Rizzo Quotes

Failure to plan ahead is a plan sure to FAIL!

I got so many hickeys, people will think I'm a leper." -Rizzo

I’m up for it. What do you want us to be? Nurse and patient? Rizzo and Kenickie? I still have that skirt.” Lloyd pulled Wesley tight against him and whispered in his ear. “How about fiancés?” Wesley’s stomach dropped and didn’t stop. A nervous flutter leaked into his voice. “Fiancés?

Mejor no hablar o asumir que luego de los artificios, en realidad hay un gran número de humanos que escriben y crean siguiendo unos patrones tan predecibles, que hasta un programa que depende del código puede emularlos.

We have created a mindset in our society where everyone wants what they want when they want it. And if we don't get what we want when we want it, we feel ripped off. To make matters worse, we intensify our problems by continuously rehashing our woe-is-me story to the entire world. Whatever it is that has the potential to keep you from enjoying the day, understand that it's not the situation itself that is causing you to be unhappy. It's your thoughts and how you allow them to control you. It's what you choose to focus on that fuels your emotions and defines your reality.

Angelo Rizzo; 34. Vittoria – Tori Romano; 23.

Sandy: "Are you making fun of me, Riz? " Rizzo: "Some people are so touchy.

Actually, Ma, he’s going to drive by slowly enough for me to dive through the open passenger window like Wonder Woman.

I’d rather be Rizzo than Sandy, no question. Rizzo found love without changing a thing about herself. Sandy had to dress like a skank and get that horrible perm and take up smoking.

pickle smell. Jenny winced. Gross. Shaking her

In quel momento Sara si alzò dalla panca, passò le mani tra i capelli fissando i due giovanotti: «Mia figlia è molto creativa. Certe doti sono innate».

He’d peed on that tree so many times, he should have a reserved sign on it.

Porque, después de todo, uno puede volverse completamente loco, siempre y cuando se haga con estilo, en soledad y sin testigos.

believe we each have our own path to travel. Sometimes we make false starts and detours, but we have this internal compass that knows our true path. We just have to listen to it.” He

D’istinto le venne da abbracciare il ragazzo ma lui si ritrasse: «Mi attacchi il raffreddore!». Coco non rise più. Il rifiuto la offese. Ma David le afferrò le mani e infine la strinse a sé in un abbraccio caloroso. Sensuale. Le sussurrò nell’orecchio: «Sei speciale. Attaccami pure il raffreddore!». Coco chiuse gli occhi. Sentì suonare tutti i violini del mondo. L’unico rumore pesante e profondo fu quello del battito del cuore. David aveva un odore buono. Fresco.

Every time somebody asks me, “How ’bout the Cubs?” I want to respond with “Yeah, the Cubs, they’re going to die someday. Do you ever think about that? All of them. All of them. Rizzo. Bryant. The one with the goatee. The other ones. The entire team. Some of them probably soon, you don’t know. They could be dying right now while we’re sitting here making conversation about baseball. Death is lurking.” Susie always wants me to come with her to these type of gatherings and she almost always regrets it.

A climate's changes are tough to quantify. Butterflies can help. Entomologists prefer "junk species--" the kind of butterflies too common for most collections-- to keep up with what's going on in the insect's world. They're easy to find and observe. When do something unusual, something's changed in the area. Art Shapiro's team at UC Davis monitors ten local study sites, some since the 1970s. The ubiquitous species are the study's go-tos, helping distinguish between lasting changes (climate warming, habitat loss) and ones that will right themselves (one cold winter, droughts like last year's). Consistency is key; they collect details year after year, no empty data sets between. A few species have disappeared from parts of the study area altogether, probably a lasting change. On the other hand, seemingly big news in 2012 might be just a year's aberration. Two butterflies came back to the city of Davis last year, the umber skipper after 30 years, the woodland skipper after 20-- both likely a result of a dry winter with near-perfect breeding conditions of sunny afternoons and cool nights.

Industria, desarrolladores y compradores parecen ir todos hacia un mismo lugar, sea por voluntad propia o arrastrados por una corriente de cambio demasiado poderosa para poder oponerse con éxito. Tal y como sucede con el cause de las grandes voluntades planetarias, aunque en privado mucha gente denuncie cierto hastío proveniente de tener que estar pensando en cambiar las cosas con tal celeridad, o llegue a la honestidad brutal de admitir enojo ante ello; las empresas que enfilan el timón en esa dirección, siguen siendo las más exitosas y actuales de todas. El flujo de dinero, no se detiene. Así, el modelo se revalida.

