There is nothing remarkable about today that I know of, certainly nothing that I feel compelled to dwell on.  So I turned to the history books.

One entry for June 25 particularly caught me.  (And no, it wasn’t the introduction of the fork to American dining in 1630.  I’m not that predictable.)

Some guy named Wibbert was chosen as anti-pope Clemens III in 1080.

And I have no idea what that means.  But I think it’s marvelous.

AND!  Wibbert – sorry, Clemens – was from Ravenna!  Italy!  Sold!  Hooray!

So here’s my favorite song by totally swingin’ Italian pianist Raphael Gualazzi.  Lyrics below with slightly triply Google Translate translation.  ITALIAN READERS I am so sorry for this terrible Italian.

—

Calda estate non si riesce a far più niente
che morire sotto il sole tra le gabole e la gente
e non so più dove andare ma non voglio questa gente
dove sei,dove sei,dove sei,dove sei
Mi rinfranco faccio un bagno dentro il sole
gioco a scopa nella scuola vuota come un capannone
mi distendo sopra un pianoforte forse sciolto e mi chiedo
dove sei, dove sei, dove sei, dove sei

Ah che bella questa estate questa gente,
tutto immagine e poi niente
e nessuno vuole dirmi
dove sei
faccio stragi ma se passo da perdente
prima o poi la stessa gente
mi telefona e mi dice dove sei
Sono stanco delle mie stesse parole
qui si fanno solo prove
non si sa chi diventare
per fortuna che ti ho visto
per fortuna almeno tu sei come sei
come sei,come sei,come sei
Ora basta questa estate,
questa gente non mi portano più a niente
ma che importa se mi dici dove sei

Pensa un po che mi travesto da pezzente
sparo lacrime abbronzanti
prevedendo per scoprire dove sei

Calda estate non riesco a far più niente
qui si muore con la gente che
non sa cosa vuol dire insieme a te
ti ho trovata sopra un panfilo lucente,
l’ammiraglio è inconcludente
ma che importa se tu sei vicino a me…

Hot summer, you can’t do anything
who die in the sun between the Gabola and people
I do not know where to go but I do not want these people
Where are you, where are you, where are you, where are you
I am heartened – take a bath in the sun
Game of cards at the school as an empty hangar
I lay on top of a piano maybe loose and I wonder
Where are you, where are you, where are you, where are you

Oh what a beautiful this summer, these people,
whole image and then nothing
and nobody wants to tell me
where are you
massacres but if I step away from losing
sooner or later the same people
calls me and tells me where you are
I’m tired of my own words
here you are only testing
no one knows who become
luckily I saw you
fortunately, at least you are as you are
as you are, as you are, as you are
Now just this summer,
these people do not bring me anything
but who cares if you tell me where you are

Just think that I disguise as beggar
shot tears tanning
expecting to find out where you are

Hot summer I can not do anything
here you will die with the people who
do not know what it’s like with you
I found you on a yacht shiny
Admiral is inconclusive
but who cares if you’re near me …