Amanda Lear
I Am a Photograph

No one knows Amanda's true age. It's obvious that we are dealing with a replicant (a real one) where androgynous experimentation openly leads to transgender prodromes to start gauging the mood when procreation is confused with "chaste" sodomization.

And the back-and-forth 'a man, a woman, a man, a woman,' works great in the perverse progression of getting everyone to pee sitting down, as taught by the Swedes. And I, a ten-year-old child, when in 1978 I glimpsed the risqué TV show Stryx, was I graced with having my sexuality initialized in a hetero direction?

Sure, the fjords of Peki from Oslo have kept (tap) dance René Alain swaying up to now in the bewilderment of the doubt of where the "little one" had ended up. The fact is that, chez-nous, the alleged Siamese look-alike of Dalí's muse has CLIPped its wings, vanishing in the wake of the first musical successes, Casablanca lurking?

More than tarallucci and wine, the matter is trans-lated into Blood & Honey. They return to my memory like ghosts from summer covers of Novella 2000 at the end of the '70s, leafed through secretly to snatch here and there a breast, some buttocks, and shadows of pubic hair, where the name Malagnac resounds in my synapses, who knows why...

And I don't remember, but I think I saw Amanda's singing debut presented by an exalted Pippo Baudo, fascinated, thrilled, a bit terrified, advocating to viewers not to dismiss outright a transvestitism helped deceitfully by a booming voice, not reassuring for sure, but tickling thoughts of bizarre sexual deviations not yet categorized in that beginning of the economic boom's decline.

Surely those tight, aerobics-spatial suits disturbed a regular pubic hair comfort zone, overturning a terrestrial yearning of spermatozoon-ovum with alien visions of bananas, where it was no longer clear who was grabbing onto the fruit.

But slipping on the peel remains the pleasure of having never truly known those secrets of alleged penetration changes, and in believing that Regina Lear is a highly respected international spy, we enjoy from the window the expressed polyglotism, or rather from the cage: lest a panther escapes.

Tomorrow anyway, I don't know what, but "Tomorrow"...