Amy always tried to maintain some semblance of dignity in front of me. Even so, I never met the same Amy more than once. On some days she behaved like a small child, sucking her thumb, talking in a baby voice and sitting on my knee; at other times she'd adopt the aggressive, butch act, the Rizzo character - the girl who had 'out-Jaggered Jagger'. The more vulnerable she felt, the more pronounced that persona would become. I think she brought her characters out as coping mechanisms, to get her through anxious moments or stressful situations. In all honesty there was rarely a time at Camden Square [her last home] when Amy was a whole person. Rather, she continued to be this fragmented girl, a series of creations I suppose I'd become accustomed to.

الحياة سلسلة من اللحظات ، و اللحظات تتغير دائما ، تماما مثل الأفكار ، السلبية و الايجابية. و رغم أنه ربما كانت من ظبيعة الانسان أن يستقر ، فهذا أمر غير منطقي كما هي الكثير من الأشياء الطبيعية ، غير منطقي أن يسمح لفكرة واحدة أن تسكن رأسه لأن الأفكار مثل الضيوف ، أو أصدقاء وقت الرخاء. فولر أن تصل ، يمكن أن تغادر ، و حتى الأفكار التي تستغرق وقتا طويلا لتخرج بالكامل يمكنها أن تختفي في غمضة عين. اللحظات ثمينة ، أحيانا تتلكأ و في أحيان أخرى تمضي سريعا ، مع ذلك يمكن أن تُنجز فيها الكثير ، يمكن أن تغير رأيا ، يمكن أن تنقذ حياة ، و يمكن أن تقع في الحب.

I freely admit that the best of my fun, I owe it to Horse and Hound - Whyte Melville (1821-1878) "Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; Or close the wall up with our English dead. In peace there's nothing so becomes a man As modest stillness and humility: But when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then imitate the action of the tiger; Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage; Then lend the eye a terrible aspect; Let pry through the portage of the head Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it As fearfully as doth a galled rock O'erhang and jutty his confounded base, Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean. Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide, Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit To his full height. On, on, you noblest English. Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof! Fathers that, like so many Alexanders, Have in these parts from morn till even fought And sheathed their swords for lack of argument: Dishonour not your mothers; now attest That those whom you call'd fathers did beget you. Be copy now to men of grosser blood, And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman, Whose limbs were made in England, show us here The mettle of your pasture; let us swear That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not; For there is none of you so mean and base, That hath not noble lustre in your eyes. I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, Straining upon the start. The game's afoot: Follow your spirit, and upon this charge Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!" ... King Henry V 1598 (William Shakespeare) I can resist anything except temptation - Oscar Wilde (Lady Windermere's Fan, 1892) In order to be irreplaceable, one must always be different - Coco Chanel When it comes to pain and suffering, she's right up there with Elizabeth Taylor - Truvy (Steel Magnolias) She looks too pure to be pink (Rizzo, Grease) I can't think about that right now. If I do, I'll go crazy. I'll think about that tomorrow - Scarlett O'Hara (Gone With The Wind.)

How can you eat donuts—jelly donuts no less—just before viewing a postmortem examination?” Al licked his lips clean. “What’s the big deal? Donuts are one of the five major food groups.” “Oh, really?” “Never heard of them?” “Not your version.” Al grinned boyishly. “Pizza, burgers, carne asada, donuts, and pussy.

Le movenze delle mani, il tentennare della testa e il ciuffo ribelle che danzava sulla fronte di David. Tutto sembrava così inverosimile. C’era pace in quella musica. C’era dolcezza. C’era quello di cui Constanze aveva bisogno. Si alzò dal letto appena lui staccò le dita dai tasti. David rimase seduto a guardarla incantato dai suoi occhi verdi, illuminati dalla bellezza. L’abbraccio fu interminabile. Fu come il volo di due gabbiani sul mare azzurro. L’incontro dei volti, il contatto delle guance e poi delle labbra.

There are no victims, only volunteers.

I never pick up the phone unless I know who it is and I’m scheduled to talk to that person at that time.

February 9: Marilyn arrives at 6:00 p.m. for the photo shoot with Rizzo and apologizes, pleading extreme fatigue. Another appointment is scheduled for the next day.

