Valeriorivoli

Arnoldina NOW I understand why you have hysterical fits and you're always bothering me: I touched your idol, THE ARTIST with a capital A, Frankie Battiato Chekky Dory. Excuse me, did you put a pear, pardon, a zero under the poster?
No, I read your mind, the zero for promiscuous use is for you cherie.

You don't understand. I said you're a faggot and you don't need to dress up. I am who I am, not some trans snake of nickfagname A. Layne.

Alessioiride, here they are: the albums I review, I own them biblically. I don't know what I would give to spend a night with Dolly, find me a lookalike, please!

Dolly, mistress of the records, we would need a miracle,
but I would settle for just one night,
even a lookalike of yours, as long as she's not silicondolley,
oh my dear debaser,
can you be my matchmaker,
you will remember
PLEASE?

You don't understand. I said you're a faggot and you shouldn't dress up.

Andy, you need to paint the boxes of beans and not eat their contents, as you suffer from cerebral aerophagia.

Arnoldlayne, with that name you disguise yourself for sure, you queen.

happypippo, yes he is the one with the bags from Carrà
bye

IF you talk to some middle-aged American man, the pfm—of which I like some things—are still remembered in America; they even made it into the charts. The Area were politicized, rotten, and I reiterate they were niche compared to other prog groups, highly skilled musicians, but there's nothing I can hum along to: I would have sent them to brag in the paradises of the true real socialism, the real one of those times, and even De André, who justified armed struggle in some songs; then Battiato among his friends of the sands—
they are not characters with an anodyne or populist message; Battiato is even worse because he is the most intellectual of the group, the most autocratic, a sworn enemy of pagan Rome, just see his interviews—and he shows that he hasn’t understood his own esotericism. For him, Carthage was civilized, CARTHAGE, GOT IT, what an intellectual, THAT one known for human sacrifices, for mercantile law, and in the end, like the most pretentious computers—Franck9000 goes off the rails and sings a children’s round.

Bags noooo, it’s not for me at this age. I won’t review the piotta, I'll leave that to someone more knowledgeable: I even met him while he was doing the tellinaro-slang of old records at my neighborhood market. He said that rap is the future, rock isn’t. So I told him that rap is the evolution of talking blues—he looked at me like I was an alien. Then I said goodbye: see you later, daddy's boy.