6 Inch Alphabet Blocks

On The imagination

Saturday, October 22, Roma-Foggia 3-3 Atletico

safety and spirit of the times

A rectangular piece of paper of low lineage, and somewhat plebeian watermarked paper, colored white with sad tunes brown, like video by Peter Gabriel. The stamp on the seam of SIAE, the words "Whole – 1° posto, prevendita: 0698764”. Lo spettatore è tenuto a conservare il biglietto nel luogo della manifestazione e nelle immediate adiacenze. Peccato.
Peccato non poterlo portare in giro per mostre e vernissage. Perché questo tagliando è un’opera d’arte. Magari non un capolavoro, ma neppure il semplice pezzo di carta che vogliono farci credere (quelli che in vita non hanno apprezzato né Van Gogh né Ivan Graziani). È la prova tangibile – la metafora, direbbero i critici letterari – dell’inutilità. Incarna lo Spirito dei tempi. La carta igienica del sistema Maroni. Ne ho raccolti un paio da terra. Tra qualche anno avranno un valore inestimabile. Me li rivenderò su Ebay in even the darkest times, if you really do not appreciate Sotheby's. Rivers

words about safety, violence, the nightmare from beyond the Adriatic Hooligan. Thousands, tens of thousands of syllables uttered by Quaestors, prefects, inspectors, field agents, chairmen, steward. Thousands of Euros to upgrade facilities on the prison's most advanced model, groped for many to implement the ministerial decrees, to pose as German efficiency.
And then, one fine Saturday in October, all at the box office, forty minutes from the opening whistle, pushing each other, to push, to see the line grow out of control, disorganized properly, to risk of 'kill a grid, turn the corner joints. And among the screams of the Atletico fans and those of Foggia, in the division between substantive and essentially useless card (where your lanes, friends?) And not, and the roman zemaniani, in the melting pot of 14.30 relive the scenes of 1984, and come back for a moment to shake hands with father intent on arguing with those pieces of shit that never opened more than one door. To suffer almost smell and National Denim without filter on your hands. I do not remember who was the Minister of Interior in 1984, but it sure did not think the stadiums. He was meeting with a hood, perhaps, organized massacres of State, silt and bribes, probably ma allo stadio si andava liberamente, rudemente, senza ammortizzatori. Era un’esperienza adulta. E qui, ora, è lo stesso. E non possiamo rallegrarcene a dovere. Perché bisognerebbe fingere che in mezzo non ci sia stata la retorica scassa-cazzi pluriannuale sugli ultras e la Tessera. Fingere che non abbiano fatto degli stadi quel che ne hanno invece fatto. Il cassiere sarà felice, penso, ma con che faccia si va in giro a dire che è normale avere problemi dinanzi a 4mila spettatori quando di solito se ne fanno 500? Allora perché mai questa cavolo di squadra gioca al Flaminio, se non ha che 500 affezionati sostenitori? Perché non se ne torna nel quartiere, se mai ne ha avuto uno? Per tutto questo, quando quel poveraccio (o quella poor thing, I do not know why I never got to see the light at the end of the tabernacle) in the battle of the names of everyone in his grave-only door open, while in wild tail is counted with the money and documents such as landing at Ellis Island, in short, when the man-on has announced that it was over the paper to print the coupons and you had to fall back on some reservations on hold since Cindy Lauper sang a Deejay television, the collective laughter has seriously threatened to kill them. Except that people were too strung at that gut from sardines to laugh at the skit. That we had begun Monday. Ticket sales are available at authorized dealers, read Note. The usual slew of incompetent questions - "But you can go in guests?", "But you need the card?" - First rising then the alarm: "They stopped the sale of the areas for non-members. "But how - we wondered - what? The trip is free, has no territorial limitations. What is this, the new frontier of the fight against refractory? ". Here, if we had found our good coupons in the week of Foggia, if no one had exercised his ingenious pressure on demotivating Ofanto bloke avenue, at this time would not be here. Do not waste time and would not do mass. Ergo: I would not even be missed. You what I explain to my neighbors, the Romans, natives and Foggia. And someone shouts something at precise intervals Maroni or their mother. Real People, eh, not Ivan the mob in Belgrade. In 1984 no one thought to the mothers of the Ministers, as he was standing in line at the gate of Zaccheria. It was an adult world: there was a sort of pact of mutual indifference that, on balance, save the honor of all. He was wrong by professionals.

