Thursday, January 06, 2005

i liked you better in the skirt

I was wandering around Santa Croce yesterday, and I stopped in front of the tomb of Michelangelo. I started to get freaked out, not because before me was some marble box with a dead body in it, but because that body was Michael-fucking-angelo. I looked around the church, and noticed a million tombs; Galileo, Machiavelli, a couple of Medicis...it's crazy. The history here is appalling, and makes anything American seem tiny and tacky and ripped off from something better and probably Italian.
We went to Mass in the Duomo the other day, and I have never been more bored. However, perhaps the designers of the Duomo knew how dreadfully boring old school Italian mass can be, because they've given us all kinds of things to stare at instead of paying attention. My problem was that I became fascinated by the ceiling, and it's hard to pretend you're deep in prayer when you're craning your neck to get a glimpse of an archangel's ass.
Last night was a fabulous dinner, with 10 of us piling into Il Latini, a very popular restaurant with lines down the block. Jenny's friend Megan joined us, and we enjoyed 4 hours of food and wine and champagne. It was incredibly fun, and more so because Jen and Megan regaled us with Thailand stories. Actually, their tales are so brilliant, I'm asking Jenny to be a guest blogger and write about Thai hookers. It's bizarre and fascinating. You'll love it...
On the Piazza Santa Croce, where we're staying, there's several leather shops along the square. Several times a day, I walk by and say hello to all the owners, who stand outside attempting to bait customers. There's this one guy, Carlo, that's taken a particular interest in me, and every day, he asks me out for a drink. Here's why I say no...
On the first day I saw him, he went on and on about how gorgeous he thought I was. While fabulous, he's old and slimy, and makes you want to get the fuck away from him. On the second day, I was wearing a tiny little skirt, and Carlo went nuts. He claimed I had legs from God and proceeded to ramble in a mix of Italian and English about the beauty of real women. On the third day, I walked by in jeans. Carlo was cold and distant, and as I walked away, he goes..."I liked you better in the skirt."
Fuck you, Carlo. Fuck you and your shitty leather jacket store. Fuck you and your Eurotrash soccer jersey. Fuck you and you're hideous naked lady/Ferrari calendar.
Now, of course, I feel like I can't wear any of the 6 skirts I brought, because I'd be giving into the sexist, sleazy whims of Carlo, the Italian asshole...

3 comments:

Anonymous said...

I assume you heard that God has granted your wishes and Mayor Gavin is getting divorced. The bi-coastal marraige wasn't working out for them.
http://sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?file=/c/a/2005/01/06/MNGJ1ALTGV1.DTL

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Anonymous said...

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