Laminating Corvallis, Or Cost

Iudicium - "Watchmen"

For us Europeans, it is easy to understand the depth of American superheroes. Are a product that we appreciate and consume, but as a mere object of entertainment. For Americans, however, are something more: it is their mythology. Yes, we have the Iliad, the Odyssey, centuries and centuries of literature, a wealth of images, situations, hypertrophic archetypes that enrich our collective imagination, not them, there are just two or three centuries, their history more former concerns the conquest of the West, the Pilgrims, David Crockett and little else. Where to lay the much beloved "traditional values"? Which assets to draw images, metaphors, examples? From the European tradition, of course, but the American otherness, of which they boast so much and on which, willingly or unwillingly, they build their image, it's needed, at least since the years of great depression, new gods and new heroes, new models and new basis on which to shape the American dream. And most of the superhero embodies the myth of selfmade-man, justice do-it-yourself race to the daughter of west, the overwhelming desire to emerge as a single personality in society?
Not surprisingly, after just sixty years, Superman, Batman, Spiderman, Flash (and so on and so forth) are entered in the collective right to good for us Europeans (who now live in the reflection mode U.S. - ironic fate, eh?) for Americans are the foundations of popular culture, language, morality, are a real mythology, in fact.
And as for all languages \u200b\u200bwith a high degree of formality, even the superhero is "affected" by a rhetoric often annoying. Whether the rhetoric of the hero without stain, to Superman, or that of the masked vigilante and dark, Batman-style, no matter, the mythological character results in a stylized font and topoi and tends to have a handle marked (for us Europeans even cloying).
It is no coincidence that it is precisely an Englishman, Alan Moore to reshuffle the cards on the table: the author of Watchmen, what is considered by many the masterpiece of the comics "American" in any of his works show the indulgent standards of the superhero genre. Indeed, precisely in Watchmen (released between 1985 and 1986 in 12 numbers) Moore by a reversal of the traditional characters of the heroes in tights: superheroes - which are never called by that name, and is already a signal - do not have powers neither ambitions nor powers comparable to those of a Superman or a Batman or a Spiderman, they are ordinary men and women who for one reason or another, will wear a costume and they managed to justice personnel. There are, in Watchmen, the good and evil, there are only different opinions, well regarded by the author to make judgments about (if you really want to get an idea of \u200b\u200bthe position of Moore, better turn in "V for Vendetta" His other masterpiece). Everything is set up as a reflection on the power and authority: to what extent the concept makes sense to constituted authority? Where does the responsibility of the state where it starts and that of the vigilante? Heroism is reason enough to give himself the power to impose their own righteousness, or is just the prelude to fascism? And in the case, it would be so wrong?
These issues are treated with a depth never seen in comics (If not in Miller, "The Dark Knight Returns" is no coincidence the same year), can not always be understood by our European, American policies because the categories are quite different from ours; Moore knows this, and often plays the ambiguity in speaking of American fascism, communism and democracy.
addition to being a political analysis, Watchmen is the representation of many small figures, each profoundly human (with the exception, which will be discussed later, Dr. Manhattan), with their dreams, their past, their moral and their hopes, is a discourse on the madness of crowds and mass society, always on the verge of become a herd, is a meditation on the limits of science and its great potential and is a reflection on the gods, the transcendent, embodied in the character of Dr. Manhattan, the only equipped with superpowers, who lives in the world but beyond it who knows the reality beyond the illusions of time and sensitive, in short, the plans are numerous and all of the speech dealt with depth and originality. You could almost say that Moore uses a superhero universe just to have a very specific frame of reference, a setting that allows him, in mythological-symbolic terms, to address a broad spectrum of different problems, drawing on the popular of contemporary mythologies, the fact that American comics.
From a literary point of view, Watchmen excels in the masterly handling of narrative material and timing of the story, always measured to perfection and never heavy or frantic, the action is almost non-existent, and where there is functional to the general discourse and the story unfolds over several time levels, supported by a good system of flashbacks and digressions, dialogues seek to avoid the rhetoric, although a few small concessions "epic" is present.
Gibbons, pencils, sports a nice feature but not altogether original character design is nice and charming, but not it is an innovator like Miller, for example. The size of the cut Gibbons is a director and highly detailed: there are many iconic and symbolic references throughout the work, like representations of clocks, pyramids, smile, and never free, always anchored to the story, but at the same time carry a specificity just symbolic, and to some extent transcendent.
So, if you love American comics, you can not read Watchmen. If you hate them, take a good revenge on them, reading Watchmen. If you are indifferent, read Watchmen and change your mind. If not attended many kind (like me) and just want to read a great work, read Watchmen. There are no excuses!