Oh, andiamo, sempre a prendervi sul serio. È incredibile quante storie fate su quest'isola. Se uno vi dice che è bella voi dite che è brutta, se uno dice che è brutta voi dite che è bella. Starci una settimana o un mese come fanno quelle come me non dà il diritto a esprimere opinioni, secondo voi. Se uno riconosce che ci sono dei problemi voi dite che chi viene da fuori, per carità, non si deve nemmeno permetter di venirveli a spiegare, questi problemi. E non sia mai di prendervi in giro: subito gridate al luogo comune, alla superficialità, persino a un certo danno alla vostra immagine. Ma andiamo, non è che dietro tutte queste manfrine c'è solo il fatto che siete tremendamente permalosi? Be', insomma, balbetto, non è proprio così.

L'opulenza e lo splendore della città sono tali, gli agrigentini costruiscono case come se non dovessero morire mai e mangiano come se dovessero morire l'indomani, diceva Empedocle - il mare, già allora, doveva essere un cesso.

Mi sembrano tutte molto belle, l'estate, in questi locali vicino al mare con gente che suona e balla e suda, questi locali della provincia dell'impero dove si suona l'elettronica europea e la gente si emoziona, proiettata nel futuro come gli sembra di essere

Andè, mi domanda, ma tu dove sei? Non afferro subito. Che dici, Totò? Dove sei?, ripete lui. Lara mi guarda strano, non la capisce una domanda del genere, non lo sa che da anni, nei paesi della Sicilia, si stanno disegnando nuove geografie dell'Italia e del mondo, che i paesani adesso sono costretti a mandare giù non più - o non solo - i prefissi e i cap di Milano Torino Roma, le città dei primi emigrati, ma anche quelli di Brembate di Sopra, Cittadella, Bolzano, paesi che fino a vent'anni fa nessuno conosceva, e a ragione, e che adesso si sono trasformati negli eldorado dei nuovi migranti. E a chi sta fuori la domanda va fatta, l'interlocutore può sempre avere notizie di prima mano su una qualche zona della Bassa padana dove le graduatorie dei bidelli sono ancora accessibili, non come a Milano Torino Roma, o magari sa qual è la situazione nei provveditorati trentini nelle fabbriche venete nei supermercati friulani.

In Sicilia l'unica cosa seria è la ristorazione, le dico, alzandomi. E anche quella è un bluff. Il novanta per cento è roba fritta, panelle arancine cazzilli, ci piace vincere facile.

Andiamo, dice, non rovinare tutto, non sopporto i siciliani che si lamentano dei siciliani. Hai ragione, le dico, è il nostro sport preferito. Peggio c'è solo una cosa. Cosa?, chiede lei, iniziando a risalire il curvone che ci riporta alla strada di terra battuta dove abbiamo lasciato l'auto. I siciliani che non si lamentano dei siciliani.

Bullshit, la Sicilia non esiste, gli sentiamo dire in tono piuttosto agitato dalla cucina. Io lo so perché ci sono nato. Senza offesa, bro', ma è tutta la sera che dici cazzate. Cosa succede?, chiedo, portando in tavola il pesce che Pupetta ha preparato per secondo. Dice Sicilia, e tz, fa tz con la bocca, l'amico americano. E basta, cazzo. Ma non si possono più sentire queste storie sulla specialità di quest'isola di merda. Come se in Sardegna non ci fosse il mare, come se in Irlanda non avessero la campagna, come se in Australia non ci battesse il sole. Tesoro, sono cazzate. Ha bevuto un po' troppo, cerca di spiegare Pupetta al fidanzato. [...] No, no, lascialo continuare, dice però John, è interessante, quando i siciliani si arrabbiano è interessante, mi ricordano certi personaggi di Pirandello. Pirandello fa cacare, dice Gaga. Tomasi di Lampedusa fa cacare. E Camilleri, anche Camilleri fa cacare?, chiede l'americano. Camilleri è il male assoluto. Dovrebbero imprigionarlo e rileggerli tutti i romanzi di Montalbano fino a che non implori pietà. Bisognerebbe mettere mano alla pistola ogni volta che qualcuno dice della splendida decadenza de dell'irrimediabilità di questo posto, come fanno Camilleri Pirandello Tomasi. Bisognerebbe appiccare il fuoco, incendiare tutto, la, togliere ogni punto di riferimento agli isolani e al resto del mondo. Bisognerebbe, ecco, bisognerebbe che qualcuno si decidesse a scrivere un piccolo manuale per organizzare una guerra lampo, radere al suolo la Sicilia e resettare la mente di quelli un po' cretini come te. Senza offesa, tesoro, era solo un esempio.

