into our ears in preparation of more useful drills. The guy loves blues, he told me, but mostly it's the assistant to pick the cds or the radio stations, a nice, short sassy girl with terrible musical taste. Libi once told me her second job is to take part to TV reality shows as an "active" member of the public, so I always picture her with a microphone in her hand and the greenish respirator down over her chin.
In my usual drowsiness I sit, my back at the window, among the bystanders. Some browse "Oggi", some browse "Gente", some flicks "Famiglia Cristiana". I strive to remain awake dragging in vain my hand over my face, the scene disappears behind it and nobody knows it. I trawl in my pockets looking for some distractions I can't find. When there's to wait, I always forget to bring something to read or, I don't know, an ice cream.
From the mentioned magazines, glossy figures and block capitals, acts of pedophilia, orgies, rapes, overdoses, scams and grand thefts, Padre Pio all over the place and photo-op kisses, all the stuff nobody among us had the courage or the venture to do in this life is equally suggested, or outlined, as the tragic enviable privilege of a superior society where our-rules-don't-count, good-for-them and what-a-shame.
From behind my back comes the muffled noise of the streets, tires cracking rapidly over the uneven macadam, repeating their rolling with a kind of lulling rhythm, so the inevitable happens and I fall asleep.

I reopen my eyes from beneath my hand. The scene is unchanged but once again all is like from a distance, and the sat-downs profiles, with their dark clothes, calm breathings, frighten me for a moment. Why are they so silent? What are we all doing here together? How can they resist staying among strangers, at the mercy of this close walls, so meek and calm?
"Survived to the flight of Death we leave for the honeymoon trip" recites one of the glossy titles. I fall asleep again, and into an erotic dream, sex in the parking lot, receiving a blowjob by a boy, indecipherable faces. Must be all that visiting Cooper's blog, I argue in the dream. I wake up once again behind my hand, half hard-on possibly not to touch right now, just to let it go away.
When the assistant calls me in, it's a relief the habitual little chat about nothing-or-soccer, even though we support different teams.

Translation of the following excerpt is provided by Italy is falling as always. In picture (below) is writer Giovanni Comisso on the fishing boat 'Il gioiello', The Jewel, in Chioggia, near Venice, around 1925.

"Here, make your choice." Hans said.

"The third one" Said Alberto, desperate as in a revenge. Hans gave an order to his bearer who let out a whistle and the young boy followed the wheelcabs at a distance. They reached another garden next to the sea, the high palms rising up to the sky and they stopped. Hans dismissed the bearers. High trees wrapped up by climbing plants made the shadow on the dusty trail to look murkier. Among the branches it could be heard the quarreling of roosted birds. Hans said:
"Here you can do anything you want, I'll mount guard.". Alberto got closer to the boy, took him by the hand and next to a tree.
Those wild and exuberant trees were the forest of his countryside games, with Mario painted black on the face, among the brushes to the creek.

They didn't get back to the ship. The night was so warm they could feel the closed oppression of their cabins. They laid down on the dust near the sea that soundly was moving over the stony beach.

Alberto was thinking:
"I lived in a sublime laze then, and the more I moved far from that time the more I am convinced of it". Then placated he dozed until the first dim of dawn. The light appeared amid the palms agitated by an inperceptible wind. Alberto stood up. On the beach some natives were shoving the boats awash to the sea.
"My pleasures", he said to himself, "were nothing but a continuation of my childhood games." He felt Time.

"A day will come", he also said, "that someone will take me down the stairs of my house, closed in a coffin, but I will have had my childhood game entirely performed."
The light was increasing vehement along with the wind between the palms and the sea. On the boats, the natives raised the small sails and left.
The order of every thing appeared unalterable.

This was the last page of the novel Gioco d'infanzia "Childhood game", by the italian writer Giovanni Comisso (1895 - 1969).

The book novelizes in bits part of Comisso's long trip by ship to Egypt and India and then China in 1929. He wrote it in 1932, after two other books about that same trip.
I personally consider it ravishing delightful, and one of the highest point of italian literature in its times. Nothing like this will ever be published in Italy after WWII and until the last two decades of the last century.
Whatever the reason, books like this were to be considered not enough politicized, and pornographic, and thereby banned or ignored, in our very free catholic-communist-americanized Nation.

I'm not Gay and I do not donate blood¹.
The first claim pertains to my private life, the second to my social behavior.
I admit that the two things can get mingled in many different situations.
But not in a Hospital that accepts donations from healthy individuals according to the rules of law.
In my wealthy educated old moron european city (Milan, Italy) this happens.
They don't use your blood if you're gay. Ansa has more.
First of all, don't they check the blood anyway when you donate? What if you lie?
And btw, I was wondering, can a medic, a dentist, for instance, be gay?
Medics have to be healty too, you know. They use sharp tools, touch moisty flesh.
How come those fags can have access to our universities?

_{1. what do you know}