PS I'll spare you this time my collection of websites instead of pedantry and leave you only the banal link to the wikipedia page ... Too many things to say!

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Meditatio aestatis - IV

I'm really the only one to notice the subtle pulse of the street lamps? I'm the only one to hear this noise, it seems the sound of nothing but no, there is nothing ...? Am I the only fix that point in the square where the asphalt is moistened by automatic watering, right then, not another one? The only spying tamarro little boy passing through the road side, with black forelock pulled up from the gel and T-shirt white tight? The only one to wonder if he thinks about these things now and then? A question me if in the end, deconstructing a bit 'all that is so fashionable, too, under that tuft and the t-shirt, comes to my own conclusions, my sense of loneliness and nihilism, the sense of nothingness that permeates Some summer nights like this? To think that maybe, to save me, this is only my supposed intellectual superiority? To conclude then, after all, is absolutely inconsistent even this, in front of the lamp button, the background noise, to watering, gel and all the rest?
are the things that come out in summer nights this summer in particular. I remember a phrase of the "Desert of the Tartars", spoke of loneliness, not necessarily romantic, solitude and just. I'm going to take the book from a shelf in my room, I try the page. It should be around three quarters. I think it was on one side to the left. Looking around the keywords, "solitude", "pain", "men" ... Other than Boolean operators. Google me makes me a blowjob. I find it soon: "At that time Drogo noticed how the men, though they may wish well, they will keep away, for if one suffers, the pain is completely his own, no one else can take upon himself a small part, that if one suffers, the others do not feel bad for them, even if love is great, and this causes the loneliness of life. "
This evening is not that agonizing loneliness that sometimes no one takes those next. Always has to do with the pain, the loneliness, the human condition, life and other silly things to Paulo Coelho, but not so pungent. It's something that might not happen in other seasons. It is the loneliness of the summer, at night. When a small square in the province seems something vaguely to De Chirico, the street smells of moisture recently, the natural cover artificial light, and all you want to do is share this with someone. But not someone at random. Not tamarro gel and T-shirt, even though deep down you know that he comes to these things, either before you by its simplicity, neither after thee for his ignorance.
Only he would know not to write about one hell of a blog.

Yaoi Men Power Rangers

Visio - "Food" (Jan Svankmajer)

I met in Prague Svankmajer (or rather, his works) with an artist friend, who got me involved in making a video in stop-motion , a few months ago. Of our video we will talk maybe another time, today I present to my readers (maybe even less than twenty-five famous Manzoni) "Food", a work somehow paradigmatic of the style of Svankmajer. Here the author mastered the technique at the highest levels of stop-motion and fully develop its classic themes: the absurdity of everyday life, which reduce the mechanical nature, the inevitable but unwarranted abuse of the strong over the weak, the grotesque gait of society above individuals. The atmosphere is surreal, but never dream, indeed, more strongly anchored to the concrete and contingency, which is clear from the overall theme of the work, just the food.

Enjoy!

Postscript: the second part of the work can be viewed here .

sitography

• page on wikipedia J. Svankmajer;
• Svankmajer Several articles on the blog "Eye on expressions.

