carlo cimmino

Photoreporter=paparazzo bullshit. All we have here is a man being shot in the head and an American piece of shit photoreporter snapping a photo, and when he gets home, he even wins an award and is praised for doing journalism. I wonder then: what is the actual difference between the general who shot and this brave yet hypocritical photoreporter who remained impassive while taking a picture of someone getting a bullet in the head? The two are clearly accomplices and two faces of the same system. Not only that, Eddie Adams is so hypocritical that he later feels guilty, yes, but towards the general, because he was embarrassed in front of the equally hypocritical world public opinion, rather than towards the victim. Who evidently must have been just a fucking Viet Cong and therefore only interesting if he had a nice hole straight through his brains. Perhaps your reasoning seems understandable, Kosmogabri, since you only emphasize the fact that you are Swiss rather than Italian, while I, the undersigned, not only consider myself an internationalist and citizen of the world and don't care about geographical borders, but I also see among the three people involved in the photograph only one person worthy of an award: Van Lem, Viet Cong and political activist who fought, like many others, to drive the American enemy out of his nation. About Italy and more generally Italians: the real problem is that we are becoming, we have become like you, and while once we would have debated and condemned the atrocities and monstrosities of the American and Western world, today we prefer to discuss the spectacle of journalism and how right and appropriate it is to watch a man getting shot in the head without moving a muscle rather than the morality of the act itself. We sit on our sofas watching reports from supposed champions of justice, obese and platinum-coated anchormen, thinking that doing journalism is equivalent to watching spectacular TV reports with Oscar-winning soundtracks, people in tears and fierce screams coming from the studios, a ten-minute useless and unproductive monologue from a flashy journalist with a fundamentally fascist background, and meetings of a fat comedian from Genoa. You are absolutely right then: we Italians are terrible. But it is also evident at the same time that all of you are no better than us. Regarding the outrageous comparison with Francis Ford Coppola, finally, and which you evidently did not grasp the reasons for my citation, I think Cpt has answered you well.

ALEXANDER, jealous one... CAPPIO, lovely definition of Tim you've got there. Regarding the "pop" deviations of the Replacements, however, I would add that they don't necessarily clash with the "rock'n'roll suicide," if it's true that the one who sang about it many years earlier and made this expression famous and immortal is one of the greatest pop icons of the last millennium. And a bit of this current one as well. Anyway, I appreciate your point of view, but I think I’m overall more attached to Let it be, which for me was the revelation album and the soundtrack for many kilometers running under the sun or through the woods, trying to catch the attention of some more or less graceful maiden (unsuccessfully). "Unsatisfied" in particular is a true anthem.

These don’t tell me a thing, but - wow! - what a page! Send over another review of this album, if it's as good as the last one you had us read.

"We train young people to drop Napalm on people, but their commanders don’t allow them to write 'fuck' on their planes because it's obscene." I go against the tide and someone may turn up their nose at this, but I find Eddie Adams, the NBC cameraman, and the war correspondent from the Associated Press much more brutal than General Ngoc Loan, the brutal and infamous man of arms, who is, all things considered, merely an executor and a cog in the infamous American capitalist-militarist machine. Ngoc Loan performs an act that goes beyond every ethical and moral rule and law, but is still too ordinary and inevitable in the monstrosity of war and, in a way, does what all his kind do, what "must" be done. But part of this same machinery are also those fucking reporters from the front, seeking glory on the flesh and blood of more or less innocent dead. It’s pretentious to think that having reported and done something good for the community by photographing a man killed in cold blood without doing a damn thing and even bringing home a prize for this ugly story. I don’t respect Ngoc Loan, but neither do I respect them, damned and hypocritical sons of bitches.

I'll say it: the pages written by Enbar for this section are probably the best ever seen on this site. A real godsend. This page is more "poetic" than the others, yet still beautiful and worthy of a five-star rating. Lastly, nothing to say about Gandhi... Even if I've personally always preferred others who are angrier, and in my opinion, at a certain point it's good to stop turning the other cheek and kick some ass. One said, "No one can give you freedom. No one can give you equality or justice. If you are a man, take it." And these are among the best words ever spoken by a human being.

And where is the victory, if not on the field, larock? In the pharmacies (Zeman dixit)?

