20.5.16

A volte ritornano (forse)

I finally had the gut to catch up the new 52's GA.
I survived the terrible Krull start, the boring Giffen fill in, and the even worse (is it possible???) Nocenti run.
The uglier thing I read in comic book history. Period.
But.
I just started the first Lemire arc (after a refreshing Winick come back) and I see the light.
A little more fun and a little less "Arrow" it would be great.
Hope, right now.
I will keep you posted.
(Also if you don't care).

4.12.15

Your Nothing. My something.

In these days, like a lot of other people I guess, I'm thinking about JJ and SW.
I'm SERIOUSLY thinking about JJ and SW.

The fact I don't like Mr. Abrams' visions is not a news and I don't even want to start listing all the reasons because I don't.
With ST, I moved on, repeating "alternate universe" as a mantra.

But this is SW.
Worse.
This is SW with the characters that I love.

Mr. Lucas partially did his mess, but, ultimately, I did not care.
He gave me Qui-Gon and he couldn't ruin the characters I love because they were not born yet.

But now. I am afraid. I mean. I am REALLY scared.
SW formed part of the person I am.
Luke Skywalker formed part of the person I am.
And I know you can find this SAD, but this is it.
I was 4 when I saw TESB in the theater. I read the novelization of ROTJ so many times that I consumed the pages.
I survived bulling during elementary school repeting to myself that anger was the path to the dark side. And, 30 years after, I'm crying while I'm writing this.

So no.
SW is NOT JUST A MOVIE SAGA for me.

I did not see any trailer, I did not read any article.
I DID see the poster. And I noticed WHO is missing.
SO. I'm terrified.

Sorry. I just wanted to say it.

23.8.14

Taipei Expat Game

After a week of hard study, you decide to go clubbing with this foreigner guy with a questionable love for cowboy hats. You know him just since one week. After the actually wild night, in the morning the guy tells you that he needs to deliver a VERY suspicious suitcase in a random hotel room. You
a) go home and never reply to his calls again
b) go home because it's late and maybe whatever he is doing for living isn't so legal after all
c) go with him in front the hotel
The guy tells you that he showed up in the same hotel already twice and he wants you as a cover. But, no worry: because for delivering his "paperworks" he promises you 500 dollars. You
a) are already at home
b) run fast
c) find a nice excuse and, then, politely run
d) start joking with him
When you refuse again, the guy suddenly handcuff you to the luggage. You:
a) at home, have already took a shower, and you are gonna take your beauty sleep
b) run as fast as you can, super scared, trying to dialing 911 at the same time, telling that a crazy guy just HANDCUFFED YOU TO A FUCKING SUITCASE and he is (probably) running after you
c) start asking for random help to like ANYONE of the 8 million people that live in this city
d) you indeed GO INSIDE THE HOTEL

If you replied mostly a), b) or c): CONGRATULATION. You are actually using the famous 10% of your brain.

If you replied mostly d): CONGRATULATION. Despite your proven stupidity, you chose the correct city to live in. Because in Taipei, in reality, you will probably just end up to have a nice conversation with the receptionist of the hotel who will find you a smith. If you are like VERY unlucky, you will have two runs of Mahjong with a lovely Taiwanese "gangster" old school. OR. You're LUC BESSON.


19.5.13

Message to DiDio #3


BQM was forced to write Chloe and Oliver out of Smallville Season 11 due to Arrow's popularity. Eventually, for DiDio, I'm just too stupid for understanding that Arrow's, Smallville's and the canon-pre-52 Oliver (the 52 one, obviously, DOESN'T EXIST) are characters from *different* universes.

DiDio, all my hate. As usual.

AND.
Honestly.
I'm watching, week after week, CW systematically destroying what Oliver Queen was for almost 70 years.
I. AM. NOT. HAPPY.

I tried surviving with the "come on, it's just another universe" karma.
And for the sake of Amell who is a lovely human being (and since Barrowman is totally insane).
But the fact that now, just because millions watch the show not having ANY idea who the hell the comic character was, DC decided to obliterate the *ORIGINAL* Ollie for riding the wave, it's unbearable.