The circus Zeman

At the end of the ride, emerges from the crowd. Bruised, but alive. There are those who maintain the line. A couple of Buston of Peroni Nastro Azzurro and by 0.66, and we camp. It draws breath, I light up a cigarette. And for the first time since We parked the van, I try to line up the feelings. I see. Flaminio from outside the system and a gentleman. Observes: "Christ's sake." Serve the ability of a writer specializing in pilgrimages, sacred rites collective Pauline stuff like that, to explain what the square bustles. The best, worst, trivial. Hundreds of heads walking around, ants undecided, for a walk: move, orient, sink, re-emerge. Capturing emotions. It is a great folk event. It is the St. Catherine's Fair, but not now, nor that of the via Galliani. It is of course the Fair Giannone, ol'Embell Riva. A circus in which everything is mixed, and the event is to be pure backdrop. As water vendors and peanuts in Vermicino. Sixteen of the harnessed scarves bought at the kiosk; accents of the province of Foggia room in Rome, inhabitants of the capital in search of thrills others, or low-cost memories. I do not. It's all so surreal that I can imagine winged dragons and dwarves. Every so often seems to look a few ultras ask for help and comfort: they move out of place, these bandits from thousands of miles each season. They can not explain what is happening. I turn and see Balbo. Abel Balbo. is with two friends, waiting for tickets, as all of us. Uncorked a great beer with the lighter, light up a Lucky Strike's Angel. It seems there is Previti, and also Bobo Craxi. VIPs: a hypothesis I had not contemplated, but I think it's bad bad things all the time. I say, and a retinue of workers cuts across the road. From right to left. Enthusiasm must be at least a Casillo. Instead it Venditti. Antonello Venditti. From the row at the bottom of my vision, one yells "Romania of shit." But the ride, happy to still be recognized, still living in Strapaese of toys. Photos with the singer, band, several "Forza Foggia!" And even a few mother-in-law on the phone. Other dragons spread their wings on the Roman fortress, while impromptu event organizers try to sidetrack to ease the chaos: "The Foggia non-members can go for the ticket in South Bend Pagano directly to the doors. " As the oratory. Another thought after hearing the Minister and his mom. And we see Gigi Di Biagio. It seems the Oscars. Lacks the red carpet. Vaga, Gigi, staring at the phone. "Oi, Gigi, but if you're a day?" He smiles. Enzo watches the concrete: "Gigi, why not offer us a beer?". What looks at the envelope still full, "Of course, - tells thoughtful - might not be enough. We go to the kiosk. " Except that the kiosk has a row of two people and Gigi get bored waiting, so your wallet, grab 2 notes 10 and says: "See the offer, but I'm leaving." I do not know why, We can do without his company, and laugh like idiots. Now fully in line with the carnival. Pagliacci. We think: "And if we went in search of great ex?". We propose a tariff: Lords claim by at least one fifty, and Codispoti List are exempt. Pagaci, pagaci, pagaci drink, [player name], pagaci to drink!

Families stadium

move into our hatch. At the end of fatigue, there was a miscalculation. These are the 15 steps. And I have a ticket. But another concern is: "Not there are members here?", We ask the official jacket. "No, - that is impatient – non ce ne sono”. Bene, entriamo. Mentre da dietro qualcuno sta chiedendo: “Mica entrano anche i tesserati?”, e quello risponde che no, non entrano, ma neppure è bello che li trattiamo come appestati. Peggio, direi, visto che la peste nessuno se la va a cercare con le sue mani. Tecnica sperimentata: Ceska, più bassa, passa i controlli arancioni indicando me che mostro quella cartacea cosa qualsiasi che garantiscono essere il ticket, e nel gioco di rimandi schizza dentro prima che quello possa rendersi conto. Ma l’amico è in gamba e mi blocca. “Guarda che con un biglietto entra una sola persona”, “Certo”, “E allora la ragazza?”, “Quale ragazza?”, "The brunette with long hair?", "What girl, no girl," "Why not?", "No". Zemana In the realm of illusion, the boy is not convinced of having had a hallucination, and I reassured him that I look like a psychiatrist. "Quiet, no girl." But an official in a suit, a different feel and smell of cheating is not prepared to be cheating. Comes in a gallop, with the air of those who will not do it to him. Listen to a legend that speaks of an orange long-haired brunette, nodding seriously, grab a random guy and tells him: "Show me the ticket." As if he had a clear strategy of investigation. What, surprised, surrender it to him. And the astute can finally exclaim, "This ticket is fake, the stamp is missing." A laugh will bury you. And there was great need of imagination to imagine that those things would have been a ticket! I wish that even if I do not think those things themselves! Yes, it's Saturday and you can make photocopies, but there was insufficient time material. And then ... it is difficult to draw a work of art of this kind. The debate moves on the ticket, a couple of cops I contend the raid, while an orange steward it confusing to reconstruct his last minutes. Pass the first control, the others are already in the second. Appearance Joseph, who has lingered, and I make the amazing shit to light a cigarette. An agent turns shooting. I riperquisisce. He wants to investigate. The stages must go places for families to be nonsmokers. And no vices, as in Manu sequester water bottle for Aurelio, 13 months and first trip in a van. "The child, if he thirst, you can go to the bar." At the bar of his childhood imagination, the one with the marmots that serve drinks with umbrellas, as this stage of the Six Nations in it, is a ruin. While you could advise was to Aurelius to drink directly from the condensate leak in plumbing. The second control triggers debate. A boy never seen indicates the agents and says, "That's why I do not go over the stadium." His father nods. It still hurts to hear these things. I will be able to tell the waiter in the restaurant in Frascati, which makes us more or less the same confession. At 22 he broke the fucking cops and controls. Third search, then the group is accompanied holidays falling in the shady underground of our jewel of rugby. When we come to revise the sky, Foggia is losing 1-0.

