RegularJoan

"You were chasing a bullshit/it was beautiful and golden/fresh and poisoned" - Useless, Manuel "Spocchiaman" Agnelli might have met a bad end after Iriondo's departure, but he continues to write lyrics that, in their own way, are stunning photographs of the everyday life of anyone. Thank you, lamb!

Dude, get a grip.

"Beginning with Santa Claus as a cognitive exercise, a child is encouraged to share the same idea of reality as his peers. Even if that reality is patently invented and ludicrous, belief is encouraged with gifts that support and promote the common cultural lies." - Chuck Palahniuk, "Rant"

This is a masterpiece. It furthers and intensifies that vision of things that David Foster Wallace outlined in "The Girl with the Strange Hair" about a decade earlier. Perhaps, more than DeLillo, Palahniuk is in this sense the heir to Wallace. In any case, one of my three favorite books.

It's one of those books that I've never stopped questioning, as has happened with all the ones by Arendt that I've read. I'm still not clear on what she meant by the banality of evil, nor on the steps that lead totalitarianisms to neutralize the public space, generating those mechanisms of power on which, indeed, the banality of evil is founded. I also recommend "Vita Activa."

Ah, here we go. Baricco wrote this about Santacroce, if I'm not mistaken, in "Barnum 2", when that unfortunate soul had just published her first book which, if I'm not mistaken again, was titled Destroy, and I perfectly remember that it could also be read backward because, after all, it made no sense either way (not to mention drawing inspiration from Burroughs…). What makes me furious is that if Baricco had kept his mouth shut instead of promoting this little tart to high heaven, we probably wouldn't be dealing with her today, with her pitiful "darc" vein and her fake-transgressive big boobs plastered across all the calendars of the newspapers directed by Andrea Biavardi. In short, Mrs. Santacroce is all smoke and no fire, perpetually draped in her dark lady attire complete with crucifix-shaped rings, unable to go beyond mere exteriority (but why not just be a rockstar?). Her very books are mere exercises in style (Raymond Queneau, forgive me) full of clichés and nothing more, which, among other things, reveal a certain arrogance because Santacroce, with her verbal tricks, dazzles the reader under the guise of some grand genius capable of revealing great truths about life (the vulgar has even invoked Nietzsche, Klossowski, and Bataille to justify her nonsense: may someone strike her down); from Zoo to Luminal, from the anguishing punctuation (but only that, mind you, because the book evokes very little) of Revolver to this Zoo which, by the way, is again stuffed with the usual leitmotifs so dear to this madwoman. In Santacroce and her books, there’s not even the pure pleasure of reading. She should go back to being a DJ in Riccione or open a dairy in Soveria Simeri…

Sorry, I might be a bit dense, but it seems to me that you haven't articulated your critique of this album with coherent sentences at all. You've just limited yourself to saying that, for you, it's a flop, without even explaining why. It's evident that you don't have the guts to truly critique the album, regardless of its value...

Tarantino has hit rock bottom, or rather, he’s at the ammazzacaffè stage.

This is a live to listen to while reading "And the Ass Saw the Angel," the first and at times successful novel by Nick Cave. The album and the book, when cultivated and experienced simultaneously, enhance each other. It must be noted that Mr. Cave's work with words flourishes and yields the best results more in the realm of song form than in that of prose and novels.

Well, this for today, that is, for International Women's Day, is perfect :-D