Secondo me, ogni volta che si scrive un articolo si racconta la storia di uno di loro, secondo me bisognerebbe fare questa premessa: il pidocchio tal dei tali ha vissuto di merda, ha ingoiato la merda degli altri pidocchi e degli sbirri ogni giorno che il cielo l'ha mandato in terra, ha dormito in posti di merda per scappare alla merda del carcere duro, è finito in cella a spalare merda, ha finito per puzzare di merda e, ah, sì, una volta l'hanno visto guidare una macchina di lusso. Strappo un sorriso a Mario, che però subito replica: È più complicato di così. Certo che è più complicato di così, gli rispondo. Non mi sognerei mai di dire che Il padrino ha fatto crescere il numero dei pidocchi, forse quello dei turisti, ma non quello dei pidocchi. Però se la si smettesse di far sembrare i pidocchi sempre dei fichi, forse male non farebbe. Voglio dire, pure i Sopranos, belli, per carità, e di Toni si sente anche un po' il profumo della merda che pesta ogni giorno, però mai una volta una cosa brutale che faccia dire Oh, gran bei coglioni questi, tutta questa vucciria per vivere così di merda.

San Calò è il santo nero arrivato dall'Africa a colonizzare la Sicilia. Come tutti i colonizzatori dell'isola ha avuto vita facile. La Sicilia è stata greca romana e araba, barbarica e bizantina, normanna angioina aragonese borbonica, italiana e quasi americana, e se venisse qualcuno da Marte diventerebbe immediatamente Marziana

Il punto è che tutti sembrano ossessionati, snorfo, bisogna salvare la Sicilia, bisogna lottare, bisogna riscattarla. Ma che minchia è, questa, la terra degli assistenti sociali?, dice. Tutti a occuparsi della salvezza altrui, tutti con l'idea esatta per farlo, nessuno che si preoccupi di salvare se stesso.

This new generation of Italian American entertainers shared Sinatra’s view of the new dance music that emerged in the 1950s. “Rock-and-roll is the most brutal, ugly, desperate, vicious form of expression it has been my misfortune to hear,” Sinatra told Congress in 1958. “Rock-and-roll smells phony and false. It is sung, played, and written for the most part by cretinous goons, and by means of its almost imbecilic reiteration, and sly, lewd—in plain fact, dirty—lyrics … it manages to be the martial music of every sideburned delinquent on the face of the earth.” In response to the raw, driving sexuality of black-influenced rock, young Italian American men in New York and Philadelphia did to the new music what Sinatra and his generation had done to jazz. A style combining smooth vocal harmonies, romantic lyrics, and a stationary stage presence, doo-wop was invented in the 1940s by black youth on street corners, but it shot to the top of the pop charts in the late 1950s when Italian Americans adopted it as their own—just as most African American performers moved toward “soul music.” From 1958, when Dion (DiMucci) and the Belmonts placed several songs on the pop charts, until the “British Invasion” of 1964, Italian American doo-wop groups dominated American popular music. All wearing conservative suits and exuding a benign romanticism, the Capris, the Elegants, the Mystics, the Duprees, the Del-Satins, the Four Jays, the Essentials, Randy and the Rainbows, and Vito & the Salutations declared the arrival of Italians into American civilization. During the rise of doo-wop and Frank Rizzo, Malcolm X mocked the newly white Italians. “No Italian will ever jump up in my face and start putting bad mouth on me,” he said, “because I know his history. I tell him when you’re talking about me you’re talking about your pappy, your father. He knows his history. He knows how he got that color.” Though fewer and fewer Italian Americans know the history of which Malcolm X spoke, some have reenacted it.

February 10: In a four-hour afternoon shoot, Rizzo captures Marilyn in close-up and in various positions on a lounger and at the edge of her Brentwood home pool. He later said she seemed “immensely sad . . . and that sadness was very visible in the pictures.

February 8: Newcomb calls Rizzo to postpone the shoot. Marilyn was tired and planning to move into her new home soon, Newcomb explains. But another appointment is set for the next afternoon. Marilyn’s Brentwood home is purchased with a fifteen-year mortgage at 6.5 percent interest, with payments of $320 a month. Marilyn arranges to have a new kitchen built for $1,393.46.