Mediocrity and its

But how nice it is to be with you. The area where we are, I am told, is normally closed. But it is not normal even sell 4 thousand biglietti. Noi siamo in alto, ultima fila a cantare. Dietro, ma anche sotto, molte facce sconosciute e tanti commenti in romanesco. Studenti e tante ragazze, che non sempre sanno cosa mettersi per simili occasioni. Di lato, in curva, i tesserati. Li vedo intenti a battere le mani. Saranno quattrocento, forse qualcuno in più. Sfilacciati. Angioletto dice di non ripetere l’errore di giudicarli da un solo punto di vista. Esistono gli ultras a questo mondo ed esistono i tifosi, sostiene. È il tifoso a segnare lo scarto che permette di vedere l’ultras, un po’ come nella scala evolutiva della specie. Sarà, ma anche tra di noi i tifosi sono tanti. Con tanti cellulari puntati, alla giapponese. Ogni tanto seguono un battimani, ogni tanto canticchiano qualcosa. Ma nella sostanza, sono sempre gli stessi quelli che si sbracciano e urlano forte. Un signore si aggrega al nostro gruppo. Si sgola, tanto che alla fine gli regaleremmo la maglietta, se ne avessimo. Il Foggia pareggia su mischia da angolo. Noi urliamo che è gol dal cross in mezzo. Alla fine l’arbitro ci asseconda. I cori si fanno anni Novanta e coinvolgono i nostalgici. Il Foggia segna altre due volte. La tribuna esplode, come la gradinata e la curva. Ma quanti ne siamo? Difficile stabilirlo. Mi diverto solo se. Siamo un po’ staccati dal resto dei nostri, e per quanti sforzi si facciano, sembrano vani. Amici, fuori dallo stadio, dicono che non è così, che anzi si è sentito tutto. Ma noi, prima ancora del rigore in favor of the athlete who changes the fate of the match, we have already christened as "mediocre" the evidence in the stands. "Cori dry vocals are dry," we urge the bathroom range. We have suffered the second goal on a penalty kick net, they all say, but the expulsion of our defense is exaggerated. The recovery is tense, exciting. We wave the flag and there's also the coveted backing vocals dry. We want this victory. The echo comforts us, but now we have an opinion and is always boring call everything into question. Our defending themselves, we do our part, but too many casual spots remain mute to observe the field. Wrong. Or at least, does not go to us who have the eye trained. At the end of the draw with Atletico Baronius, a man who - as Lello - play situation. But now we have identified the man responsible for this back in arbitration. The scoreboard says 3-3 behind us. In the gallery there are so many kids. Between us, the only Aurelio at home that runs between the seats and forcing Manu Ceska a fantastic tackles in the temple of rugby. The Foggia attacks. We are conditioned by Zeman, that we want to win. Because we deserve. And when one of our places to ride on the far post and the ball touches the post, the disappointment is authentic. I turned to look at the display. Recitation: 91'22 ". It would have been fantastic. Three to three. This is the final result. Who knows as he took it Venditti. Who knows Bobo Craxi.

Appendix and dedication to our little ultras

in the box when we closed, we wandered. It seems vaguely Benevento, on the day of the famous play-off defeat. It seems that once again want to avoid encounters. And carry away the members. They think we're on the civil war. Until then, the protagonist is still Aurelius. It was the beginning. You may say that he had lived his first trip in 13 months authentic. A luxury reserved only for the predestined. The ultras might select it as a Tibetan Lama. The van, as highway, "Take a look if you see Bari. In winter evening already smoothed output for 2 hours and wander among the Castles, in one of the wildest and most inaccessible areas of Europe. Frascati would expect the wine of the tavern and pork offered by Angel, who in life has ceased to be an individual and now is merely a function: the father of Aurelius. Is a function, you know, not a birthday. Either tonight or Thursday. Other dinner tables, spartan other taverns, and other third parties times lie ahead, while we await the same time taking up a choir. Still the same: Aurelio does not pass!

How To Pin Hot Curlers

Non guarderò mai più negli occhi la mia gelosia
e tornerà l’indifferenza a farmi compagnia
Fai spazio, fai spazio, fai spazio più che puoi
più che se ne può fare
Everyone has the right to say what everyone
not to listen.
Months passed and the experience does not cause changes over time to approach
that now is the damage,

years are no longer the life that passes and goes away
living it better, I will avenge
sorry if not everyone, but I'll take
take the road that can
What year was when the temporal
did not want us to go out that day was
as calendar,
if I try I can not remember
and count the days instead
and as always the same innocence I
always surprised when

find any semblance of your tracks and your name
even though I live now without
photographed da Dio in persona
fotografie della tua assenza.
Fotografie
Mentre in molti si avvicinano a te
senza riuscirci mai
non riesco a dare forma ad un destino
che si avvicini a noi
ed ho così perso coraggio
che è facile cadere in uno sbaglio
e cerco tra tutta la gente almeno un tuo dettaglio
ho in testa recrudescenze della tua ultima carezza
e aspetto stordito con un sorriso mi dia la mia salvezza.
Che anno era quando il temporale
non voleva farci uscire più
che giorno era, quale calendario,
se ci provo non me lo ricordo
e conto i giorni al contrario
e come sempre la stessa innocenza
mi sorprendo sempre quando
troverò ogni parvenza
di tracce tue e del tuo nome
anche se vivo ormai senza
fotografate da Dio in persona
fotografie della tua assenza.
Cosa ci sia dietro ad un segreto
cosa davanti lo vedo
e il viso triste sopra ogni dubbio
non lo nascondo e se lo faccio
sbaglio. Io sbaglio.
Solo fotografie della tua assenza