Faulkner is fine for me, but I didn't quite understand the review. However, I take full responsibility for that and I promise to read the page in question again, which, by the way, appears well-written (perhaps too!). In the meantime, I would still like to speak in favor of Miss Fabia, as she seems to have done nothing too dissimilar from what we debaserians all do, more or less correctly: that is, reviewing a work and talking about the author; bringing others into the conversation and maybe throwing some mud at them or praising them; expressing our opinion and attacking others'. I vote for the author's personal profile. Because it is original and because I hope to win her over and get noticed, since so far she has ignored all my private messages...

Agosti - and this work of his in particular - makes me fart. But tastes are tastes, huh: good review. Bye!

Well. I must say that, reading your comments, I feel a little less alone. At least I can dedicate myself to my favorite sport, corpse fishing, in good company: thanks then to TIABABA and MORGUEOFABSINTH for their comments. FRANKIE89, I agree on the excellence of Perturbazione. And I highly recommend the new album to you as well, if you haven't listened to it already. ALGOL, I'm still offended by you since you accused me of being a Ligabue fan. Tsk... APPESTATO, this thing about August is really true. No kidding. SCHIZOID, don’t worry, your distrust is in great hands with me. ALEXX, it's I who am moved by the goodness of your comment. Thank you very much. BARTLE, as the wise one used to say: UH! SFASCIA, I must admit that, despite the quite considerable uselessness of my existence, it is also exceedingly turbulent on the other hand. Anyway, yes, of course meeting her would be for me – but not only! – an enlightening and revealing moment like few in the history of the DeGenere human. CAPPIO, I see you are also aware of the boycotts and the dark plots of the perfect blechtrommel... BLECH, thankfully. BARTLE-BIS, who knows! FEDE, I thank you for the "exquisite," and I would do so even more pleasantly by offering you a beer accompanied by wild boar stew. Meanwhile, I remind everyone that as far as I'm concerned, "If what distinguishes us from beasts is a shower and a little butter up the ass, I don’t mind resembling a wild boar at all."

CLOTHESLINE, think that I, who wrote this page, didn't even understand anything at all. ITALIANPEOPLE, hello. I agree on Mick Jones as the musical mind of the Clash - yes, BAD isn't too bad - and on the fact that Joe Strummer was perhaps not an excellent musician. But, well, being a great frontman and instigator of minds is no small feat! I believe the two were a pairing like few others in the history of rock 'n' roll. Regarding the concise and cryptic reviews à la S.C., well, those are the result of a wrecking of limbs that has been going on for years and years. Maybe one day I'll manage to write like that too. Who knows. BARTLE, it would be a pleasure and a great honor for me. If I ever make a trip up that way, I'll be sure to let you know. Really. INFECTED, but I'll tell you: I care about the fate of football, especially Zeman. That said, I don't think there's a need for an "expert" to debate the belly of Adriano or the recovery times from the umpteenth Vodafone ad featuring Totti, I find this game really exciting, fun to play, even an interesting topic of conversation, and a great way to do something together with others. However - it seems to me that in the end comment 16 by BOB is quite eloquent in this regard - just like in the most important issues of our lives and society, there are different ways of experiencing football. Ultimately, Bob and Infected, I don't mind those who go to the stadium together to watch the match: I don't like those who go to the stadium "against" those who go to the stadium to watch the match. And supporting one team or another has nothing to do with it: 90% - but perhaps that’s even low - of the clashes I see at the stadium are among the same Napoli fans who perhaps meet in the stands on Sunday to settle the accounts from Saturday night. As for the rest, still Bob, you are absolutely right: in this shithole of a city you can do everything anywhere and anyway. Thank you GEB. Enjoy reading. Finally, here’s someone who has actually grasped the true message I wanted to convey to the debaser people: JURIX! In the end, it's really true. It seems that generally there are no alternatives to dying or surviving very poorly, except for "recycling/reinterpreting" and even renouncing one’s "revolutionary" past. This does not exclude exceptions, perhaps: after all, we are still in time not to end up, but also not to end up like Mick Jones. I also agree about the abuse of the word "punk", I was just thinking about it last night, when I saw it written on the waistband of a chubby woman who was ahead of me on the street on a scooter. It was a bad moment.