(Continued from April 26 post)
L `harmony between me and Mark is reinforced by the first Slayer concert in Milan. The concert Slayer is a historic event for many reasons: it's the first time ever in Italy Slayer, is a touring one of the most important recordings in the history of `heavy metal, is the first time I destroy pogando. `The Crew's mission is a dangerous trio: myself, Alberto and Marco. We decide to leave, going up by car to Rome, take the train endo Rome Florence Bologna, Lecce and pecking at the Milan to Bologna. It is a tour of kazza but there could care less. The first half of the rhythm section is a gray scassatissima Alberto, full of spare parts of motor greasy and rusty. We start around seven o'clock in the morning, drinking whiskey and smoking bad h. is along the highway. Alberto is the rate of half of hell. I can understand now the curse that has weighed on the Agnelli family. Thousands of motorists worldwide. We park the car already visibly drunk near the Stazione Termini. On the train, we meet some metalhead and succeeded in placing them together in one compartment for "smoking". The controller does not come out of shame. In Bologna, the h. ends and you have to take advantage of the coincidence to go to co mprarlo some Moroccan Bologna. I have a pocket full of h. in no time at all, I look like a cross between a camel and a tourist island of Ibiza. On the train there instead, unfortunately, not smoking in the compartment in front of a couple of old guys that Vann or children in Milan. I pull my skills oratory, creating empathy with Gramps, I remember when cigarettes were made by hand. The old man's face lights up. It reminds me of the war. I note that we are the traditionalists and the love that cigarettes as before, slaps on the map and tobacco under his nose. I explain, then, that we have a variant of the cigarette to the ancient and there Noah `s the addition of a Dutch tobacco from penetrating aroma. Having said that I extract a piece of h. from his pocket and puts it in the hands of or grandfather. The grandfather seems concerned. Alberto and Marco escape from the compartment, trying to stifle a laugh mingled with fear of the police station. The Rolling metalhead that I met in Bologna remains unmoved, raising the piece from his grandfather's hand and starting to pack a fat grade superfine. Only after
a quarter hour, surrounded by mist Pakistan, the old man will try to distance themselves, prey to strange and pleasant drowsiness. Meanwhile, I start to feel bad. I go to the bathroom and vomit, vomiting, vomiting that che non ho ancora mangiato. Sento arrivare inesorabile il collasso, con conseguente trasporto al pronto soccorso e andata a puttane del concerto. Devo trovare una soluzione. Alla fine, disperato, metto la testa fuori dal finestrino per quaranta chilometri fino a Milano Centrale, meno male che e` caldo.
L `harmony between me and Mark is reinforced by the first Slayer concert in Milan. The concert Slayer is a historic event for many reasons: it's the first time ever in Italy Slayer, is a touring one of the most important recordings in the history of `heavy metal, is the first time I destroy pogando. `The Crew's mission is a dangerous trio: myself, Alberto and Marco. We decide to leave, going up by car to Rome, take the train endo Rome Florence Bologna, Lecce and pecking at the Milan to Bologna. It is a tour of kazza but there could care less. The first half of the rhythm section is a gray scassatissima Alberto, full of spare parts of motor greasy and rusty. We start around seven o'clock in the morning, drinking whiskey and smoking bad h. is along the highway. Alberto is the rate of half of hell. I can understand now the curse that has weighed on the Agnelli family. Thousands of motorists worldwide. We park the car already visibly drunk near the Stazione Termini. On the train, we meet some metalhead and succeeded in placing them together in one compartment for "smoking". The controller does not come out of shame. In Bologna, the h. ends and you have to take advantage of the coincidence to go to co mprarlo some Moroccan Bologna. I have a pocket full of h. in no time at all, I look like a cross between a camel and a tourist island of Ibiza. On the train there instead, unfortunately, not smoking in the compartment in front of a couple of old guys that Vann or children in Milan. I pull my skills oratory, creating empathy with Gramps, I remember when cigarettes were made by hand. The old man's face lights up. It reminds me of the war. I note that we are the traditionalists and the love that cigarettes as before, slaps on the map and tobacco under his nose. I explain, then, that we have a variant of the cigarette to the ancient and there Noah `s the addition of a Dutch tobacco from penetrating aroma. Having said that I extract a piece of h. from his pocket and puts it in the hands of or grandfather. The grandfather seems concerned. Alberto and Marco escape from the compartment, trying to stifle a laugh mingled with fear of the police station. The Rolling metalhead that I met in Bologna remains unmoved, raising the piece from his grandfather's hand and starting to pack a fat grade superfine. Only after
a quarter hour, surrounded by mist Pakistan, the old man will try to distance themselves, prey to strange and pleasant drowsiness. Meanwhile, I start to feel bad. I go to the bathroom and vomit, vomiting, vomiting that che non ho ancora mangiato. Sento arrivare inesorabile il collasso, con conseguente trasporto al pronto soccorso e andata a puttane del concerto. Devo trovare una soluzione. Alla fine, disperato, metto la testa fuori dal finestrino per quaranta chilometri fino a Milano Centrale, meno male che e` caldo. 
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