My talk in Milan

Last week, I had the happy privilege of being the latest speaker in the ongoing "Meet the Media Guru" series in Milan, Italy. It was a stupendous couple of days, with a day and a half of intensive meetings and interviews with bloggers and journalists, and a sold-out, standing room only speech at the end. The MMG people were absolutely fantastic -- here's a picture of me with Maria Grazia, the founder of the series -- but I'd be remiss if I didn't also thank Lucia and Lucio and all the rest of the people who were so kind, thoughtful and fascinating.

The event's organizers have posted video of the talk, as well.

Video, Photo gallery

[#1 posted by caipirina , March 11, 2009 12:07 PM]

why did i not know of this before? I am only 120km away ... well .. not that I could have made it other than bring the little one with me ...

so close ...

[#2 posted by J. Lasser , March 11, 2009 1:10 PM]

Nice shirt, Cory -- What is it?

[#3 posted by rijrunner1 , March 11, 2009 1:57 PM]

No cape?

[#4 posted by Cory Doctorow , March 11, 2009 2:29 PM]

@2 One of these:

http://www.boingboing.net/2008/12/16/kenyan-cowboy-shirts.html

[#5 posted by Anonymous , March 11, 2009 3:15 PM]

Thanks for being here, Cory. Lots of bad things are happening in my beloved country and more are coming in the future. I hope the folks in Milan had the chance to give you a view of our sad political situation.

[#6 posted by fxq , March 11, 2009 3:16 PM]

That's what I love the most about Italy: sepia tones. I remember waking up in my chalet with Bridget and watching the sepia farmers lead their drab donkeys up the steep hills to the sepia trees where they would toil endlessly to tap the muted sap before it could congeal into tasteless opaque blobs.

It was an interesting summer, to be sure. Good Italian sepia was expensive, but it made you feel classy; like you were in a glamorous 40s movie. But that summer the Albanians had rediscovered one of Tito's imitation sepia formulas and came to market to sell their tawdry wares. Business was brisk until the word got out that the Albanian sepia made you feel cheap and used, like a dog-eared pornographic magazine held by a twisted 12-year-old boy.

The village turned against the Albanians that night; beating them to death with lusterless clubs. The carnage must have been terrible, but we could not tell. In that indistinct place the pools of blood were the same color as the evening rain. The Italian sepia wrapped us in its subdued story and shielded us from our vibrant shame.