20.9.12

Seven Guests

My seven guests.
  1. Richard P. Feynman
  2. Jesus
  3. Roger Penrose
  4. Tom Hiddleston
  5. Emily Dickinson
  6. Amelia Earhart
  7. Joss Whedon
Having Penrose, Dick and Jesus all close to each other, would be definitely most of the fun of the night. Fortunately they are an American guy, an English gentleman and... Jesus. So, they probably wouldn't end punching each other on an argument. (I'm not so fond about Richard, doh).
Tom would try to hit the conversation of these big three all night, eventually without any effective result. However, he would end playing bongos with Dick during the after dinner. (Both drunk, obviously).
It would be perfect having Emily near Tom. She wouldn't probably speak at all anyway, so that having Tom there could either avoiding the frustration on being unable to interacting properly with the other three and entertaining her during the whole evening. Discussing about classics and poetry, but also rainbows, butterflies, tiny stars, unicorns and all "their kinda stuff". Unreal people.
Amelia would poke here and there Emily during the conversation, but, mostly she would be absorbed by Joss and his questions about women and feminism and power, probably with already a script forming in his mind.
Me? I would totally unable to say a single word, completely drowned in the awesomeness of my guests.
After that, I think, I will die.
Quickly.
And happy as a clam.

9.9.12

My Olympic Games essay


It's Sunday morning.
10AM.
I'm not awake because I just woke up, but because I didn't sleep.
Yet.
Or.
At all.
AS USUAL.

After a lovely evening ranting and bitching around with a couple of friends, drinking an immoderate quantity of pudding milk tea, I spent the whole night on the parquet of Dunhua Eslite bookstore lurking Chinese translations of all the Shakespearean plays I could think of.
Highest moment when a random guy, too into a Nabokov's poetry book, LITERALLY sat ON my head.
I can't recall about nobody SAT on my head before.
However, I didn't ask him to marry me, since it was Nabokov and not Yevtushenko.

(Impressively. In Italian we write Evtušenko. I just googled the English transliteration and it's Yevtushenko. God, why?).

Back home, I bought a pumpkin sandwich and a soy milk for breakfast, listening Keith Jarrett's 1976 Tokyo Concert Encore.

("Music is what feelings sound like")

For living, I read papers.
Tons. Of. Papers.
Concerning, mostly, bionic-men and heavy metals.
(And that seems Wolverine)
(But it is not).

I write on my agenda the day in which movies are out and comics are out and action figures are out.
At 36, I wear set of pins with witty jokes about famous scientists on my skull-themed sweaters.

Geek.
It's a compliment.

25.8.12

A barouche instead


Non dormo.
Certo. Non esattamente una novità.
Neanche per questo blog, che mi vede più o meno felicemente non dormire dal 2004.
Meno, felicemente. Direi.

Non che io non dorma dal 2004.
In realtà.
Perché.
Non dormo da molto molto prima del 2004.

Comunque.

Avete presente quando vi mettete a scrivere su una pagina bianca. E non c'è scritto niente?
E poi, a mano a mano, la pagina si riempie.
E quando avrete finito, la pagina non è più bianca.
E non lo sarà mai più.
Bianca.
La prossima volta che la rivedrete, sarà piena di ipotesi e necessità e decisioni e varie ed eventuali.
Ma mai più bianca.

Mi ricordo che, nel mio diario -quello vero e di carta- ho lasciato scritta solo la prima riga di una pagina.
Per avere memoria.
Di come fosse prima.
Per lasciarla com'era.

Quell'unica pagina bianca.
Con il privilegio di rimanere com'era.

Ma non era questo che volevo dire.

Avete presente quando vi mettete a scrivere su una pagina bianca. E non avete la più pallida idea del perché stiate scrivendo?
Perché non avete nessuna ragione per farlo?

Ecco.
Una di quelle volte.
Che vi mettete a scrivere su una di quelle pagine bianche che non saranno mai più le stesse.

Ecco.
Una di quelle volte.






Una di quelle volte che poi.
Le sapete tutte. Le ragioni.

Ma fingete egregiamente di non averne la più pallida idea.