Workhorse

It's one of those that I remember the least; as soon as I have some time, I listen to it again. Actually, let's make it that I listen to it right now.

Nice, I haven't listened to them in ages though.

Nice, sure, but for me De Chirico should indeed stay on the canvas. Then again, I'm someone who already sees art nouveau as a crazy novelty, so my opinion doesn't count for much.

19th century? :p

I just read this thing. This is to illustrate how little I follow TV, and I’m increasingly happy not to follow it even peripherally. I WOULD like to follow it, since when you tell people you never watch it, they treat you like some sort of pretentious intellectual. But as long as they broadcast this stuff, it’s impossible. Although I must say that between Fabio Fazio and Il Fatto Quotidiano, I choose the former.

"unexplained - dreamed - dreamed - dreamed situations," I have no idea what it means but I've been humming it for a week.

Ok, it’s awesome.

Something tells me that Noel is the dumber of the two brothers.

I had the habit, to muster some courage during my late-night sessions, of shouting at the top of my lungs "RELEASE THE KRAKEN": I had my headphones on with Limp Bizkit blasting and didn’t realize how loud I was yelling, so the neighbors started complaining and I had to stop. The neighbors then began to worry, thinking I was constipated: I started freezing my turds and putting them on display next to the dumpster so that the entire neighborhood would know my metabolism was working at full throttle. However, yesterday a shady character knocked on my elderly neighbor's door claiming to be from ENEL electricity while actually (I figured it out from his accent which was not local) he only wanted to know where the old lady kept her gold in the house. I told the guy to leave, but he didn’t listen. As I pulled out my phone to call the carabinieri, he approached me menacingly, at which point I grabbed one of the frozen turds I was about to throw in the organic waste drawer, a bolt forged in the darkest depths of my large intestine, and violently struck him on the jaw. You should have seen how he was bleeding everywhere, that son of a bitch. The carabinieri officer from Molise, who had intervened to arrest the thug, complimented me on my high civic sense, assuring me that blood on the soil helps the lupins grow well. Now, I live up north, a harsh yet generous land of fog, frico, and pasta & fasioi, and we don’t have such things around here: what the hell are these fucking lupins?

I don't know if I'm more horrified by the name or the cover.