Who, I ask, could deal with this sign at 6am? Not to mention a fake-gem-encrusted jock strap and a neon-lit hotel model in a toilet bowl?
A decade ago, I passed a full brass band, slow-stepping through Bologna like some jazz funeral. I followed, natch. The procession ended at a gallery. Musicians continued to march around the exhibits and through the film screen rolls of toilet paper hung on vertical poles. On vintage celluloid, a nekkid lady goose-stepped.
And I? I wept quietly for Baywatch.