marpado

Oh God, Gardy, forgive me if I gave you this impression, but the fact that I didn’t reply means something entirely different: “silence implies consent,” as the saying goes (except for the recent times: regarding the current Vasco, and I emphasize current, who has long since had nothing to do with his past, the comparison with mass phenomena like Taricone fits perfectly for me). I apologize again if I appeared rude. Until next time.

Masterpiece, simply. The ending was a punch to the gut.

It's anything but small, precisely because of the masses it moves and the demands it makes. I admire your attempt to downplay its importance in order to limit its negative effects, but I see it differently, and the impact of the Vasco phenomenon seems to validate my view. Vasco stirs up an entire universe of websites, blogs, fan clubs, radio stations, sponsors, and masses and masses of young and less young people, along with so much money... no, no, Vasco is anything but a "small thing." Vasco Rossi (together with Ligabue, his worthy stunt double-epigone) fits perfectly into that sad picture you’ve painted. In fact, he could very well be the cornerstone of it all.

But let's not kid ourselves: Vasco Rossi hasn't been a "nice ride" for quite some time now, and who knows if he ever was. I come to believe that, in addition to thinking differently, we really don’t understand each other when we talk. I repeat: 99% of those who go to listen to him are convinced they are going to enjoy some quality "rrruock," genuine and sincere, the great communicator and all the other nonsense you hear, because that's what they say on Tg1, because that's what they’ve been repeating for years, practically everywhere (the famous power of his industry). The remaining 1% is made up of those, like you, who know that the current Vasco is worth nothing anymore; he’s only good for a couple of hours of fun bouncing around, getting drunk, and flirting with chicks, and nothing more. Only you (that 1%, I mean) are aware that Vasco is worth a ride but is painted like an art gallery. But you are exceptions, primiballi.

But I actually blame the cause, primiballi. It's no coincidence that I mention honorary degrees and Vasco portrayed as a cultural phenomenon. The critical sense of the masses is nullified the moment this horror (no really, Vasco's latest album is mind-boggling) is passed off as something that has any artistic value: as good old Stoney says, the level of culture is lowered, and we end up calling this crap for desperate, clueless, and illiterate people culture. Thus, anyone will think they are intelligent and learned, and will have fewer (if not zero) incentives to pursue real culture. However, talking too much about brainwashing and nothing else, primiballi, leads to committing a monumental mistake, in my opinion, which is to disresponsibilize the individual, with significant implications, by the way, not just in music. Man has always had the capacity to choose, has always boasted of being an intelligent animal, and at the moment he listens to this rubbish and consciously decides, with no gun to his back, to hand over several tens of euros to hear it live instead of exclaiming "what the hell is this nonsense" as any living being with a shred of common sense would (and thank God does), well then I blame him too, absolutely, primiballi, I do. Either that or we must treat the hordes of fans who these days fill the various "Blasco" stadiums like trained monkeys because they can be trained. We must accept that there are A-list human beings and B-list human beings, that democracy is a big load of nonsense, that there are vast masses of people who shouldn't even have the right to vote because they are mindless sheep ready to be herded by the first straight shooter that comes along. It's just a matter of how we want to view this world, primiballi: are we all equal and sentient or not?

I don't know if you've heard the latest single, the one that’s supposed to be one of the summer hits (oh my god), "Gioca con me." My goodness, what a load of crap, there are no words, truly, even if you wanted to save something, you just can't; it's not just schoolboy or "festivalbareccio" in the music, and poor and childish in the lyrics—no, here we are faced with nothing less than a bulging, balding middle-aged drunk who mumbles (literally, he seems perpetually drunk) random words while a chick walks by, something that says a lot about the kind of "audience" Doctor Vasco Rossi has been targeting for some time now... let’s realize, for Christ’s sake, this is music in Italy, this is art; it’s crap, it could be passed off as innocent lightness, and instead it becomes art, in this fucking country. And despite it being objectively a colossal load of rubbish that sounds like it was written by a retard, we’ll have to endure it at least until September like a daily tax, to be paid multiple times a day no less... and then they wonder why Vasco and those who keep him alive by filling stadiums are so hated.

Oh my God, a recent review on Finley... Pppprrrrooooooooooooooooooooooooooo oootttt.

The series is a worthy celebration of what current society (at least in the developed West) represents as a result of the pro-emancipation feminist craze that infested the last century. They want equality, especially in the sexual field; they want to hook up and have fun every night with someone different, but if he doesn’t call the next morning, he’s a jerk, while if she does, she’s an emancipated and modern woman... not to mention that bitter aftertaste, that intangible yet palpable, despite the attempts to hide it, sense of sadness and squalor that comes from four nearly 40-year-old women who think they’re hot (or desperately try to convince themselves they are) acting like fashionable, horny teenagers. Squalid, just like the army of women who have even identified with it and have essentially proclaimed the series a success... And feel free to call me a misogynist.

ha, you don’t

@Gustavotanz, continuing this sophisticated socio-aesthetic debate (excuse the term), personally, the cow-woman is no more and no less than the one with extra-size boobs that are as large as they are disproportionate, which, without a bra, reach the knees even if you're 20 years old. Generally, those who are capable of appreciating such natural phenomena—and there are some—despise any size below a C-cup. Even when it comes to pleasant and perfectly proportioned girls like Capotondi. Just breasts, or rather, absurd breasts, and nothing else.