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Masculin féminin 2009 (that is, two ways of not being in love in Milan)

E 'especially when it is happy and innocent life has no mercy.

Pier Paolo Pasolini


1. Guy, single, after her usual busy work week, he finds himself on Saturday afternoon with no commitment. Inevitable depression of the weekend. As a distro? A word to those who have no interest of any kind! So much so that, without noticing, glides above the ask that his life has meaning, all that work, quell'efficienza great efforts, the money accumulated. She is ashamed of his solitude. Especially for not having started a family as all his friends and colleagues - that at the weekend, in fact, always have a lot to do.
decides to call Caia, known for some case weeks ago, and also looked pretty decent.
- Hello, Hello, I'm Tom, do you remember?
- Yes, hello, blah blah blah, how are you?
- Well, indeed shit, bla bla bla, go out with me tonight?
- I'm sorry, I have a meeting at the Help Center humanity, blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah.
- Porcatroia! and tomorrow?
- Tomorrow is dinner with my mother, my brother returned from Iran, bla bla bla. Then ... Dining out ... You know, I'm vegan and raw food ... bla bla bla ...
All flesh - to see Caia might have to be terminally ill, and not to phone him but his family, preferably female.
It was dark. Guy has some self-destructive fantasy that does not take seriously. He began to masturbate, then stop, shame attacks him again. Fuck I'm doing! Go for a drive. Departure and road rage. But where? suburbs? spacious streets? campaign? No! the bright lights of Milan, a little 'traffic and looking for a bar to drink alcohol. Imagine
, park, find, sits down, orders, drinks, sort, ribeve he says. All too young, grinning, group, equal, hairstyles, plastic. Nobody looks at him. Sorting ribeve more slowly, that's it. Away again. Traffic, semicentro, suburbs, connecting highway, hundred and fifty, one hundred and eighty, two hundred per hour, no accident, for pure ass.
Like an automaton, Tom comes home, makes his little things and put to bed. A glimpse of the happy thought: tomorrow's game.

2. Titian had to give humanity to follow the Help Center for a weekend away, because the next day, Sunday, will first attend a family friend terminally ill, then dine with his mother celebrating his brother's return from Iran. But the brief suspension of his militancy in the center gives the feeling of interrupting the rhythm of his life. At that pace can not give up, and his world, parked, collapses. Read? is not quiet right. Listen to music? practically does not have at home. Write those thoughts? would be the end.
Lighting! call to Caio, met by chance some settimana fa, attore di teatro, colto, brillante, ricordo di bella conversazione.
- Pronto, ciao, sono Tizia, ti ricordi?
- Sì, ciao, bla bla bla, come stai?
Tizia gli parla immediatamente del Centro e gli propone di fare lì uno spettacolo con la sua compagnia. Ma ha la voce che si spezza continuamente, accenni di pianto, e Caio se ne accorge subito.
- Daaai! vengo a trovarti e poi usciamo.
- Gr...azie, volentieri! (la voce di Tizia non maschera più nulla).
Incontro sul pianerottolo di casa di Tizia. Caio è davanti a lei che ha gli occhi arrossati, la abbraccia, la carezza sulla schiena. Senza parole per un po'.
Parla lei per prima, vuole spiegarsi e ci rimpasta dentro The rigmarole of the show at the Centre.
But it does not work and resumed crying. Caio
pulls into the house, on the couch, sit down and sits beside adhere totally, leaning toward her in every way. Other than scenic body! New
silence, because Titian Gaius repeatedly tries to kiss on the lips, even to dry it, and she is agitated continuously to strength oppose it. Caio
stops on its own initiative, but Titian feel satisfied as if it were his work. At the point of even feeling a bit 'raised by anguish and revive the idea of \u200b\u200bthe output.
come out, walk, talk, eat dinner consistently with the idiosyncrasies of Titian which is vegan and raw food. Chick talks about things of the Center and Gaius of his shows, and gradually made more and more minutes, especially about others, things distant lands.
At the end of the evening, at the door of Titian, greet kissing on the cheeks. Expedited. Both
not expect to meet again.

