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La banda dello stivale, ovvero la Seconda Unità d'Italia - 7

scrittoriprecari — Fri, 27 Nov 2009 23:01:55 +0000

[Leggi qui le puntate precedenti]

Ora, stando agli atti del processo gli è che il bubbone metifico – quello che lor poeti definirebbero invece sacro fuoco, o volontà di potenza, perché troppo si vergognano a chiamarlo col suo termine più proprio: ovvero un ego smisurato – insomma, quella cosa lì, crebbe a dismisura dopo una prima tappa sperimentale nella città partenopea, dove gli entusiasmi ribollirono a tal punto da convincere una signorina lì di passaggio a indirizzarli verso un luogo il cui nome ben si adattava alla veritiera natura dei cinque declamatori. Questo luogo si chiamava – e presuppongo si chiami tutt’oggi, poiché non compare nel registro degl’indagati – il Perditempo: un posto dove vennero accolti come cantori di un nuovo mondo, in modo così inaspettato che rimasero basiti davanti a chi porgeva loro in dono calici traboccanti di bevande senza che neanche vi fosse stata esplicita richiesta (quando invece, solitamente, erano costretti a far la questua per ottenere almeno un cicchetto omaggiato per sciaquare l’ugola dopo tanto profluvio di parole). Uno di loro poi, quello che si vantava dei suoi natali etruschi – che però era finito guardacaso a Roma per fornicar con le parole – finì talmente ciucco da concludere la serata con una barzelletta toscana; ché ci vorrebbero delle foto solo per vedere le facce tutte da ridere dei discendenti di Pulcinella, da immaginarsi con le orecchie protese e le mascelle spalancate nel tentativo di carpire qualche ci aspirata e inghiottita insieme ai sorsi di limoncello di Sorrento che il sommo vate trincava tra una frase e l’altra.

È di quei giorni lì la prima voce di una possibile alleanza extracapitolina, in cui sembrò confluire una misteriosa brigata partenopea, composta di scrittori dialettali e non, che spingevano per goder dei fasti di un nuovo 7 settembre*, per poi ritirarsi anch’essi, da veri intellettuali, senza ricompense e in qualche sperduto loco**.

Ad onor del vero quest’unione non s’ebbe poi a fare, e rimane una delle zone oscure di tutta questa stramba processione che vide le parole uscir dai loro ranghi come insubordinati non ligi agli ordini. Il dilemma non è affatto di poco conto, ché la risposta potrebbe confermare i legittimi dubbi sulla reale unità d’intenti tra i nostrani spadaccini di penna, soprattutto alla luce dei documenti recentemente resi noti dalla commissione di vigilanza web, dai quali emergono polemiche e risse verbali all’ordine del giorno tra questi tutori della cultura, che in quanto a ferir di lingua non sembravano da meno dei tanto vituperati giornalisti.

Insomma, stando ai prodromi si potrebbe oggi asserire che il piano partì già bello che zoppo, nonostante i facili entusiasmi che accompagnarono i cinque briganti durante il viaggio di ritorno in seconda classe, soprattutto quelli del poeta imbrattatore di mura, che fantasticava il buon ritiro in quel di Ausonia, ma solo dopo aver compiuto il suo dovere civico verso l’irriconoscente patria, che si burlava ancora una volta del coraggio dei proprio figli.

Il dado era tratto e i cinque si apprestavano a render giustizia non soltanto a coloro che già si organizzavano per l’espatrio, ma anche a chi, accerchiato dalla cultura dell’aggressione verbale, si accingeva mestamente ad alzar bandiera bianca: essi vollero dare esempio di strenua resistenza dinanzi a chi voleva accorciare la lingua italiana ai suoi minimi termini, per riportarla invece ai fasti, alla ricchezza e alla musicalità a lei più congeniali, proprio come ai tempi del Gadda e del Landolfi.

Simone Ghelli

* Il riferimento è alla conquista della capitale del Regno delle due Sicilie, dove Garibaldi fece il suo ingresso il 7 settembre del 1860, per poi sconfiggere le truppe del re Francesco II che si erano ritirate a nord del Volturno.

** Dopo aver accompagnato il re Vittorio Emanuele II a Napoli, l’8 novembre del 1860 Garibaldi si ritirò sull’isola di Caprera, rifiutandosi di accettare qualsivoglia ricompensa per i suoi servigi.

Places in the Aeneid

Samuel — Sat, 24 Oct 2009 18:20:17 +0000

When Homer uses the words “Danaan” or “Achaean”, anybody with a smattering of knowledge on Greek epic would read that to mean simply “Greek”, and probably (with a great deal of justification) put the change down to an attempt to keep to meter. It’s the same with place names; when I’ve read the Aeneid in the past, I’ve seen the words “Aeneas set sail for Hesperia” written down on the page and registered something along the lines of “Aeneas set sail for some place but it’s probably not particularly important where so keep reading Sam, just keep reading.” Since moving to Italy a year and a half ago however, these names often have added significance for me. When I read about the funeral games for Anchises being held in Drapanum, there’s an exciting realisation that Virgil’s talking about Trapani, a place I passed through in July.