Plan B Side Effects Blog

Meditatio aestatis - III

Arezzo, from its Renaissance-cultural arrogance-enogastronomic perhaps was not ready on arrival. Or maybe it was all too accustomed to that kind of media tricks. In any case it was a strange thing. In
burnished brick house - who knows if that was the color original - just steps from the Medici fortress and the cathedral, some centuries before Petrarch was born there and lived his early years. I'm not saying you have some thought to (quickly followed his father into exile, and moved from intellectual wandering throughout life), but part of its human genius must lie not far, if only in the ephemeral form of Genius loci . Less than a century ago, the city's reputation was linked to the name of Guitton, rhymer so reviled as the substance of the facts, imitated from Dante. Pietro Aretino, as the name suggests, to some extent must have forged his sharp tongue of satire is not far from here. I will not dwell on the Vasari, which is not my responsibility, but the name should be enough to confirm their authority.
I have been conquered, subjugated, rusticated from simple and elegant, soaring towers, slender walls, the cobbled streets down from the bell tower of Santa Maria della Pieve, the stunning frescoes of the cathedral, from wine bars full of young people and tourists ( German, alas) and toast and steaming pasty chianti and pappardelle woman looks rough and brown sandals poems zolfini Gorgias Tuscan pergola hotel where making love nooks streets smell of gunpowder halberds hill holy relics students nuns breasts ankles Brunello di Montalcino "Or See, Love, thy kingdom giovenetta woman scorn, my et ill do not care, et duo between ta 'enemy and secure "
... All this before watching it. It was an arrogant fucking face fucking fucking already across the screen. One of those vile beings who, damn it, I am ashamed even to mention, because my language is likely to mythopoeic poets and oral sex, not to throw rotten wood in the hearth of the fame of this shit man. But the event was too uncanny not to tell.
What I liked to orgasm in Arezzo I have already said. But the situation was even more idyllic. I was sitting in the square Vitruvius, his back to the porch-scented hills, looking arch centuries-old buildings, tall, bronzed, held up by the Prussian blue sky-to-be as a spell or a hook that invisible shadow summer, to my right the church of Santa Maria, illuminated by spotlights yellowish, acted as a counterweight to the natural slope that bends to the left square, downhill. Before me, a Chianti hills of Arezzo, ruby, light, warm, instinctively (I was not even a Proust any) pulled me in memory of a Siena a year and a half ago - a Siena for me was the whole of Tuscany, all the 'Italy, the whole world that swirled about sex with the love of poetry and paintings of the '400 slurred between a glass and the other -, the next table, a sort of smiled Mezzabotta calm at the mouth while wearing a smartly noodle sauce of hare, and his youngest girl of twenty years at least, a bit 'listless, reading a book in French from the cathedral, from time to time, came the echoes of the barrels of the party the patron saint. Then a
scoured, which attracted perhaps if the anger of Petrarch's Genius loci. Flash cameras. So many people around, close, I felt, I went to one side, almost on top. A urletto. Maybe if they saw the square, Arezzo noticed it and let go, like a whore who no longer is even more makeup, a whore who suddenly realize you have many years or centuries and the first passage of a youngster from you part, withdraws, hides. Fabrizio Corona
appeared so in this whirlwind of decline, somewhere between the appetizer and the first, immediately before and immediately after the brunello chianti well known. The tight white T-shirt, to highlight the disgusting swollen conventional muscoletto, tattoos and ugly, and many blacks, the expression of arrogant prick. He passed me expecting, I dunno, a nod, a recognition, reprimand, in short, a fucking reaction, not even me, from my table, from the next table, the girl Mezzabotta, but nothing, nothing from us. So he poured out on a group of bad boys out, then threw herself into the arms of the host, affable host of the same that just before I had brought my chicken liver crostini and the simple oil, and a taste of tomato soup and one of panzanella (the face of the fucking anti-carbohydrate diet), and he welcomes him, cuddle him, gives you a good table, not the best, not the worst, a nice table with a view, not too much, if you want to see him come in and maybe eat. I do not know if the Crown receives something cowardly asshole in money, but if I only had a glass of wine in exchange for his dirty little face, it would be a shameful commercialization. It is low and trivial and has a voice soft and dishonest, I heard a long time, oh if I heard it from my table all night, or rather for all twenty minutes before to escape from the infected site. He talked about useless things, not things scandalous nor morbid things, spoke of Carla and a Jo, on which shadows the boys above projected profiles of famous people drawing from their demonic store characters from cover.
I still wonder what he centers with my Tuscany, with my memories of love and sex and wine, with my humanism conceited and arrogant. I do not know, my snobbery is misplaced, it will be the usual desire to give himself a tone, strength, and all against all. But, damn, some of the many characters' famous him. Do not Umberto Eco, Luciano de Crescenzo, Corrado Guzzanti. To infect him this small, personal, superb corner of space-time.

Z-transformatie Fibonacci

Iudicium - "Sono all'osso" (Pan del Diavolo)

bridge or bridge, The Tempest (aka Toffolo & company), this time has even crossed the Straits, because of its neutral and personal crusade in defense of rock weblog Italy. Is Alosa Siculi fact Pietro Alessandro and Gianluca Bartolo, aka The Pan the Devil, who with their "bone are" lined up within the ranks of Dropkick Murphys, Lights of the Power Station, Circus and Zen the rest.

The record, in the wake of ' debut EP, it sounds fat and genuine, direct and explosive, penalized only one production a bit 'too refined, but splits the same, and does so with only a couple of acoustic guitars, a bass drum, and look vaguely punk à la Violent Femmes.