February 6: Photographer Willy Rizzo meets with Pat Newcomb about a photo shoot scheduled for February 8. Milton Ebbins, a Sinatra friend and vice president of Peter Lawford’s production company, drives Marilyn to and from a dinner in honor of John F. Kennedy at the home of Fifi Fell, widow of John Fell, an investment banker. Marilyn accompanies the Strasbergs to a performance of Macbeth at the Old Vic Theatre in New York.

Si el bueno de Huxley, en lugar de Soma hubiera bautizado Internet a su droga, hoy probablemente nadie habría escuchado hablar nunca de Orwell ni Philip K. Dick

Because that’s what parents did. They protected their children. No matter what.

But they always came back to each other. And usually, that coming back involved an awkward joke, a moment of sarcasm. Self-deprecating humor. The mother of all reset buttons.

eggs and curried chicken salad and double fudge brownies. That was all she was good at: eating. In the summer the Castles, the Alistairs, and the Randolphs all went to the beach together. When they were younger, they would play flashlight tag, light a bonfire, and sing Beatles songs, with Mr. Randolph playing the guitar and Penny’s voice floating above everyone else’s. But at some point Demeter had stopped feeling comfortable in a bathing suit. She wore shorts and oversized T-shirts to the beach, and she wouldn’t go in the water, wouldn’t walk with Penny to look for shells, wouldn’t throw the Frisbee with Hobby and Jake. The other three kids always tried to include Demeter, which was more humiliating, somehow, than if they’d just ignored her. They were earnest in their pursuit of her attention, but Demeter suspected this was their parents’ doing. Mr. Randolph might have offered Jake a twenty-dollar bribe to be nice to Demeter because Al Castle was an old friend. Hobby and Penny were nice to her because they felt sorry for her. Or maybe Hobby and Penny and Jake all had a bet going about who would be the one to break through Demeter’s Teflon shield. She was a game to them. In the fall there were football parties at the Alistairs’ house, during which the adults and Hobby and Jake watched the Patriots, Penny listened to music on her headphones, and Demeter dug into Zoe Alistair’s white chicken chili and topped it with a double spoonful of sour cream. In the winter there were weekends at Stowe. Al and Lynne Castle owned a condo near the mountain, and Demeter had learned to ski as a child. According to her parents, she used to careen down the black-diamond trails without a moment’s hesitation. But by the time they went to Vermont with the Alistairs and the Randolphs, Demeter refused to get on skis at all. She sat in the lodge and drank hot chocolate until the rest of the gang came clomping in after their runs, rosy-cheeked and winded. And then the ski weekends, at least, had stopped happening, because Hobby had basketball and Penny and Jake were in the school musical, which meant rehearsals night and day. Demeter thought back to all those springs, summers, falls, and winters with Hobby and Penny and Jake, and she wondered how her parents could have put her through such exquisite torture. Hobby and Penny and Jake were all exceptional children, while Demeter was seventy pounds overweight, which sank her self-esteem, which led to her getting mediocre grades when she was smart enough for A’s and killed her chances of landing the part of Rizzo in Grease, even though she was a gifted actress. Hobby was in a coma. Her mother was on the phone. She kept

La Historia esta llena de muertos que no tienen que vivir con las consecuencias de sus actos, cobardías y errores.

La posteridad no admite medias tintas. Si no se quiere ser tratado como masa imbécil, no hay que comportarse como una.

Eres joven pero a este paso, la tecnología de la información va a pasarte por arriba, y nadie extrañará tu joven cadáver pisoteado si no le sacan una foto para las redes sociales.

El mero concepto de un organismo de control me revuelve el estómago tanto como los idiotas que pueden defender un sistema basado en la vigilancia perpetua. Nadie vigila nunca en verdad. Es otra ilusión de verificación imposible. Solo aquellos con las capacidades, medios y conocimientos específicos pueden auditar algo así. ¿Qué queda entonces para todo el resto? Confiar ciegamente.

Lo humano a la larga, siempre resulta momentáneo.

Es difícil de entender porque resulta contraintuitivo para los calores humanos de comprensión. La cantidad de data que se genera en un segundo, en el mundo actual es tan grande que la hemos dejado como algo incognoscible. Hemos asumido que se encuentra por fuera total de nuestro alcance o raciocinio. La hemos llamado destino, voluntad de Dios o suerte azarosa. Cuando en verdad, no hay nada en este universo librado al azar.

