you want to talk of "Boing Generation." 
we now, after almost one year of silence since the last post (I promise as soon as possible a summary of previous mesate "), but most of all ... 5 years after the last novel published, after many many months left to dry in the pen ink, is about to leave the new book by Luca Sacchiero (which, then, except for momentary identity crisis, would be me).
"Boing Generation - the history without the kangaroo pouch" tells the story of four men
on the road, back and forth in space and time.
Everyone on their way, all in the same car ... how can this?
The novel is published by the young and fresh "Edizioni della Sera" (
http://www.edizionidellasera.com ), and should be baked a day from the printers.
But what is "Boing Generation"?
Beccatevi questa.
Nella "beat generation" tutto – la gente, la musica, la vita – correva, correva, correva,correva, saltava, saltava, saltava, saltava, vibrava, vibrava, vibrava, vibrava, picchiava, urlava, ballava, schizzava, sfuggiva, colpiva&scompariva, gridava, rideva, viveva, moriva, risorgeva all’infinito. Nella "BOING generation" regna l’apparenza. Ma è un’apparenza molle, informe, che incassa i colpi della vita in modo diverso: li assorbe nella sua melma, con l’indifferenza di chi non è nemmeno stato sfiorato. Ma quei colpi si sentono eccome, solo that accumulate inside. Why the "BOING generation", in, now you do not see us anymore. All stop at as you're out, and even yourself. Especially yourself. The ignorant, the evil inside you, you can not appear weak mica. And you realize the pain that you lock yourself on him only when it explodes. And you can not do anything but run away from yourself. But you're out of breath, slow, mired in the same mud you're made of. You have so much anger and so much (so much) fear. "I, Peter, Rosco and Davor are four men on the run." But who are these four men-kangaroo, trying to sneak away without their carrier?
To begin to meet them (and - I warn you - do not let yourself be enchanted!), I have the pleasure to introduce
Sweet THOSE KANGAROOS OF DOCUMENTARY. With the I-pod headphones that hooks your ears, Pietro advanced in its rubbery Puma race number 45. The urban landscape in continuous approach bounced off the front of the eyes. Every stride was a perfect drive suspension. The digital clock on her wrist was clear, even a few seconds and would have taken fifty-seventh minute of the race, and this meant that his calculations were correct: the last few hundred meters from the attack in those three minutes would have brought back home precisely accurate. Peter felt something hot and iced like a whirlwind start to grow in his chest and replace the air, the drops of sweat were a curtain of beads that hung from the eyebrows and the heart now kicked his Adam's apple . He had already faced those moments, do not be scared on the brink of exhaustion. Indeed, precisely because they already knew everything, gritted his teeth to take on the enemy which was now again riposseduto. swallowed his nose so much air that the lungs would be served in a backpack to hold all of the head. Will not tip forward with chest and arms to cling to a vacuum and suddenly began to sound like a climb straight uphill. In his heart of snorting locomotive, Peter felt her voice climb over the music and growling: "You can not quit now, the phenomenon" legs sped up their forces on the ground and when Peter saw it he was enthusiastic: he felt a strong serum drip from the brain and spread throughout the body. Accelerated even more. "So great, on fire 'is the way!" Roberto Scognari, col passare degli anni, si era abituato al suo soprannome. «Piacere, Rosco» diceva a chiunque, al momento delle presentazioni. E un po’ il suo fascino, un po’ la disinvoltura con cui lo diceva, un po’ la tranquillità del suo sorriso ti ci facevano credere davvero che l’uomo a cui stavi stringendo la mano si chiamasse veramente Rosco. Alle scuole elementari, quand’era solo uno scheletro bianchiccio con ricci color rame a sconvolgergli la testa, lo odiava quel soprannome, tanto da aizzarsi come un cobra e schizzare bava e lacrime. Al liceo, con la faccia shakerata con lentiggini e brufoli, ma con le spalle che si allargavano e i tratti che si abbellivano, aveva iniziato a dirsi cose come «Mi dà un non so che di America Latina e di losco al tempo stesso». Fino a che non arrivò ad accettare del tutto, e anzi ad apprezzare, la fantasia dei suoi primissimi compagni di classe che avevano preso le iniziali del suo nome, quello del suo cognome e avevano giocato sulla somiglianza col solito Roscio. Adesso che era un uomo, occhi verdi e screziati come gemme, attraente e sicuro di sé, Rosco era anche Roberto Scognari e non viceversa. - Piacere, Rosco – le aveva detto prendendole la