(T. Ferro)

Card Wordings For A Mother To Be

ramp Gela

Sunday, October 10, Gela-Foggia 2-1

The launch and Barletta Foggia is the stuff of members, live on TV with a growing feeling of inadequacy, di non-appartenenza. Il Foggia del ritorno allo Zaccheria, quello visto e non vissuto col Viareggio, resta materiale da tifosi di gradinata. Quello di Cava e di Castellammare, poi, talmente finto, costruito, appartiene per intero ad un concetto astratto, etereo di “tifoso”. Non è di nessuno.


La traversata

I fari tagliano un buio carico d’acqua. Non piove ancora con decisione, ma i tergicristalli sono all’opera. Tutti a destra, e-eh, tutti a sinistra, alé-alé. Dal buio del circondario – Puglia estrema, Basilicata, forse un pezzo di Campania, forse la taiga russo-siberiana – ritagliamo solo la forma del furgone che ci precede. E quando la carreggiata leans to one side, the night makes the image of one of the most fascinating spectacles in nature: the convoy. Seven, eight vans interspersed with several private cars. The style points to non-members Tickets South in your pocket, those of the forum, which cost 20 € sweaty. But a price has not been approved, and we intend to pay. Beers passed from hand to hand, replace the thermos of coffee. In front, a Johnny Walker on a crossing does less damage Borghetti incontinent. I would stay awake for as long as possible. I would like to see the interior of Sicily. We leave behind Consilina room, and with increasing emotion static admire the work on the Salerno-Reggio. They touch speed unthinkable in some places are grazed 40 km / h, in others the caravan becomes a row of ten little Indians. When we quantify in 300 passes and the miles still to go before moving on to the ferry, drown the sorrow of realism in bars Kinder family package. Three and a half hours, maybe four, to hear Enzo talking about oranges and saffron. He talks non-stop since Thursday now, so I decided not to even prepare a sandwich for not spoil the surprise. The dawn salute the best stretch of the entire artery, the one where cars walk in two different lanes (pure unconsciousness!) And show the drug raised in their chilling beauty. You see the sea, and in front of Sicily, while the countries of the last portion of the road on the continent are indistinguishable under the asphalt stains. The past 8 when we reach the boarding of Villa San Giovanni. Maritime Station to stretch their legs. To see it, all down by the media, we are a discreet black spot. It is hard to remain consistent, to endure the bad luck, when surrender would seem so easy, almost obvious, almost predictable. Instead. The pleasure that one feels mad to be stoic and suffering in order to keep your head up, is priceless. It is not a spot. On the ferry you can ascend to the upper floors. We ramps as children in ecstasy. And when the vehicle is moving, feel the cold on his face, detached from the mainland and pointing at another, it is a pleasant feeling. It is as boatswains to challenge the winds. And the metaphors would rain down easy, if we wanted to stay in the banal. Instead. Pirate flag hoisted on the balcony. Messina approaching. Then back down again in the media, again the spectacle of the convoy. On the motorway to Catania, Sicily, but flowing side still manages to catch the eye. Nature, the island, though the most interesting section, I am sure it is the only one I want to live in wide-eyed, will be inside the state to Caltagirone and Gela. And not for nothing, after a night spent to operate the CD player of the Duchy, to listen and hear a babbling Giuliano Palma jump the Bluebeaters, singing a live version of Nightmare before caught on the radio, his eyes suddenly become heavy. And I fall into the void of unconsciousness in its long-awaited moment. A release. When I open them missing thirty kilometers to the goal. I lost everything. I drink whiskey bottle like a drunk clinging to a long course. Around the lights are clear, the countryside is dry and yellow and green and fresh at the same time. On the height, Niscemi. Behind in the van, no life. There is talk of oranges to the sauce and variations of the anchovies. They probably did not talk about something else during the entire trip. I remember being hungry. So hungry. Fame authentic. The large face of the eternal child of Kinder me flirtatious smiles from the box on the dashboard: "Fuck you?". The last sign. Gela.