Todos los críticos son prostitutos intelectuales. Algunos por dinero y otros por gusto.

Vivimos en una era en la que la verdad es selectiva. A voluntad.

Queda preguntarse qué sabríamos del pasado, de las épocas remotas y no tan efímeras, si sus huellas hubieran sido igual de volátiles que las nuestras.

Bien usada, la nueva cultura donde todos somos un terminal del control, una representación de la autoridad colectiva al poder guardar registro de lo que hacemos y hacen, puede que no sea tan mala ni distópica. Claro, después vamos a la Historia, y nos corre un frío helado por la columna...

Relativizando con otros medios, extremando la comparación, podríamos decir que en las mismas horas que me gasté recorriendo cada secreto y rincón de Skyrim, es el equivalente a 72 series anime de 12 episodios, 175 películas de 2 horas, 233 partidos de fútbol, o casi 282 veces la novena sinfonía de Beethoven.

A menos que nos lavemos los dientes, comamos, nos duchemos y hagamos actividad física indispensable, cocinemos, limpiemos nuestro hábitat, compremos, y nos enteremos de noticias y el mundo que nos rodea, todas estas cosas mientras jugamos Skyrim; bien podríamos decir que se nos irá fácilmente más del 10% del tiempo útil, de ocio o recreación de todo un año, a terminar un juego.

[...]podríamos decir que en las mismas horas que me gasté recorriendo cada secreto y rincón de Skyrim, es el equivalente a 72 series anime de 12 episodios, 175 películas de 2 horas, 233 partidos de fútbol, o casi 282 veces la novena sinfonía de Beethoven.

[...]en un mundo con equipos descartables, medianías de vida cortas y actualizaciones forzadas, lo único que falta por cambiar y ser reemplazado, es el mismo usuario[...]Por ahora.

¿Cuántos álbumes familiares han desaparecido con un error, borrado de usuario o censura del administrador? ¿Qué cantidad de relatos, historias, cartas escritas en pocas líneas entre personas y personalidades famosas, no llegarán a las salas de Historia, pues se borrarán antes?

The human in the long run is always momentary.

History is full of dead people who do not have to live with the consequences of their acts, cowardice and mistakes.

Posterity does not accept half measures. If you don't want to be treated like an idiot mass, you don't have to behave like one.

It's hard to think of posterities, when today is so urgent.

Amy always tried to maintain some semblance of dignity in front of me. Even so, I never met the same Amy more than once. On some days she behaved like a small child, sucking her thumb, talking in a baby voice and sitting on my knee; at other times she'd adopt the aggressive, butch act, the Rizzo character - the girl who had 'out-Jaggered Jagger'. The more vulnerable she felt, the more pronounced that persona would become. I think she brought her characters out as coping mechanisms, to get her through anxious moments or stressful situations. In all honesty there was rarely a time at Camden Square when Amy was a whole person. Rather, she continued to be this fragmented girl, a series of creations I suppose I'd become accustomed to.

Si hay un autor más relevante que los demás en su concepción, es ese quien, irónicamente, puede no haber escrito ni una sola palabra, pero si haber orquestado las demás.

Quien vive adelantado o atrasado, lo hace sin embargo fuera de su tiempo, el único que le ha tocado para existir.

Sea a través de escritores anónimos, cantautores olvidados en el tiempo, poetas remotos o míticos como Homero. Alguien o algo, así se trate de una construcción social del inconsciente colectivo materializado en aportes a lo largo del tiempo, es su creador.

Las ideas delirantes suelen correr por parte de los autores, quienes por pudor se abstienen de hacerlas demasiado públicas.

La triste realidad que afrontan los creadores de todo tipo de contenido, en la disyuntiva de tener que aggionarse o morir en la sombra del fracaso popular.

Si te obsesionas con quien te dice las cosas, te pierdes del contenido real.

La fantasía de seguridad que tiene el domador con su látigo, sin darse cuenta de que al igual que el tigre o el león que cree controlar, está atrapado tras barrotes. Si la fiera lo desea, si en verdad intenta merendarse a su captor, no habrá látigo que lo detenga. Y allí, el domador aprenderá que los barrotes también lo encierran.

No se puede vivir en otro tiempo que no sea el propio.

Nos volvemos obsoletos, y apenas nos estamos dando cuenta.

