Tupac lives

I was working out at our new club – about which more later, I’m still too traumatized by the enforced change in the daily routine to talk about it – and after an arms-and-back workout, I just had time for a quick sauna and shower before the place closed for the day.

When I went into the sauna, I couldn’t help doing a bit of a double-take, then burst out laughing. The tattooed black guy sitting there didn’t exactly take affront or anything, but let’s face it, no man really appreciates being laughed at while completely sans clothing. I did my best to defuse the situation by explaining that for a moment, I’d thought that it was Tupac Shakur who was sitting there.

“Ma lui e’ morto!” (But he’s dead!)

“Well, yeah, that’s why I was so surprised.”

I pretended to believe Mr. Shakur’s little story about being a Milanese investment banker who just happens to look like a dead rapper, but my theory is that he’s just lying low, waiting for precisely the right moment to strike the East Coast and win the Rap War in one fell swoop. Avoid San Tropez this winter, that’s my advice to Puffin Diddle or whatever the guy is calling himself these days.