It begins with country-blues-punk-Vattelapesca of "Will you drop" in the balance between voices and stop screaming from the delta of the Mississippi (or something ... Sicilian?) "Therefore," however, is a more light-hearted episode of schizophrenia ( "I want to do everything, but you can not do everything [...], so I do what I want" )-style iu-es-ei; beautiful and grotesque, "The Centaur" leads us in an environment (suburban? squalid province?), between the collegiate el'osceno, surrounded by a slow blues, and cadenced, with "University", which is the song of a disillusioned young student how many (and me), it veers more towards a folk italic and personal without losing impact and catchy, and then there's "Blue Lagoon", another piece to the gun cotton, between rock'n'roll and early Hormonauts everlasting Buscaglione elvisiane rich in character and narrative with a cut that recalls Paul Count of "Boogie," "Bomb in the heart" sees the collaboration of Zen Circus, with their electric supply and give us a short essay by an arsonist punk ours, the pace slows down, and "boom" the Palermo duo delves once again into the American desert country, attempting a songwriting less explosive but equally interesting, wonderful text for "The mystery of the broken mirror" ("the time was well under her skirt There is comfort "), which takes a little 'speed but also discovers a unique rhythm all southern folk," are to the bone "betrays the axiom that the title track to be the radio or at least predictable and text hints impulsive noise make this one of the most original song on the album "Africa" \u200b\u200bconvinces the text for more relaxed and melancholic, "Ciriaco" not very original music, but the text has found some beautiful ("I want to be remembered as bad "); "pointy shoes" rediscovers the fairytale side of the folk tradition, accompanied by a restless and at the same time accommodating guitar arpeggio .

In short, the inspiration is so great and multifaceted. There's something for all tastes, and this is the trump card of The Devil's Pan, of course, the level is not always the same, and perhaps a different distribution of the pieces would make it more balanced.

But, on balance, the balance in the ass! The first six songs are a baton between the ribs, to listen all in one go, it does not matter anyway. It is amazing how two guitars and a bass drum can more crashes and big muff different when they are genuine and cunning hands as those of Pan del Diavolo.