Bottom line: when you do not hand themselves in, the distraction of themselves should not ever stop, otherwise, a kind of death.

What Would Cause Bloodspot In 3year Old's Atool

Between Italy and the Republic of Malori Pizzoccheri

Nothing surprising result of these elections, which would leave very little room for outsiders as the only comments I am capable of policy.
But something that comes from the heart I want di dirla lo stesso: che, se l'Europa va (ulteriormente) a destra, l'Italia si addentra (ulteriormente) nell'osteria. Il che significa liberalismo e liberismo "di risulta", qualche modesta punizione alle smargiassate del premier - che sarebbe splendido poter interpretare come minoritaria attenzione al "j'accuse" del Financial Times - e, in primo piano, tanta chiusura sociale, tanta diffidenza, tanto odio troppo simile a quello che un microcosmo "etnico" nutre nei confronti di altre etnie.
Multietnico, d'altronde, è sempre un paese borghese, capitalistico a tutti gli effetti e implicitamente destrorso: è il cosiddetto "Stato canaglia" che pensa in grande sulla pelle delle classi più deboli, ormai puntualmente made up of aliens. But Italy is not even, indeed it is not at all. Simply wishes to do this without Pellacchia between black or yellow balls, without an alien who is already using. In fact, people do not agree, would like the chicken and the egg and does not know how, since even the little rascals do requires thought, sense of reality, this notion of history, somewhat dialectical tendencies, paradoxically .
So, for now, the cry is "close the doors," if nothing had happened, so then we'll see. So, the cultural homogeneity is the first guarantee of "sicurèssa. And the "sicurèssa" first, so you go home in peace, si vedono in santa pace le partite di calcio, si guarda in santa pace la tv, insomma si fanno in santa pace tutte le cose che fanno la vita! Eh, cacchio!
In altri angoli della terra, sopravvivono repubbliche delle banane, in cui si tollerano dinastie di dittatori e sfruttamenti delle proprie risorse a solo vantaggio di un'élite di potenti o, magari, anche contrattati con qualche "Stato canaglia" occidentale. Cose davvero atroci, ma che l'Italia, stiamone certi, non conoscerà mai, perché le banane sono straniere, "etniche", che se ne vadano via! L'Italia sarà la Repubblica dei Pizzoccheri che non chiederà e non darà niente a nessuno, neppure alle confederate repubbliche dei Bìgoi, della Bagna Cauda, Fugassa of ... the Cannoli, and even less to the Republic Fasciopariolina the Capitol, a specialist in discrimination Lazio. Each will be only to itself, and everything will go to great - that is to small.
only doubt is that, in building this self-sufficient alternative to the evil and the good of the world, entrepreneurs will continue to gloss over the "sicurèssa" workers? Mica leave their fellow die!
(Left, meanwhile, by the pure and hard you are left to die one by one).

direct confirmation (note of 10/06/2009)

Only a few hours after publishing this post, I received an email with the following text: "Dear Paul Vitolo, I read his thoughts on love republics (of bananas and pizzoccheri) that I share. However, do not generalize: Bananas are bananas and pizzoccheri are another matter. I could not say otherwise because the author and the editor of a historical book on the recipe and the dish in question. "
sense? Simple: touche pas aux pizoquéris! Nothing more than that.
But then, nothing but the polemical my contribution, I am exasperated realism! that promptly deserted the journalist, commentator, comedian tv that is presented in the ass by attacking each fold of the political class, but never the custom of the Italians. Yet our cancer, our own invader one, the carelessness, that simple, that non-thought at all costs.
guess the national anthem of the Republics of the Confederate Secchia Rapita which reads: "Va 'pensiero / not ever make you feel more / here we do not want you ..." (Of course with melody and um-pa-pa Verdi).