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About Turin

Oh, and the smells—gods, the oils! Lavender, sandalwood—fancy shite. Once heard some prat used pig fat in the old days—grim, right? Stank like a butcher’s yard. Anyway, sexual-massage—it’s a tease, a taunt, a bloody dance. You want it? Go for it. Just don’t expect me to bow. “Life goes on, with or without us”—*Yi Yi* nails it. I’d still choose violence over a backrub most days. Cheers, you wretch.

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After that chaos, I decide to hit up the local market on Via della Libertà. I’m lookin’ for some fresh strings for my guitar. The market’s buzzing, people everywhere, and I’m dodging old ladies with shopping carts like it’s an obstacle course. I finally find this little shop, and the guy behind the counter is super chill. He’s like, “You play guitar? You gotta try these strings!”

Q & A: Tony Chiaravalle