Gela

extreme periphery. A traffic jam, it would take Johnny Toothpick. Car horns trumpeting. Someone greets us from the cockpits and the sidewalk. Pachyderm we are a species of whale looking for great beach on quite afford of stalled. We do not ask for better. Without conscience, driven by the tide, we find ourselves in front of the stage, identified by a row of blue-white flags on flagpoles. Parking is nearby. Are 13. Eleven hours after departure a little square on Lebanon. The smoke of the Oranges illustrates our welcome to passers-by. "Do the good, "we hear from behind. The four policemen have faces Seduced and Abandoned. One tries to make a hostile, almost ordered. But let's face it, is not credible, and his move is limited to park us all in the same direction. A great job. Another, from person to do well, raise your voice when speaking on the phone: "But I'm here, I tell you ... I know ... But I guarantee you've got before." It makes one smile. Evidently had expected only those 5 members. And in the era that we are announcing the era of electronic microchip. I'm hungry and reached the clearing waiting for my share of the van. The Count and David give me a hand. We're ready. Ready to taste one of the reasons for this trip, the ghosts evoked by Enzo for a week. Developed the first bar. A flying alongside us. Accompanies us. Closed. Then the boy in the middle blue and white shows us a second port. Pointing to that, his stomach anxiously awaiting. But the lady only has two, and are cold and similar to those found at the picnic or Capriccio. We go out with a principle of incipient distress. And a new police officer has become involved in the debate. "Look, you have to follow but there anywhere?". What a little 'there is evil. He answers: "No ...." As if to say: I was just doing it together. We recover talking about food. He explains that Sicily is not the Puglia, where everything is played at lunch. Here the better if you reserve for the evening. There will be pizza, calzone and cannoli after 17.30. When we are traveling in practice. Leave us alone, as we requested. Relieve disappointment with Moretti. And my stomach twists. Gastritis typical of these situations of hope and illusion. We wander as lost, orphans of our bodyguard. A middle-aged couple stopped us and greets us. Are Licata, first homeland Zeman. They came on purpose. Two others are asking: "But still, as the coach?", "Old man," we reply. A new machine approaches the table where we ordered another round of beers. They are relatives of a player. Zeman said they saw. Now the figure of the coach above any other representation of our team. Yet. Today, for the shirt, we have traveled, and now and then. We feel reborn love thrown from Tessera.

