I decided to write a new post today, Friday afternoon at 18.24, because I did not want to spend too much time from the previous year. And why, ladies and gentlemen, this is the post n.113, as the number of police. There are-nothing (if Mourinho can create new words and expressions at random, like "tituli tory" because I can not do?) Alone in this room, office room - account number 4 - which overlooks the ghetto, a notoriously of my favorite neighborhoods in Rome. I finished my first three weeks of Pierre, which is fine if they become five. Five and stop. Ah yes, the eternal love for this city (and a group of friendly and creative work) tried my soul pennivendola fashionable with a couple more weeks to the Agency. And I, weak rome-employee who longs to go to an office every day, leaving in peace crackers the soy in plain sight (which means: the place is mine) and a box of snail mail qualchecosa long as it's the name of a company, I accepted. Always finish, though. Because they are always convinced that the game is great when short-lived.
All this is prologue for one and one purpose only: to break a lance in favor of these poor pierre. The journalists, in fact, the category that there is more acidic and lazy. Yes, if we are not regurgitate, if we are not invited, thanked, and again thanked flattered, do not move a finger. Or at least I do. Slam me and call the press to get the material. And sometimes, if they give me, I find it somewhat otherwise. From the outside the modus operandi of dozens of famous (well most illustrious of me) gentlemen, I begs a question: are the only idiot journalist in the world?
And with this question in mind, I begin the weekend in Rome.
0 comments:
Post a Comment