cappio al pollo

One last thing: "having everything already" and avoiding big ambitions does not exclude a continuous search for the little things. Anyone who is ambitious—the only difference between someone casually called ambitious and someone casually called, I don’t know, passionate?—is the magnitude of that ambition. Two 2s are just two 2s, but 2+2 makes 4, if not 5. And 4, clearly, is more than 2. In short, having big ambitions is too ambitious. It's a bit like listening to the first song on an album, not appreciating it, and switching to another album with the presumption of having understood that the previous one wasn’t right for you. And this, if it's true that an album doesn't change, but the perception of it does over time, doesn’t mean making an effort to accept the world, especially because, unlike an album, at least in theory, this can actually change. In short, the essence of the matter is that I shouldn’t look elsewhere for everything I have right under my nose and have never managed to grasp.

If that "taking refuge in family" referred exclusively to parents, siblings, and sisters, I imagine that an orphan only child, after reading this book, would feel quite resigned, indeed, desperate. However, if it were to be understood in a broader sense, thus including friends, girlfriends, and wives, I for one would not trivialize it; that is: those are achievements too, which were ambitions in their own right, and, after all, the fruit of someone who, in their own small way, did not settle for solitude, for talking to oneself all day, juggling against a wall and drinking a beer while scanning the news in the newspaper to mentally comment on it to oneself. I suppose this also reveals my position regarding the first question posed by yet another commendable writing from the illustrious reviewer: no, I would not "sacrifice" my life to go off to some Uranus, because: a) I only know a tiny part of what currently hosts me; b) I will be satisfied, at least I hope so, when I know at least twelve, thirteen of these tiny parts; c) "the love that moves the sun and the other stars"; d) I’m a coward. And, in this regard, among the "impediments," to the satisfaction that Dr. Adder speaks of, I would also mention fear.

Got it, good night. Teenage, no, it’s a sideways revenge not for what you said, but for what I (multiple times) had the chance to tell you. You don’t understand what I’m referring to, but, ironically, you talk about it shortly after ("you can often come tease me saying that I’m talking nonsense"). And indeed, I was referring to that: your poking at my comment 15 - a completely legitimate comment, by the way - is your way of getting back for those "nonsense" you mention, and the fact that you now want to point out the ironic nature of it only confirms it for me. Anyway, the comparison doesn’t hold; mine aren’t just random nonsense, but common interventions that highlight some overlooked aspects (for instance, when I told you in a ranking that you neglected all of the new wave). Ah, and at the end of the day AM I taking myself seriously? Jesus. Rather, bring out the psychologist’s name, because I’m still waiting for Saputello’s. And I’ll stop here, because you’re making me become cpt. Take care.

"If you give these guys four balls, what do you give to people like Tom Waits, Mozart, Coltrane, The Doors, Frank Zappa, 40?" Unmissable.

Teenager, can you say something sensible too? No, because you sound foolish. Do you want to tell me what's so shocking and, above all, comparable to the nonsense of that other idiot, my comment number 15? Any sideways vendettas, save them for when you can intelligently put them into context.

Instead, those who write comments like the one n° 15 (do you know it?) are just so much
text>> Save yourself the irony, because it's exactly like that. Yours is a load of nonsense that doesn’t make sense at all, while mine is a humble view of the concept of musical enjoyment. Moreover, it's theoretically incontrovertible, just imagine, but you’re so clever that you don’t want to admit you are a bunch of psychotic, frantic compulsive listeners. Fundamentally, you would never admit that your method is wrong because you are proud of believing that listening to sixty albums a year means you’ve really heard them once. Look, I can even tell you that the problem isn’t even the forty albums themselves, if that makes you feel better, but the context and the manner in which things unfolded. A few albums, like the forty from Saputello in less than a year, I would listen to too if I didn’t have a life, but that’s not it. The ostentation makes me cringe. The outrage resulting from my comment about the conception of the listener, with attempted boycotts aided by clumsy attempts to turn the tables to make my definition of listener – certainly more aligned with the truth – seem incorrect, makes me want to vomit. And the "scaruffini" are just like Saputello, not like me. They are the ones who, when things go badly, listen to "not many" albums, but only about forty in less than a year – as if it were a job, hence "scaruffino." Clearly premature. Come on, I'll leave you to your forty, few albums, I wouldn’t want to take away your precious time... or do those who post on YouTube and are used as background noise for your delusions of grandeur on DeBaser count too? STAY BIRBA!!!

Ah, so you weren't joking... Making peace with the brain? But that's fine, now I can confirm it: someone who says that stuff doesn't count. I'm wondering where the problem is at this point. I didn't catch the revised quote, though, but at least now I know which one of us goes to read any nonsense... Finally, no rambling (thanks for the appreciation), that's what I think and I reaffirm it. See you soon!

Beautiful image, Hell. I wanted to dedicate its fourth voice to those who, perhaps due to bad luck or maybe lack of time, in this still ongoing 2010, have managed to listen to only 40 albums, to the detriment of the usual standards that I suppose require at least double that (don’t underestimate this aspect, Bartolo). The naked Madonna then? Blasphemous... Munch's style is unmistakable anyway; just take away the hands on the face à la "Oh, my God.... my husband!" and we've got The Scream pt. II.

"Thank goodness you're here to read all my farts." This is where you warm up and attack me using a delusion - and you do it because a delusion, being unfounded and concocted precisely to attack me and twist the narrative, would have no other reason to exist in light of the facts. Anyway, it’s not clear to me: you weren't serious, but you reaffirm it as "what you think about Brit-pop"? And again: weren’t you, primarily you ("Finally someone who argues about useful things and encourages you to join the discussion to voice your opinion"), the manifesto of the anti-playful on DeBaser? Now, however, you can be ironic and I get lost in useless comments? I understand.

Yes, of course, when people are ridiculed for the absurdities they say, it suddenly turns out they were being ironic. And then you come down, because I have no interest in following your marvelous delusions. Simply put, the momentum of nonsense leaves its nice mark over time, that’s all. Then go ahead and do as you please. Get heated and attack me, trying to make me look like some human case, it doesn’t faze me and above all, I do not retract my carefully considered sentences of condemnation.