methodological issues

At 14 we are ready. But being ready is not enough. Now the police officers tell us that we can accommodate. In the area guests. We think we have got it wrong. We believe that the inspector has been confused, have used terms in disuse because of habit. But it takes little to understand that it is not, and we find ourselves immersed in a flash to the ankles in a new thorny controversy. The question is, can not afford to take their seats in the one hundred Foggia next to the fans of the Gela. Would be forced to enforce the number of tickets, to scatter, to move many to Gela. It is a technicality, I guess you're miles away. It opens the debate, which generates a score of sub-debates. They know what it costs to people who has been the 800 km to give up the game. But stable. Moreover, we have had to give up so much, it will not be a game to change things. Seems to appear, and after a quarter of an hour door to door, guaranteed to make the block. After all: do not ask for more. Or better: we never thought of doing anything else. But you must always give the impression that the breath is a concession. It is the game of authority ("I we are dealing with because you are good friends of these people ...). Let's not pre-screen consists of electoral boards and warm voice. But it is nice to be with you, never licensed, never licensed, always in trouble. The row of Gela to enter is very long. Look at us all. We sing, hands to the sky. A white-haired gentleman sgom order to speak with a manager, "But come here?", "It seems to be," "And you can?", "Today." Not so much for the 20 euro spent. The money is never an issue worthy of note. It is the principle. If the trip is free, if the rules show a leak, I rushed. It's obvious. Non ho voglia, nessuno ha voglia, di farsi estromettere dal proprio habitat. Dentro sento un nuovo funzionario sbraitare con un sottoposto: “Ma tutte queste cazzo di bandiere chi le ha fatte entrare? Adesso mi sentono”. Devo ammettere che sono tanti i funzionari in borghese. Direi troppi, vista la relativa calma e l’inevitabile confusione degli ordini impartiti dall’alto. C’è molta gente. La curva è piena, la tribuna si riempie velocemente. Noi siamo a destra, in un fazzoletto di seggiolini. La gente attorno si è semplicemente spostata, lasciandoci un cuscinetto d’aria. Nessun problema. Invece. In cinque minuti cambia tutto. Di nuovo l’esercito di uomini in borghese cambia idea. E ci comunica che lì we can no longer stand. It is absurd, simply. Again face to face. The people of Gela, which he had held him without problems, no longer understands. Moreover: we are the ultras, irrational and bestial people, to hear media and ministers. Begins to rumble. We are still in a free zone invaders and their - legitimate inhabitants of those lands of the stadium - do not want problems. It would be too much trouble, although it would be very useful to explain to everyone how things are. Talk about a useless decree, the contradictions it generates, which causes some discomfort at all. But there is no time. We invite you to dislodge. And the forum, which has followed the progress of the case, applauded the police che fanno il loro ingresso risolutore. Non è colpa loro, hanno semplicemente frainteso. Chi non ha frainteso per niente, invece, ed è responsabile del sommovimento d’animi che crea, blatera. Ci vuole fuori dalla tribuna in un flash. Io parlo con l’ennesimo uomo in borghese. È mancanza di buon senso, inutile lamentarsi dopo. Siamo entrati in pace in un settore pacifico. È solo grazie al loro intervento confusionario che adesso le tanto paventate “teste matte” potrebbero avere buon gioco e venire a galla. Noi non molliamo. Siamo sulla scalinata d’accesso, a due passi dalla rampa per i disabili. Siamo cento, disposti su tre file. Qualcuno in piedi sul muretto, qualcuno sotto, qualcuno in balaustra, ma i più a ground in a corridor from which the field is not even guess. But the stakes are always the same: dignity. Make people understand that we bend the rules absurd as not to retreat before the decrees crazy. We stay there. And sing. Come what may. But it is nice to be with you, never licensed, never licensed, always in trouble. The Gela forum whistle, but we left them indifferent. They may not fully understand, but if a hundred people singing and waving on a staircase, rejecting the guests comfortable and vacuum the area after a night and a morning trip, he shot. Many people look at us. Then, despite the cops, take courage. Also because to go to the bathroom, or exit, or go to the bar, we must move from the ramp. There is no third way. We need to move among us. Waving aside - because if you do beaks sure someone in the hall - I see the first Gela down. The Foggia, we have argued, already losing 2-0. A gentleman approached me and jokingly broke the ice on the defense of the U.S.. Then I said that we welcome in Gela. And you could tell that was what I wanted to tell me. That was down almost on purpose. A second man shakes my hand, "Welcome, boys." It is a sudden change of attitude. Many of us feel a gesture of support, to talk to us, to stop a few seconds more. We realize that we were not the problem. Noi ci facciamo sentire, sosteniamo la squadra che – poco alla volta – risentiamo nostra. Vedo persone che mi sfilano accanto con panini ripieni di gelato. Manca ancora un quarto d’ora alla fine del tempo e se esco, Enzo mi sgrida. E il mio fisico deprivato di cibo non è in grado di reggere le umiliazioni. Desisto. All’intervallo, l’intera tribuna si rovescia per le scale. Due battute col funzionario: “Sicché, era fuorilegge sistemarci sulle scale, e ci avete sistemato sulla rampa dei disabili. Ottima mossa”. Poi anch’io vado da Sasà il gelataio, che sembra una divinità indiana a molte braccia. Siamo gomito a gomito coi gelesi al bar, e non potrebbe essere altrimenti (quando si dice la sicurezza!). I wonder why we are against the pass. That's how it works, and it's beautiful. I explain, listen, ask again, nodding. "A Foggia do not have it here this granita, eh?". I smile, and do not know why I would reply that the c'abbiamo torcinelli. I say nothing just in time. The shot is beautiful. Not in the field, that we do not see really. But between us. A policeman asked me why I spend my time watching my flag flying and not the game. I would say: "But the facts your cock ..." (again, silent for a moment before), but I limit myself to an enigmatic: "The game is us." That does not understand, go to the guys on the wall, it's called one to say that it is likely to fall, touching him, that he loses his balance and falls. The policeman disappears among his colleagues. And I do feast for four days a month, the calendar for me to know no surprises. The Foggia makes it 2-1. The referee gives 5 minutes of recovery. Until the end, Come on guys! At that time, I recognize my shirt, my team. Defeated, desperate, beautiful. We lose. The gallery erupts, we call our under the ramp. Then, you remove the pieces, we are moving towards the exit. And here something unexpected happens. The entire forum is cheering, but it turned toward us. Is applauding us. I do not. Greet, salute. I'll have to rework this scene, I think, but I am sure that we left something here today, if a forum that two hours before the alleged intervention of the police, now pays tribute to our passion, our sacrifice made. On the ferry, a few hours later, someone will tell us that he heard on the radio-sporting fans of non-members of Foggia. I repeat: we are not saints, we are not angels, but we have dignity, respect and honor to sell. And not only us but many ultras in that country. It is time for ordinary people, terrified by the media for the scoop, I understand.

The launch and Barletta Foggia is the stuff of members, live on TV with a growing feeling of inadequacy, of not belonging. The return to Zaccheria of Foggia, one seen and lived with Viareggio, is material to fans on the steps. Cava and to Castellammare, then, so fake, constructed, belongs entirely to an abstract concept, ethereal "fan." To no one. The Foggia Gela is ours. Again, and forever.

PS:

"Stop! Stop! A rotisserie. " "Good evening, there is 25". And so, in that of Messina, a little after 21, even the ghost of Sicilian oranges hath been revealed.

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Avetrana. The change

Questa mattina sono stato ad Avetrana. Dopo il lavoro, tornando a Taranto, ho attraversato il paese come faccio ogni weekend da quasi 15 anni. Conoscevo due aspetti di questo paese. Avetrana al mattino, trafficata, viva, commercianti di frutta in the small open space in front of the church entrance, people walking. Avetrana at night, deserted road, a passage to cross. Today I stop, get out of the car and see un'Avetrana unpublished. Hide behind the pain that almost borders on shame, Avetrana did not plagiarize ever made by the media, a few days after his death, wanted to paint at all costs as a fifteen Sarah rebellious, who listens to Manson and wrote his anxieties about his diary. Avetrana never believed in voluntary removal of that child for many journalists was becoming a little woman eager for freedom, just because you argued with his mother, had four profiles on facebook and chat with strangers. Avetrana Sarah knew. Avetrana knew the truth. That's why he never stopped looking. A little girl. A normal, ordinary, beautiful teenager of 15 years. Avetrana supports a mother painted by the media as cold and detached, almost indifferent. Concetta Avetrana know. Avetrana knows the truth. A woman petrified by the pain that is thrown to the media not to allow the attention surrounding the disappearance of his daughter is waning as in other cases. Only one thing Avetrana did not know: that Michael would become a murderess. One of the worst kind. One of those who, because of its cruelty, it makes you just hope for the death penalty, as if death could be a really appropriate punishment. Death is a relief. Avetrana now fear. Fear of becoming yet another sensational goal of the macabre tourism. Fear of being remembered as the monster of the city or town of the little Sarah, strangled, raped and then thrown into a pit by his uncle.
bad. She sought only the sea.

