September 2010

Is there life before death?

C ome everyone knows, the ritual involves bathing in the summer as his place of choice to the beach - something neighbors foaming with sunshade, stereo systems ball of establishments, karaoke and shameful, not too far away, braying television and sadistically smarmittati scooters. Everyone forgets, or rather its stracatafottendosene of any sleep-wake cycle, and the soundscape of silence.

For these and other reasons, you should then go to the beach holding, as a noble shield, a book. Advancing from the beach, their smelly creams and desperate umbrellas with logo of local supermarket, the 'paper objects can cause a scandal, it's true: the fact is looked upon with disgust by most, and for this we must flaunt the book, as is done with the 'garlic for vampires.

But once you have settled on the sand, and credits, unless, you just opened the volume may appear-and in fact seems tragically - he and the other: a voter, signed from head to toe, obtusely expert gossip, talk, talent and tamarri television shows. The voter who is a guard around, then scraped with a pensive lower parts, and then stretch the fabric of the Ferrari and then turn on the radio. Which radio, asking for a volume that not even the bass amplifier Uzeda, immediately notify the entire coast imbalances deejay songs dedicated to the summer of contempt of grammar, diction and logical thinking in general. All within a few meters from the look of your aff.mo horrified, or siblings.

Perfect synchronicity of the world: "... the hoarse voice of an idiom trombazza impossible, that nobody talks about (it would be the lesser evil), no one thinks, or by contacting him or his girlfriend or to God "was indeed written in the book I was reading, author an engineer from Milan who wants to be left in the shadows.

I was then barricaded behind these words, when the radio OF THE PRODUCER votes in pants Bathroom - invariably tuned to playlist question of taste - has left the hit of summer 2010 : Alealealealejandro (Roberto) and what tristemente segue. Una macchina evocatrice di bestemmie all'ultimo sangue che sarà capitato di sentire anche a voi e ai vostri cari, magari mentre guardavate rapiti le silenziose stelle d'estate o, più in generale, attendevate ignari ai fattacci vostri.

Immediatamente, cercando un appiglio al quale aggrapparsi per non sprofondare nel fetido gorgo da lavandino della suddetta canzone, il pensiero del Vs. aff.mo è corso alle lucertole del suo giardino che, immobili, con le loro lunghe code verdi vibranti, ascoltano solo musica telepatica. E anche per questo se gliela staccano, la coda, quella gli ricresce subito. Cosa notoriamente impossibile ad ogni votante con telo da spiaggia della Ferrari e radiolina a palla. Psychoacoustics: then one says.

just that, at this point, you will need to name names and surnames: in our sad case Lady Gaga, questionable stage name of an Italian-American boy who hides misery behind eighties music (*) summarized in a cumbersome and predictable source of inspiration: Madonna. The real one, not the other, the fictional character who spoke with the pigeons impregnated. Lady Gaga: a star with millions of records, a global star, a frozen to an end soon. That is, wanting to be polite, a good example di replicante multistrato, affastellante tutto l'armamentario che, a detta dei cretini del marketing, non può mancare in ogni supermercato che si rispetti. E quindi la nostra esibisce, oltre ad un naso restio a qualsivoglia rinoplastica, balletti sconclusionati, mitra che le escono dalle tette, ingoi di rosari, croci, culi e frustini in un’insalata sè-dicente trasgressiva. Luoghi comuni buoni per adolescenti illusi e stravendite di porcherie alla moda: la musica, quella è un'altra cosa. La domanda finale, comunque, è: che succede al buco, quando è finito il formaggio?

(*) To those, then, insist on revival confused with memory, enough to recall the soundscape of the sea. Which now provides barely remember its sound - water, wind - embalmed with words that retain only the name of what's been permanently removed from the modern noise pollution from beach. Invasion sound full of trendy resurgence, and some of these sold as "revival", a sort of exoticism that instead of going to space, time favors. Africa, Asia, the Far East to be replaced by "decades", the sixties, seventies, eighties. With the stench of putrefaction from wisps, so, the recent plague of Eighties rampant cattle in the park: it is our time of recession, where more and more raw materials become scarce, and where he returns stronger intention to smoke opium of nostalgia.

In this connection mention should be "The Vaselines: a band of misfits that if it were not for Kurt Cobain, who had named as one of her favorites, now does not recall anyone. Our men, in their recent album "Sex with an X," have made an important contribution to the ongoing discussion about this revival that now infects us by calling one of their song "I hate the 80's" hate the eighties.

And speaking of nostalgia and revival, after the Vaselines, mention should be moved to another, the infamous Vaneigem: "(the show) with his mummified museum objects and makes a mockery of the Living Dead increasing the number of traces of lived with unceasing archeology of the past and present, thus enriching the gallery of stereotypes offered to all roles in the jungle. " Inevitable at this point, the question: is there life before death?