Living on Via degli Ausoni as I do, one word which keeps cropping up is of particular interest to me: “Ausonia”. It’s normally used as an alternative word for Italy,* but the Ausones were a distinct people, and were in fact one of the three tribes of people met by Greek colonists when they first came to Italy. Dionysius of Halicarnassus writes very briefly about them (1 11,2-4; 12,1), and his dating suggests they were in modern day Calabria (the toe of Italy’s boot) in at least the sixteenth century BC. In the fourth century BC, the Ausonians allied with the Samnites against Rome, and as Livy writes in his Ab Urbes Condita 9.25, their main cities were destroyed as a result. One thing that’s particularly interesting about the Ausones within the context of the Aeneid is that according to myth, they were said to have descended from a son of Circe and Ulysses. The Greek is of huge importance to the lineage of the Italian people then, but at the same time, he is one of the only people viewed in an unambiguously negative light throughout the poem; we have one more complication in an increasingly complex poem. In the melting pot of cultures which would converge and become Rome, could the inclusion of the treacherous Odysseus’ line be gently undercutting the patriotic tones?

Incidentally, whilst I’m posting on the topic of places in the Aeneid, I remember the first time I ever read the poem I’d wondered about the “eternal fame” promised Caieta (the nurse of Aeneas) in book 7 and the Sybil’s promise that the place where Palinurus died would bear his name “for all time to come” (book 6). If anybody’s interested, the bay of Caieta still exists although the ‘C’ has softened to become “Gaieta” as does the town of Palinuro.

*Although not exclusively, see Evander’s account of Saturn’s reign in book 8, for example.

live dj set

getplaylist — Sun, 14 Jun 2009 20:17:08 +0000

Live dj set from Jump! @ Ausonia Club (Trieste – Italy) 13.06.2009

Part 1 Opening

Part 2 Closing

if you want to donwload the set in mp3, send this message
or leave a comment with your email

live dj set

getplaylist — Fri, 05 Jun 2009 09:00:16 +0000

Live dj set from Jump! Opening Party @ Ausonia Club (Trieste – Italy) 30.05.2009

mc: Spankj

if you want to donwload the set in mp3, send this message
or leave a comment with your email

25 aprile 2009: 35° Trofeo Frosali

aLe — Tue, 21 Apr 2009 16:38:31 +0000

E’ passato quasi un anno dallo scorso 25 aprile e, come da tradizione, sabato 25 aprile si cor

Cancro da Mama

Laetitia — Fri, 23 Jan 2009 01:18:31 +0000

Ao escolhermos comprar uma embalagem de Ausonia estamos a contribuir para que sejam desenvolvidos novos estudos acerca do cancro da mama.

Ninguém está livre de contrair este, bem como outros tipos de cancro. Por isso femmes: contribuam! Por vocês e por todas as outras mulheres vale a pena fazer a diferença.

Ristorante "da Tony" - Ausonia (Fr)

Daniele Mattaroccia — Mon, 12 Jan 2009 15:22:12 +0000

Ristorante “da Tony” – Ristorante situato nel centro di Ausonia in cui poter degustare ottimi piatti di pesce. Si inizia con un ottimo antipasto composto da più portate che variano quotidianamente, in cui troviamo del salmone, insalata di mare, tonno in salsa verde, alici marinate, polipetti al sugo, gamberetti funghi trifolati e grana, e altre portate. I primi sono a scelta dello chef Tony, si consiglia di accettare l’opzione “assaggi” che garantisce la degustazione di n.2 portate di primo sempre a base di pesce. I secondi, sempre a base di pesce, si caratterizzano per il pesce fresco che viene servito in una ampia scelta di cotture (fritto, all’acqua pazza, ecc.); da segnalare una frittura di calamari in pastella molto leggera e gradevole. Le quantità del cibo non sono eccessive, si adattano a palati fini che non guardano molto alla quantità ma alla qualità. I dolci sono molto buoni si consiglia il famoso “tris di dolci”. A contorno di tutto un buon vino bianco, consiglio una falanghina “Telaro”.

Prezzo medio: 25/30 € (antipasto abbondante per tutti, n.2 assaggi di primo per tutti, un secondo diviso in più persone, qualche tris di dolci – n.1 bottiglia di vino bianco)
Dove: Via provinciale 7 – Ausonia (Fr)
Tel.: 0776.953000

Esh una fieshta

Petite Brunette — Mon, 08 Dec 2008 07:32:25 +0000

Creo que no hace falta explicar el jaleo que se montó en youtube con las parodias del spot de Ausonia… Pobre niño fieshta… Ausonia ha sabido tomárselo con humor y ha lanzado este impecable site para que todos podamos reírnos de nosotros mismos… ¡y de nuestros amigos!

