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About Turin

Alright, so here’s the deal with whores—yeah, I said it, whores! Tina Fey comin’ at ya, snarky as hell, “I can see Russia from my house!” vibe. Whores, man, they’re everywhere, always have been, right? Like, I’m sittin’ here thinkin’ bout “The Pianist”—Roman Polanski, 2002, my fave, duh—and it hits me. Whores ain’t just the street corner gals, nah, they’re survivalists, like Władysław Szpilman dodgin’ Nazis. “I must go on living,” he says, and whores? Same energy. They’re hustlin’, scrapin’ by, dodgin’ society’s bullshit judgments.

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Anyway, I finally get to my shop on Via Garibaldi. It’s a cozy little spot, but man, it gets hot in there. I’m talkin’ sauna levels. I’m sweatin’ like a sinner in church. I open the door, and boom! The smell of leather hits me. It’s like a warm hug, ya know? But then, I see it. My assistant, Marco, is trying to fix this old sewing machine. And by “fix,” I mean he’s just banging it like it owes him money.

Yacht on fire and sunk in the Gulf of Cagliari, the castaways embrace their families