This video is a piece of Italian sitcom aired on Fox, BORIS.
Needless to say the sitcom is very funny, but this is not the topic.
The topic is "Tell the fucking dog" or "the hole fucking dog."
It 's a bit that I wonder about books, lectures, theater performances, and the like, which at first I seem to be made to the fucking dog. However, successful history. Not only public but also of criticism. Indeed, above criticism. And mind you, I'm not talking about commercial products or main stream, as on those is easier to judge, but of all those super highbrow cultural products, whose structure is often nebuolsa, and seem arcane facts so that no one can understand completely eh ... nothing of course - tell me - but you're a reactionary!! You do not understand anything ... what matters is the performance! The atmosphere, the deep meaning that goes beyond the meaning of verbal, visual and audible ... is a vital experience, not intellectual! And my intellectual friends give me a pat on the shoulder.
And yes - I say - but if I want to experience life, I'm going to give me a ride and not spend € 15 to see - for example - people who are writhing on the stage and did not utter a word. Or worse, move furniture for 15 minutes and takes a bow at the end of the performance as Rudy Nureyev! I go to see Mercatone Uno move furniture! (I will not name This theater company, which is acclaimed throughout Europe, especially in France ... you think).
I wonder what could be the reason for the transubstantiation of shit to chocolate: sometimes people look into your eyes and say "but you really like is' stuff ????" and them" but it's beautiful. " And I ... "ok, it's me that I have no taste."
In fact, things done to the fucking dog has a mysterious charm, perhaps because it tends to almost always be interpreted as you see the thing in question even if it is completely off guard.
I think the instinct socialized (and therefore little primordial) to cover the holes of interpretation, the miracle of semiosis as Eco would say, that makes this epiphany of meaning. More and more often I go to the theater, and, in meeting friends for the usual birrozzo dopoteatrale the question, "who spoke of the show?" My face fades away and despite myself I have to say "anything .. boh." Sometimes, for the sake of variatio, opto also for the "I do not remember" and then their faces thinking that I will fade plagued by an early form of Alzheimer's and my friends are not intellectuals give me a pat on the shoulder.
... Oh well ... we'll see the next show I'll be more careful. Lipparini
Section - Mr J 