And, with regard to this request of the sentence, of how it should be worth a negative opinion, in principle, must be given not only for the death penalty, which instantly deliver to you, delete it from the social consortium the figure of the offender, but also against the perpetual punishment: life imprisonment, that is void of any hope, any prospect of any solicitation to repentance and al ritrovamento del soggetto, appare crudele e disumano non meno di quanto lo sia la pena di morte.
Aldo Moro

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Fifteen €, traditional families and holograms

Wednesday, September 29

€ 15, including pre-sales.

means that a family-type, those used by unscrupulous pollsters in order to sell snacks of awakening - mom-dad-baby-girl - to cross the threshold of the sharp Zaccheria Sunday, will have to pay 60 €. Centoventimilalire as yet converted the elderly and those born in the seventies. To enjoy Zeman, of course. But the third category and an Italian Viareggio, with all due respect, it's not all I'm Milan. 60 €. It means skipping lunch, jump on the bandwagon with a broken line, push like mad trying to defend or to rescue the progeny, emerge into the turn, be searched, and try to get a place from which to see and show the kids the other kids in the camp, and after an hour ½ + range, be sure to have hiss of the equivalent three-month subscription to Mediaset Premium. Where do you see the magnificence in an armchair Serie A, Champions League and even the inutilissima Europe (perhaps with the addition of that extra touch of superfluous and HD).

families back to the stadium was the categorical imperative of Maroni, some time ago. One of those meaningless slogans that are such a hold on the collective imagination. The plow the groove track and the sword defends it. Yes, but by whom? It is a problem of agricultural borders? And the families at the stadium are the remedy for that? The panacea to such dysfunction? The term Hooligans, according to some readings, derives from the pestiferous young lady O'Hool woman-Irish mother in London. Basically it was built as O'Hool's gang, the gang of O'Hool, which seems to be the terror of an entire neighborhood. Gratuitous violence, then, or motivated by the context. Sure. But both mother's heart. A family, in essence, the hooligans. And the extended family, atypical, abnormal? Maroni parents think that the beautiful blonde of Mulino Bianco and blond, obedient, quiet children of brioche when pulls idyllic scenery coming next? And if you decide to "go back" to the stadium Quaker families, or those freak, or Scottish clan? It would be an error of assessment terrible, a painful mistake to underestimate the percentage of non-traditional families in this country. Sin of anti-modernity for a minister, living in the past. A pickle. A nice pair of adopted children with gay Spaniards in Manila? Pupo with his two wives and grandchildren? A Sultan of Brunei and his advisers?
What families should return to the stage, the ministerial circular does not specify.
But you know, this is the country where the award-divorced, adulterous, and regulars whoremongers trans organize the Family day and speaks to the masses from the stage to becoming frightened by contemporary manforte several ambiguous in a skirt and the scent of pedophilia. Clearly, a representative Republic Of this nutra disorders. And invent an increased attendance of sports facilities by a person who never set foot there. Historically, I say. Families who should "go back" to the stadium, the stadium there have never been. It is like asking the Penguins back in Savannah. Just look at the photo archive: no trace of penguins in Savannah. The stadium, the sports field, as potentially dangerous place but definitely foul-mouthed and instinctual, it was the prerogative of men. There was the head of the family and, right age and often against his will when he heard the call decided to take the firstborn, the heir, the Dauphin, in most cases after subtracting the long-lunch with the grandparents and females to wean in the cradle of masculinity: the curve. As long as the puppy did not leave the sample and the alpha field is initiated with the other puppies, which in the meantime had taken the form of the same street urchins who had driven the Nazis from Naples. Things have certainly changed for the better: women go there, and how, in turn. And also do better than men. But families, as will the Minister, no, no. Never existed. Especially if the presidents then placed at a 15 € coupon curve. In times of crisis.

