Here's that naughtily haughty word again. I'd heard the word first in Berlin. I'd hoped to hop on today's International Herald crossword. Will Shortz' word plays present a more pliable American profile, than the one playing Godfather to MacWorld. I'm flying the friendly skies through that Rock arena, in a projectile vomiting of a musical excretia in one flavor: cultural imperialism. I'm belched outta Brussels. Now on to Milan, where we'll play Americana for a hand-full at Teateo Marlinitt tonight. An integer in that double digit audience expected (by pre-concert ticket sales), a celebrated artist of our life and times, Maurizio Vetrugno. His escort, our beautiful friend and maven of the visual Art-world, Silvia Gaspardo de Moro. Silvia may argue that "visual Art" is a redundant term. That wouldn't be the first time I've heard that however. I'm biased. I see music as Art.

Silvia once suggested a Sardinian romp for the wife and me. Married to sculptor Charles Ray, such whimsies are second nature to her financial stability. Turns out, Art has been good to Charlie, in the face of galleries' salaries.

"Daughters, hang on to your mothers!" sez Don from across the aisle. We taxi to a stop on the tarmac — "Van Dyke's come to town."


Suddenly, it's summer. The trek from the plane to the terminal at Bergamo is Saharan. We fry on the tarmac. Vegas can't beat this heat.

No contact from Pietro the promoter until a call from him at 5:15. Now we learn if we're to proceed. They've bumped me down to a smaller theater: "Il Piccolo". It should work.

Damir meets us in the "Genius" Hotel. (That wouldn't be the first Italian overestimate.) It's adjacent to the Piccolo Theatre (actually, the smaller stage of the Piccolo's two stages). At this rate, I'll be on a first-name basis with the whole audience.


The Milanese give us a standing ovation. (That was special, as they'd been seated for the show.) On exiting, they lightened our baggage by €400 in merchandise sold.

This city is plagued by the mosquitos. Vexed enough to find one out, I turn on my bed side light and spot one licking her chops on the wall. I smack her flat in a Euro-sized blood — sample tattoo. I roll on down to the lobby and pay up. After a €412 cash hotel bill, I check out.

Three hours away by train is Roma. I'll be in The Eternal City less than twenty-four hours. Just gotta pop in on Il Poppa and confab on that FDR thing. Maybe wear shades like Bono. Talk THE POPULATION BOMB, Anthropocene, sustainability & etc.

Our hotel is but 4 blocks da il Colosseo. Air-conditioned proximity to ancient history, architectural residue of a self-absorbed Pax Romana, when gluttony outran the supply wagons. Paisano mio. Ciao.


Promoter: Pietro Fuccio
Annazhiaray Pipino: Loves Big Star
Romina Amidie: Pietro's assistant
Roberto Giorgi: Sound

Cattivo coniglio — Bad rabbit