Sidelined at Komen Race for the Cure

...or, why I won't be racing in this Main Event of the Year. 
The Italians have totally embraced the incredible importance of the Komen cause. Its branch is the oldest international organization in the league, and I believe pretty much the most successful. If nothing else, the Komen race did something absolutely Herculean (or Amazonian, rather) – It raised awareness of women and their breasts from both women and men alike [Plastic surgeon's office and reality TV aside].
All in all, we get a magnificent day out, with families, sponsors and lots of smiles - starting at the Circus Maximus and pretty much winding thru the main sights of Rome before ending with ice cream, games and loud music. It doesn't get much better than that.
Except for one thing.  A recent article - to cite support for the race and underline the importance of the dire situation and promise of a cure - suggests that breast cancer cases in Italy will go UP by about 50% in the next few years. Making it all the more important to run our butts off so sponsors will donate more money, right?

Wrong. I believe we should be Racing Against the Cause not racing for the cure.

Untold millions have been spent annually on funding research trying to come up with a cure. But until Komen puts their oodles of money into fighting Monsanto protection laws, removing the lead in our lipstick, cutting the flow of rivers of antibiotics poured into our poultry, combating the cancer-causing ingredients in most everything we put in and on our bodies, they can – and will - continue to raise untold amounts of money - which we'll always need more of as cases rise, and rise and rise.
So no. I won't partake in this un-Merry-go-Round of receiving hush money from sponsors and support from survivors while mad-with-greed multinationals carelessly (or is it carefully?) pour cancerous agents into our skin, onto our products, over the soil, high in the skies and down into the seas. 
[A major sponsor is Johnson&Johnson. That's right, the Company now found to have convinced millions to put talcum powder on our babies, in their diapers, in our panties and panty liners...and who is now facing an onslaught of lawsuits on behalf of the thousands of Ovarian Cancer victims. It's one thing to allow Philip Morris to support the Arts. It's quite another to have as your main sponsor a company causing the very thing you are up against.]
Komen needs to put an end to this rat race to the bottom and put their money into politicking and policies that will stop these nefarious profit-driven societal cancers right in their black-ribboned tracks.

In Vino Veritas? Not in Italy

For a fully wine-producing country (whose output has just outpaced France), truth doesn't seem to flow out of the carafe all so easily. In fact, anyone who has read my book will know that I entertain a number of theories on why Italians play so fast and loose with the truth [Spoiler Alert: I think it goes back to Judas or Brutus...and their lofty place in history]. And while these attitudes flummox newcomers and tourists in equal measure, I must say that decades on...It sometimes gets the best of us old-timers, especially when you're faced with a flurry of truthiness all at once.
And so it was, when I woke up and went to my wondrous bar and noticed they no longer touted my brand, Illy Caffè, which is the only reason I would pay as much as a bag of espresso beans for a single, solitary cuppa. No more snazzy cups, no cute little lists of ways you can drink a flavored Illy coffee that would put Starbucks to shame. And worse, the coffee sucked. So I mentioned that I noticed the brand had changed...Emphatically, they insisted that no, it had always been this coffee...but maybe a while back under previous ownership...so on and so forth. So earnest was their protest, I started thinking I had the wrong coffee bar.
Returning home,  the doorbell rings. It's one of a posse of faux Energy Utility guys telling me that my contract needed to be revised if I would just sign the dotted line...I rebutted that if the Company had something to tell me, they knew where to find me. By mail, or email. Then, in a case of 'If you can't beat 'em, join 'em', I lied. I said it wasn't my contract to begin with. At which point he threatened me saying that if I didn't sign up a new contract, I'd be paying four times the amount and it was illegal to have a contract not in my name...and so on. I shut the door, called my utilities company who told me to --- shut the door on these jokers.
My neighbor's pipes broke, staining three walls of my office. Upstairs I go. She admitted it, but raising her hands in the air and giving me 'The Chin', said she wasn't the one responsible. Or, that she'd get someone to look at the damage the next day. Or that it was the building admin's job. Or... We'll see how long it takes to get someone to repair the damage.

Pinocchio...an Italian DOC
Photo by Walt Disney Studios

Out again at the marketplace, I surveyed some clothing items, on sale at season's end. Some items looked nice, but on closer inspection, I found the stitching  coming out on each piece I happened to pick out (okay, they were on sale, after all). The retailer, like a hawk, swooped in to tell me how fabulous these items were. When I pointed out the problem with them (aiming, I admit it, for a hefty discount...) I was met with, "No, these aren't defective! This is just how the items are made!" She was insulted that I would dare suggest that her custom may be somewhat, say, of low quality [did I mention I was at a market stall?].
I walked away...scratching my head and recalling the words of my former [Italian] boss who loved to quip that Italians didn't quite beat you at the game, as much as simply wear you down...