mano e lasciando poi la presa con una carezza nascosta. - Piacere, Ginevra – she replied, taking only a few seconds on his face the expression of those who would ask "Do you really call Rosco? Then his smile had enveloped her, and she, in that strange name, since only c'aveva nuances of exotic, mysterious and disturbing. Until a few moments before everything was fast. Behind the scenes of the boys team were shot out towards the stage, and then again inside and out, and so on until they merge together in the minds of Davor Cream: how clones, like shadows, like wind. Who went on the lights, the sound of those amps, to grant those instruments, who, eager and just ran to be part of the whole, which reduced the corridor space and expanded the chaos. But looking at him with a certain lucidity, that "everything" as every time it was ordered and frantic like a movie fast forward. Until the call: "Ok guys, we have, it's up to you: let it shake that stage." Davor Cream And suddenly he saw every movement slow down. Stopped any sound: footsteps, noises, panting, cursing. Davor hardly even notice the other members of the group that passed him and clapped him on the back, tell him something and disappeared around the corner to reach the stage. Davor was left alone inside, and perhaps even outside, just before the concert. There was his breathing and nothing else, the drums like a powerful tornado. Most do not even recognize himself in front of mirrored walls that reflected his image. He was pretty darn comfortable and extremely scratchy in jeans and a shirt that wore and had rings on his fingers and ears, and a fire tattoo on his right shoulder coming up to bite the neck almost to the lobe and that seems to be projected on the head, Hair by schizophrenics. you go through, Davor cream. It was primal emotion. grabbed his mug of beer with grit and sent down the mighty gulps. Alla terza sbagliai il ritmo ingoio-respirazione e un gavettone di birra spinosa mi esplose nel naso. Non tossii come avrei desiderato, rimasi fermo e composto, finsi normalità e indifferenza allo stato puro: dopo essermi ritagliato fuori da quella pagina di ambientazione disco-pubesca, non volevo rincollarmi nello spazio lasciato vuoto con l’etichetta “coglione”. Sentii gli occhi lacrimare e per un attimo credetti che fosse la birra che tentava di uscire anche dalla palpebra inferiore. Non feci una piega, probabilmente diventai viola, poi rosso, poi verde, ma cercai comunque di farlo andando in accordo cromatico coi riflettori sparsi per la sala: viola, rosso, verde. E nessuno noticed that beer was losing his nose like a faucet fault. When I resumed breathing, thoughts went back to mix. But this time, I told myself, I wanted to draw conclusions. The alcohol had made me reckless. For the next beer, however, I asked a couple of straws, one for each nostril. "It's okay man?". I said yes, and in fact was true. I: - a home of my (rented); - a job at a copy shop to remind me that my days were ordered photocopies; - an honest collection of pirated DVDs; - A Metrobus card; - a dog named Raudy (stuffed); - a girl who can fight on weekends; - a mother-bakes lasagna; - a father McGyver ; - a best friend to envy (which I avoided to see because of guilt); - other reliable friends are always ready to make € 10 each for my birthday present. And even though I had always thought that some sentences were too much to film, it was true: "I twenty-seven years and I have everything you need for a normal life," Even though probably a film with a sentence like that would have been in theaters more than a couple of days, being optimistic. But I was not optimistic nor pessimistic: I was normal. And, at the time, I was one who was complaining because he had nothing to complain about. Thus, a jerk. Be ', what to say. They all seem so vital, brilliant, determined, passionate ... were it not for the fourth, the mysterious pain in the neck of a beer and complain the other.
E 'there to spoil the atmosphere or is the only honest with himself and with life that you chose?
I have read the book, I could give an answer ... Although, as I wrote, I was also there to ask: "Is this what you want?! Why not bouncing cheerfully with others? is not part of another story?"
If you are intrigued, waiting, pawing with me.
fact (given the onomatopoeia "canguresca" of the title), bouncing bouncing on the spot.
If it has managed to tickle, to spread the word to friends and relatives ... canguresco if you have only annoyed, spread the same, unleashing the kangaroos to people who are highly on pal .. um ... on the carrier!
soon with dates & places of presentations (... and of course, a guide carefully filtered
on what happened during this quasi-year post without a "Luca Sacchiero outside of the Web").
