Ettore R. Peyrot

Ettore R. Peyrot: Me, aka myself

     Fifty something years ago a tragic, although awaited, event marked forever the life of my parents: at 6.00 pm on a day at the end of November the under signed saw the light.

     Since that very moment there have been two poor puzzled and disconcerted biologists who still don't understand what their mistake was, and what the hell Mendel was raving about when he wrote that stuff about peas. But being gifted with faith and endless patience they accepted this unnatural heir; now busy in home breeding of Reptiles, now bewildered in intricate forests in far Countries whose names and dialects are unpronounceable, now undertaking organization of improbable activities in a strange world called the Internet.

     After spending due time at Turin University studying Natural Sciences, becoming a quite well-known amateur herpetologist, he suddendly decided to apply for a job in a major marketing company and soon became an appreciated marketing consultant (Does it makes sense to you an... herpetological marketing consultant?), keeping up the good job in this and other closely related environments.

     During the long nights spent in symbiosis with his modem, the alien continues to plan, produce, dream, and translate in bytes his raving passions. A late courageous attempt to interface his right temporal lobe with a router produced even more - if possible - permanent damage, throwing in discouragement both the Board of Cisco Systems and a certain number of hosts living in home terrariums.

     There is a rumor that on some dark nights a faceless creature is surfing the Net still looking for his lost identity. The new millennium is already here since a few years. Is anybody going to offer me a Daiquiri ?

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I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix, angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night ...
A. Ginsberg