Let's face it: the C1, or Pro League, has counted the years. Between failures, repechage, sharks and budgets in red, a couple of seasons, the third category is but a memory. In the most painful scenario of empty stadiums heightens the feeling of loss is as if you were a crew of saboteurs using scientifically day and night to destroy what still remained standing passion for their local teams. A handful of experts headhunters, perhaps in the pay league, maybe the pay-tv, maybe diverted masonry, constantly working to add more new barriers between the citizen-fan and the municipal structure (of which the citizen pays water , electricity, gas and rent) where you play the games. A perversion worthy of a better cause. At this point we would expect an enlightened entrepreneur, a boss determined to reverse the trend for not submit passively to the death of their company, while willing to make false papers to become sand in the engine system. One that crushed the competition by dramatically lowering ticket prices, giving the boys, saying deed: "Reclaim the sports ground of your town, fill your color, because the team is part of your identity." One like this, without playing well and claims to save on players, deserves appreciation for the simple fact of giving a secular tree sap and yet dying. Instead. The C1 is full of vapid holograms of higher series that managerial skills as they play the kids my age were playing marbles in the street. Mimicking Moratti Zamparini or even talk about TV rights, customize the stadiums, modernization, use half a dozen press agents (Cistercians were not even old grappling with flooded libraries or overestimating what they have to be provided), call upon experts to organize the official merchandise. The perfect new economy of bankruptcy. The football player, one that should appeal to families, as a complex mosaic tile in the Financial cardboard boxes between the Chinese iron and the fan, even if accompanied by parents, becomes a cash cow. Less and less sacred. And with fewer turns of phrase as an explanation. 15 €. When we asked them to take power we made ourselves crazy. We entered waving fake notes from 50 €. When we imposed them in Terni unrolled the banner "No to high prices."

did not happen long ago. Even if they look past decades. I agree.

Symptoms Of Warts In Throat

The large collective intelligence of small groups




From an article in SCIENCE of 04/10/2010:

If a group co-operates well, it can take advantage of a surplus of intelligence that exceeds the capacities of its individual members. To establish and a study by researchers at MIT, Carnegie Mellon University, and Union College, who sign about an article published in Science, which also shows that the tendency to cooperate effectively is in fact related to the number of women who are in the group.

"We wanted to test the hypothesis that groups as such, like people, have a considerable ability to deal with different types of tasks," said Anita Williams Woolley, the first signatory of the article. "And our hypothesis was confirmed. We found that there is generally effective, a collective group, which is predictive of group performance in many situations."

This collective intelligence, the researchers say, is closely linked to the ability to develop good co-operation: groups whose members had higher levels of "social sensitivity" were those that showed a higher collective intelligence.

"The social awareness has to do with the ability of group members to perceive the emotions of each member of the group. Thus, in groups where there was a dominant person, the group had a collective lower than those in which the relationship of conversation were distributed more evenly, "the researchers note. In general, moreover, the groups contained more women have a higher social sensitivity and a greater collective intelligence of those with fewer women.

To reach their conclusions, the researchers conducted a series of studies in 699 subjects divided into groups that included two to five people. The groups worked on a number of problems ranging from visual puzzle to negotiations, from brainstorming to role-playing games of varying complexity.

examination results of individual subjects and Researchers have estimated that the collective intelligence could account for about 40 percent of the variation in performance of different groups in a wide variety of tasks. The performance of the group does not seem determined primarily by the individual skills of its members, the maximum intelligence and the average of a group was not predictive of group performance. (Gg) ----------------

This, we believe it is a further indication of the operation of the network of UNCONSCIOUS we theorized. View: www.inconsci.blogspot.com

already know that (see our POST: http://nuoveteorie.blogspot.com/2009/06/lintelligenza-ei-domini-di-conoscenza.html)
man has evolved so much intellectual apes because we are only able to combine thoughts derived from different domains of knowledge to create new representations of the world and find new solutions to problems. An extreme example is provided by multidisciplinary genius of Leonardo da Vinci.

If now imagine that in a close-knit group and with high levels of "social sensitivity", the unconscious is put in communication with each other and can compare the individual domains of knowledge of each individual, it is clear that the chances of finding new solutions rise significantly (a parallel between a server computer that uses the data of individual computers to find more le soluzioni migliori). Se invece prevale un inconscio dominante, questo libero scambio emotivo (e quindi inconscio) non avviene. La presenza delle donne accentua poi lo stato di emotività sia per componenti sessuali inconsce, ma anche tra donne stesse, già geneticamente più predisposte a cooperare, a differenza degli individualismi maschili (e mi riferisco alle eredità sinaptiche dei tempi dei cacciatori-raccoglitori, quando le donne rimanevano, tutte insieme, nell'accampamento)

Questo meccanismo molto probabilmente è alla base delle grandi RIVELAZIONI ed ILLUMINAZIONI che certe persone ricevono nel loro inconscio (Gli antichi maestri induisti,Tao, Buddha, Mosè, Zaratustra, Mani, Maometto, Jung, etc...) These are the result of unconscious interactions of many people (even whole nations) that use individual knowledge and collectively develop new visions of reality. This explains the multiplicity of the thousands of religions and esoteric cults, often with conflicting teachings, but in any case different. This vision is also part of our new philosophical system of the network of unconscious result of the latest scientific knowledge and lessons for ages considered spiritual. At the time of lighting and pseudo-pseudo-revelations of the past, there were important conflicts between science and religion, because they were considered operating at different levels. Today, however, an alternative vision of reality, per essere più convincente e condivisa, necessita anche della mancanza di questi contrasti. Naturalmente, le precedenti visioni della realtà erano frutto di elaborazioni di domini di conoscenze collettivi più limitati.