Call me a trombone because I definitely deserve it, but there’s some good news that upset me. The good news is the birth of a child, a rather rare event that is greeted in Milan with a volley of fireworks. One might object to this new and sizzling habit of celebrating a private joy by invading the acoustic freedom of entire neighborhoods, but let’s not digress. The creature’s father is the famous trap singer Shiva and is temporarily in prison for shooting the emissaries of a gang of rival musicians.
I don’t want to say that the ruthless Vasco never shot at the Ligabue bouncers “in my time.” I won’t even go into the sweet handwritten letter (all capital letters, since cursive is now a Boomer habit) that dad Shiva wrote from prison to newborn Draco. What angered me, however, was the reaction of his colleagues, fans and dedicated websites who paid tribute to the young father with small hearts and regretted his absence from the joyous occasion. Reading them, one would have thought that Shiva was in San Raffaele because of a severe flu and not in San Vittore for attempted murder. As if celebrity and “gangstar” poses had the power to erase everything: not just the judgment of violence, but also the remnants of modesty that in certain cases would advise silence.
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