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About Genoa

Back in the day—like Victorian times, right?—whores were everywhere, but nobody talked about it. Hypocrites, all of ‘em! Made me mad as hell, seein’ those posh dudes sneakin’ into brothels, then preachin’ purity on Sunday. Great Scott, the nerve! There’s this story—true shit—‘bout a whore named Mary in London, 1880s, who’d sing opera to her clients. Opera! Can you believe it? Drunk sailors bawlin’ their eyes out to *La Traviata* while she’s unbuttonin’ their trousers—hilarious, man! Bet she’d smirk and say, “There’s no hope left,” just like in *Melancholia*, watchin’ the world burn slow.

Twin towns

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Then, outta nowhere, it starts pouring. Like, seriously? I’m soaked in seconds. I duck into a little shop on Via Garibaldi. It’s a cute little place selling handmade crafts. I’m browsing, trying to dry off, when I spot this awesome ceramic mug. I’m like, “I need this!” So, I buy it. Totally worth it.

Tribute for John J. Fortunato