Lady Doctor Lnspection Penis Vidio

Meditatio aestatis - II

The seaside resorts, especially those of Liguria, especially those of the West. There would be put down to scrutinize, study, discover the dynamics, nonsense. But I put me there as a stranger, with two friends.
Expectations: Great.
The result: huge.
The public beach is fantastic, a slice of entropy and gravel winning. M'infilo hand in my pocket and pull out a two-euro coin: The Dante incisovi above gave me a look reprimand. He chuckled and launch the bartender, which lengthens us shortly after our coffee. Hot. As the heat outside. Most of the heat outside. But is thrown down. Well, this sucks the coffee bar. Perhaps the entire waterfront.
We head towards a minute space of open beach, extending to Benemeglio our towels (mine is short, very short, mid shin comes out on the gravel and black grid) away from every female with a small semblance of Piacenza .
I take off my shirt nerd who portrays a fantastic battle between ninjas and pirates, rolled it and put it in the bag. My flaccidume pale and laddered is on display now. He put the ray-ban, and I slumped onto the sheet (short). I read somewhere dell'Auerbach page, maybe thirty. Maybe I fall asleep.
Skin burns, then s'impatina moods. Maybe I put the cream. Protection to-ta-lis-si-ma. I'll stay pale, that's for sure, but better pale ruddy.
With two partners, we talk about many things, all related to sexual and all about women and about all the dirty parts of women. We complain, we are far from each female affordable. Affordable, then ... That "we" affordable. Well, one of us is cool. The other is normal. The other is me. You end up laughing and talking about John Lindo Ferretti, Neruda, Umberto Smaila, Scatman, Moltheni, Cristiano Godano, Guido Gozzano. He rummaged in the cerebellum, I do not remember the beginning of "the outset" of Montale. Fuck fuck fuck fuck.
discover then, as my partners of devouring / Fugassin of (strange things, good, sweet, fried) and I console myself with my low-fat yogurt (I hope that perhaps retaliation makes me fat, eating), which in the coming days "LA POETRY BACK IN FASHION. " Widened his eyes. Women will be at our feet. How the heck does "at the outset "...?! Today I will, if the poem back in fashion. Women love fashion. We are poets. The poem is in fashion. Women love poets. Women love us.
Yes, ok, Aristotle is a reality check. Yet
Montale, fuck. There was something about "Gazza", something about "orchard." I we recall the lessons rambling and formidable prof. Ficara on Montale, the "cuttlebone" in limine ". But not the incipit, devils blacks.
I scratch his head encrusted with salt, as I listen to them. I agree with them, poetry can work. I always felt I've got. I mean, I tried once and it worked. 100%. Sure shot.
And then we throw in the streets of Pietra Ligure and loudly recited the lyrics of the CIS and Marlene Kuntz. After several meters there slumped disconsolately on a bench and bent over with laughter. We fall in love with a seller. We go to a fountain to rinse and then to change. OBSCENE eat a pizza and three beers to take away from 66 cl. There
bench again and talk about Fini, Berlusconi, Berlinguer, Fanfani, Peppone, Gramsci, Ratzinger, Calvin, Calvin other things, the Quakers, Clinton, talking about me and my disregard for the common good and for the res publica, that the public has only the grains.
Ends beer, maybe you go to the pub. Old friends of my partner, my good friends and enjoyable, a couple of new faces. The pub is called something like "lizard" or "geko" or slimy stuff that way, however. Around fifteen haggard and horrible tamarri. Then there's this type, at our table. The mustache, his eyes deep and lost, his voice thin and infinite. Start talking about weird things, Egyptians, brewing of beer, metempsychosis, underground tunnels of Turin, cigars. I listen to him admired and lost, while the little blonde does not reach my beer. Then
un'improponibile proposal to end the evening on impossible un'improponibile preposterous beach smoking pipes and singing songs by Ligabue preposterous. We reject and we head to the car. You go to Alassio.
That shit.
There is none.
The few that are suck.
Women do not like poetry even here.
Of course, if you recite them in "at the outset" (... wind, orchard, magpies ...). But the head does not come. Just a boy perhaps
Slavic asking us where to buy condoms in English here at two in the morning. And if it makes a beautiful Slavic and blackberry. Bravo! Maximum estimate. Tomorrow will be in Amsterdam, he said. We
in Pietra Ligure. The evening ends
con noi sul moletto, piedi verso l'acqua, patetici, poetici, poietici. Ascoltiamo le pisciate del mare e dei ragazzini ubriachi. Ci dondoliamo un po' sul sottile filo che divide l'essere patetici dall'essere Eletti.
E ci rimettiamo in macchina, tediati, mentre ascoltiamo gruppi noise californiani.
Ci ferma la polizia.
Gentilissima e simpatica! L'agente ci chiede i documenti, facciamo due chiacchiere, ci consiglia di accelerare lungo la via perchè più avanti ha appena lasciato andare una macchina con quattro ragazze single (e non singles, come ormai dovreste sapere).
Ce la ridiamo un po' e ripartiamo, ma non acceleriamo. La macchina era rosa, le donne con la macchina rosa non amano la poesia, anche se è fashion, not like the poets, and perhaps even "at the outset."
We go into the hills. There infrattiamo with the car in a bend in the rocks. a place that I could use to bring a girl once. And now the three of us to complain because we are poets narrow and cold. We slept three hours. At 7
freewheel down to the village, we wash the fountain of the square, teeth, face. There is a shower on the beach with the foam bath taken in a hotel five or six years ago. You sleep much, on canvas, until the sun gets hot.
Then you can swim. The day before we did, I wonder why I have not said before. The water is warm and good and it's not as dirty in my nightmares Homes in Liguria to the west in Pietra Ligure.
Four chunks of girl sunbathing, even in a top-less. Laughter among us, we dream of us age style approach but very poetic. I wonder if they know that poetry is back in fashion. Ah, I forgot. "Poetry is back in fashion" is the name of a horrible event in which they are fashion shows with dresses Poetics, which should take place here in recent days. Yes

sucks.
But the idea was so beautiful.
We would have been irresistible.
I shook my head smiling, the skin dry and parched. I'll jump on the cloth looked up to heaven. Blue, great, he too pathetic. And refreshing.
Here it is. It 's you, finally. I remember.

Godi if the wind ch '
you enter the orchard brings back the' wave of life here where she sank a dead

tangle of memories,
garden was not, but reliquary.

The flutter you hear is not a flight, but moved
of 'eternal womb;
see that turns
this strip of land alone in a crucible.

A rage is here from 'steep wall. If you proceed
t '
you come across perhaps the ghost that saves you:
stories are made up here, the acts
be erased PEL game of the future. Search

a mesh network routing in
which unites us, you jump out, run away!
Go, for you the 'I prayed, - the time the thirst
I will be slightly less pungent rust ...

(E. Montale - In Limine)

In two hours we are back home in the city alone, each for himself, more red, more fun, more disconsolate. I'm more scared. Poets.