How I Found My Philosophy On Life
At the age of 3 I had perfected the Art of Not Giving A Fuck.
The great thing about coming from an Italian family is that you learn two things very quickly: We have the best food, and we are the best at everything we do. Some people take this sense of Ethnic superiority with a grain of salt. They don’t matter. They can take their paper pusher bullshit and sit in the back of the room where they belong. If this were Roman times we would have fed those fuckers to the lions.
Art? Da Vinci, Michaelangelo
Food? Pizza, Pasta, Calzones, Rice Balls, Wine, Pesto, Meatballs
Music? Frank Fucking Sinatra.
So what does this have to do with a 3 year old? Well to start off with, as a developing fetus I was fed a healthy appetite of all the best food in the world, and so i clocked in at a lean 10 pounds when I was born. Right away, I already told the world, stand back. I’m not going to live this life meekly.
I developed a voracious appetite as I grew. In fact, in many of earliest pictures you can find me eating or see the remnants of how I absolutely conquered a meal. I wore those stains as a badge of honor. And it culminated one night into perfecting the Art of Not Giving a Fuck.
In our family, we don’t just cook a meal. We cook a feast large enough to feed the Roman legion. 3 People at home? Ok, lets cook 2 and a half pounds of pasta. I grew up with this my whole life, and quite frankly, don’t know any other way to eat. It suffices to say that our fridge is always full at home.
One evening at 3 years old, I decided I wasn’t tired. I got out of my crib and went straight to the kitchen. As the story is told to me, my dad woke up at about 12:00 to find the fridge open, and a trail of tomato gravy leading to the living room. And there I was: Sitting on the couch, with my hands deep into a container of leftover meatballs from our big sunday dinner, watching Johnny Carson.
This is how you perfect the Art of Not Giving a Fuck. Here I was, at 3 years old, this fat little guido with his ravioli fingers shoving cold meatballs into his mouth, getting his fix of the king of late night. My father asked me what I was doing, and I politely explained to him, in between meatball bites, that I was watching Johnny Carson. I turned back to my meatball, and l finished enjoying the lovely interview that the King was giving. I didn’t have time to be answering questions. I had my stories to watch, and meatballs to eat.
My father, actually went back to bed, and let me proceed with the meatball eating and late night television. They found me the next morning, passed out on the couch, my hand still in the container of meatballs, with a trail of gravy running down my stomach, and the TV still on.
I had climbed to the summit of Mount Not Give A Fuck and planted my flag triumphantly.