Es muy difícil volver a convencer a la gente cuando se ha puesto de un lado en particular o armado una narrativa que le convenza. Ignorarán a su total conveniencia cualquier tipo de prueba que inhabilite el pensamiento ya elegido, siguiendo la ley del menor esfuerzo.

Ahí afuera, pueden haber millones de máquinas, computadoras o programas ejecutándose en ellas. Escribiendo, componiendo música o bien haciendo cualquier otra cosa atribuida a los seres humanos. ¿Cómo puede alguien quedarse tan tranquilo y dormir bien al saber eso?

¿Cómo es que nos hemos vuelto tan predecibles en nuestros gustos, al nivel de que eso pueda ser codificado, interpretado y llevado a cabo con la fría eficiencia de una computadora?

Es complejo analizar, incluso en nuestros días contemporáneos tan atravesados por la tecnología, si la ética continúa siendo algo relevante para quienes diseñan estos inventos. ¿Lo ha sido realmente alguna vez? Algunos aún celebran a los científicos que crearon la bomba atómica.

Millones de comentarios no moverán la aguja de la calidad ni un centímetro, cualidad perdida en batalla mitómana de los tiempos tecnológicos en que vivimos.

Las masas suelen premiar o felicitar todo aquello que las interpele desde algún sitio. Incluso, desde la incomodidad o el misterio.

Extraña reacción de lo masivo, que por singular o diferente, si se repite lo suficiente acaba por aburrir o volverse habitué.

Cuando la evidencia falta, las elucubraciones abundan.

Las máquinas, por eficientes que sean, son a su vez aburridas a ojos de quien busca una conversación.

La obsolescencia es así. Es posible que la época del humano vaya llegando a su fin, y que aún no nos hayamos dado cuenta de ello.

Glorias y miserias de la autoría, los derechos editoriales, el pedazo del alma que se vende al publicar.

En la jerga del sonido audiófilo, la del alto nivel sonoro, se le llama revealing. Revelador, a un equipo de cualidades superiores. Tanto, que hace sentir incluso la música nostálgica y conocida de toda una vida como una experiencia nueva, arrolladora. Cimbales antes ocultos muestran su brillante cara. Paneos perdidos en el espectro espacial estéreo aparecen. Como fantasmas, los instrumentos y sus intérpretes son invocados, llegando a producir un extraño tipo de ilusión óptico-sonora.

Federalism should not provide state and local governments with the power to ignore the Constitution in any area, least of all in policing. Rizzo v. Goode, followed a short time later by City of Los Angeles v. Lyons, eliminated the power of federal courts to remedy proven patterns of racist, unconstitutional policing.

had back in the seventies

like banking.

Siempre es tarde para las grandes cosas.

Puedo darle el dolor de mil vidas. Bibliotecas eternas de sufrimiento. Reducir su conciencia a la de una ameba omnisciente, omnipresente. Enviarlo a los millones de mundos en cada espejo del universo. Atraparlo allí. Y romper el cristal.

Es lo que tiene la grandeza: hasta el más pequeño puede reconocerla cuando se manifiesta de una forma tan directa.

En el fondo, todos estamos en algún tipo de submarino, en cierta clase de océano insondable. Es nada más que una cuestión de tiempo hasta que lo entendamos. Hasta que el navío al que llamamos cuerpo, haga agua y nos deje tiesos

And worse, Fin decided to plop his fuzzy butt just feet from the auction house. The scene of the crime.

Giorgio is…well, he’s a narcissistic asshole. There’s no other way to put it. Everyone knows there are only five bosses in the Cosa Nostra – Rizzo, Torrisi, Vitale, La Rosa, and Falco. The five families run New York, and no one dares go against them.

I can’t believe I just came face-to-face with Angelo Rizzo. God, the man is intense. And handsome. And freaking scary.

My cousin was supposed to take over the Rizzo seat in the Cosa Nostra, but he was assassinated by the Quintero cartel when they tried to move into New York. I was nineteen when I took over so my uncle could retire as head of the Rizzo family.

Fuck, has it already been fifteen years? Time flies when you’re making money. No wonder Uncle Maurizio’s been on my case about getting married. He’s scared I’ll be taken out before I get the chance to give the Rizzo family an heir.

the Romanos are way beneath the Rizzos. At least she’s fucking Sicilian. I shake my head again because I sure as fuck don’t want Giorgio for a brother-in-law.

Rizzo had been Bud’s favorite player on the current roster.

Sometimes when things go bad in life, we just need to hit the reset button.