Maurizio ferrarotti torino è la mia città 2011

APOCALYPSE SNOW
Ain’t it a frame taken from New Year’s Day U2 video. This is Don Filippo Rinaldi garden,
Southside Turin and The Neighborhood Junkies. Googlemap it ma frienda. Nothing on earth is as
symmetrical as a snowflake, nothing but Poptones, yeah that P.I.L. song. Play it over and over and
over, you’ll see. Little Flake Jewel.
I’m not listening to U2 right away. I just never like them much. I do like only Zooropa, you know.
Especially that song, Babyface. It got that special David Bowie-on-Eno loopy aural feeling, if you
know what I mean. Always crashing in the same car with the cover girl blessed by natural grace.
However, I’m listening to Joe’s Garage, Frank Zappa’s Apocalypse now, while walking alone in
the snow like a nose-running, estranged Willard looking for a Jack-Frosted Kurtz. Frank’s playing
his best guitar solo ever, Watermelon in Easter Hay: desolate, devastating beauty notes. This is
rather Ice Station Zebra than Saigon. A spy satellite may fall down on my head and then uploading
all its secrets to my brain. Then some retired asshole may report this to Russian or American or
whatever operatives agents dressed like italian cops – they would tase and kill him cleanly
afterwards – thus turning me into The Most Wanted Man in The Whole Wide World, fuckingly
overnightly. It would be exciting. Zillion Dollar Turinese Brain. Russian stunners blowing your
penis and then trying to knock you down, I would be like: “Lemme untie your lace... but keep that
narcotic needle away from my back or I will destroy your face, my beautiful devotchka.” Anarchic
hackers givin’ you protection and AR kung-fu lessons. Stumbling upon the woman of your life in a
Hamburg bar. Lookin fine, so fine, dressed up like a lovely day. Watching impotently as passes
away for a bullet. Oh no.
White light, frozen meat. A thousand sonic blanco melons are floating all over here. Zappa melons.
It might be absolutely nothing behind that milky fog down there. It might be the edge of the
universe. I won’t go there. I don’t wanna be the man overboard drowing in the sea of nothing. No
bloody way.
Here he is, finally. Jack Frost Kurtz. He is small, bald, chubby, got the bloody carrot nose.
I ask him: “Hey Kurtzy, how ya doin?” In a slow, flat voice he replies: “Oh the horror... the horror.
The horror of having a snowy cock that’s gonna melt in the sun.” And the last, flanged chord of
Frank Zappa’s guitar slowly fades out.
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