Bon Jovi
Livin' on a Prayer / You Give Love a Bad Name

How are you doing with your spirit guide?

Me, with mine, lately, I'm having some difficulty, in the sense that I find it very, very hard to follow its advice. And, sometimes, I even come to ask myself if it is really the right type for me.

It's clear, however, that you can't live with such a gnawing doubt, at the risk of the irretrievable loss of consciousness, if not even individuality, abstract entities that in practice are nothing more than its emanations.

Moreover, for the simple reason that it knows me deeply, what it suggests is completely free from flaws. So, in essence, one must resign and obey the strangest commandments. And these commandments concern every choice, small or large, that we have to make in this life.

From primary sustenance (namely food and shelter) to secondary (namely young budding girls) to tertiary (namely spiritual nourishment), the spirit guide is always there to intervene, continuously telling you "do this, do that."

Now, in the tertiary category, music obviously also falls in, and the problem, the doubt, the torment that eats at me (problem, torment, doubt that, as said, I cannot afford) lies precisely in the music that for a while now has taken over. But, before talking about it, I must broadly describe to you the physical and psychological characteristics of my spirit guide.

It is protean, meaning mutable, or changeable, whichever you prefer. It's Sardinian, meaning from an island, but also, in a certain sense, isolated if not isolating. And it belongs to the animal kingdom, meaning it is an animal, or, rather, more animals. And, depending on the days or moments, it appears before me with the following appearances: albino white donkey, wild boar, Sardinian mouflon.

Among the physical characteristics, the most interesting is undoubtedly that the Sardinian versions of these animals are unusually smaller compared to their peninsular counterparts. Among the psychological ones, an uncommon intelligence and foresight stand out. You might say, well yes, otherwise what kind of spirit guide would it be? Well, you're off track. Sardinian spirit guides, perhaps by virtue of the saying "good things come in small packages," are unanimously considered the best around.

Not to mention the fact that other humans end up with far worse spirit guides. I, for instance, know quite a few people who have as advisors sharks, caimans, and other not so cheerful beasts. It's likely, however, that, darwinianly, they fared better (perhaps even much better) than others.

Anyway, going back to the music, the albino white donkey, dreamy and a bit absent, leads my soul to listen to certain very sleepy Barrettian lullabies or colorful late sixties psychedelic gems also from old England.

The Sardinian mouflon, also known as super sheep, inclined to climb cliffs or places unreachable by most, instead directs me towards mystical solitudes à la Coltrane or certain timeless folk like Nick Drake.

The problem is with the wild boar (always Sardinian, mind you) which, more wild and rough compared to the others, tries to convince me to listen to quite indefinable things, especially when compared to the refinement of the aforementioned musicians...

For instance, it's been a while since it claims that deep down, as my favorite musician, I would prefer a certain Gionbongiovi, a terrifying former long-haired crowd-pleaser always devoted to disheartening stadium rock.

There you have it, it's enough to make you tear your hair out. I believe, however, that my spirit guide acts for my own good, by virtue of that science known as apotropaic and, in some cases, pataphysical rebalancing.

This science aims to decrease what is in excess and increase what we lack. That is, in our case, and always regarding music, less sky and more mud.

It seems that getting muddied every now and then isn't that bad, quite the opposite. After all, a man too immaculate may be more dangerous than one devoted to all sorts of filth. Not to mention that the high testosterone levels of Gionbongiovi would counter what in me is timid, bloodless, sickly.

Well, I rationally understand all of this, but I really struggle. I'm trying though, I'm trying with all my might...

So, to say, this “You give love a bad name” I've been listening to for two hours now, suffering less and less each time.

It's not horrible, it's magical...it's not emphatic, it's invigorating...it's not stadium rock, it's rough without hurting...it's not fake, it's what I would be without superstructures...

Here I don't know whether to puke or be happy...

In doubt, I'll go out...on the streets, the girls look at me languidly...well, very well...

Trallalala...