En “Yo llevo brackets, ¿y qué?” podréis subir vuestras fotos y probar cómo de guapos quedaríais con brackets. Una fieshta, vamos.

Soy 100% imparcial con este proyecto, pero no puedo dejar de felicitar al equipo… y a Ausonia por haber aprovechado esta oportunidad para demostrar su buen humor.

Caras que caen bien

Raquel — Sun, 23 Nov 2008 17:07:29 +0000

¿Cuántos personajes de la tele hay que no nos caen bien? Más de uno, seguro. Pero también hay otros que sin saber por qué nos caen simpáticos, tienen caras agradables, nos hacen reír o nos sentimos identificados con ellos. Con la publicidad pasa lo mismo, hoy os dejo el link con dos de los spots que más me gustan de la oferta televisiva actual: el de un hombre que pasa mucho frío y el de otro muy orgulloso de sus retoñas.

Última versión del anuncio fenómeno de Internet

AlvaroFTM — Mon, 17 Nov 2008 21:13:38 +0000

Con Carmen de Mairena como protagonista… xD

Vía | Vertele.com

Silvios Garden

jelletlambie — Wed, 12 Nov 2008 15:25:11 +0000

Originally published July 1, 2008

Things have their place in a civilized world. There is an order. One can expect to look, and to find, what one expects in the places one looks. This is the glue of our society. If we expect to find art, we look to a museum. We stand in line. We buy tickets. We look. We feel. We visit art in places we would expect it to reside. But what happens when we find art in the last place we expected? What happens when that art touches us in a way that no museum can? What happens when the artist emerges from a nap in his backyard to find people peering through his fence behind a strip mall in Redford? Simple….Silvio rubs his eyes, greets his friends, old and new, and begins the tour.

Silvio Barile was born in Ausonia, a small village in the province of Casserta, Italy in 1938. If you ask him he will tell you he hails from Naples. Close enough. In 1941 his family left their village for new accommodations in a relocation camp built by the Nazis. The men worked, building bridges, clearing land, whatever manual labor their “hosts” had for them. The women and children maintained the family unit in steadfast and grueling poverty.

I was startled that he would so freely speak of that period in his life. From the ages of 3 until 8 he lived in the relocation camp. These are deeply profound years in the growth of a child, years that should be spent in the family home, not in such a place is that. I expected after a sentence or two he would pitter off into silence, glassy eyed, the trepidation rendering him speechless until some other subject pierced his brow and shifted the conversation. Instead he spoke openly of singing Italian folk songs for the Nazi soldiers that they may toss him bread. He told stories of the toy cars, tanks and planes he would make from the deep red clay abundant in the camp, molding them with his small hands to then be left in the sun to harden. The beginnings of art are oft more inspiring than the actual work. Sometimes, both are splendid.

After the war he returned to Ausonia, toiling in the fields of his family farm, tending the animals, harvesting what few crops would grow. At some point in early adulthood (he does not remember his exact age) he and his mother left Italy to live with his Aunt in Dearborn, Michigan, to live in America.

Silvio loves many things; Family, cooking, and art among others. He worked as a baker briefly before buying a building in Redford, where he would open Silvio’s Rita Pizzeria. For more than 40 years he operated his business, serving what friends have told me was the unquestioned best pizza in town.

His Pizzeria is still there, at the corner of Plymouth and Lucerne, although the health department of the great state of Michigan decreed a few years back that his establishment was, in his words, “Not ok for making food”. Silvio disagreed. He did so with such fervor that he was arrested. It seems the lack of ventilation, proper storage space for food items and a growing collection of “art” in his establishment did not meet or exceed the minimum health and safety standards set forth by the State. The cost to upgrade was overwhelming. His restaurant would wither and die in his own hands.

I imagine many people would sell off the assets, the building itself, and fall gently into retirement. Silvio would do no such thing. His double store front has been converted into a place dually named The Redford Historical Institute of Arts and The Italian American Historical Artistic Museum and Cultural Center. He sells wine, packaged Italian foods and groceries – he cooks nothing. Along with his small social security checks, this is how he makes a living. This is not how he makes a life. Silvio is an artist. This is his life. He makes it anew everyday.

I have seen the Heidelberg Project. I have seen the abandoned barges of Houghton, Michigan, covered in graffiti. I have seen numerous places where abstract creativity has become art, in celebration of the artist and the world the artist knows. I have seen some of the most bizarre and unusual expressions and impressions in the United States. I have never seen anything akin to Silvio’s. I have rarely seen art in such a pure form. It is startling, alarming, far too much for many traditional connoisseurs to handle. It is something that quite simply, as the cliché allows, must be seen to be believed.

Within the building itself is a multi-media assortment of photographs, hand drawn signs, jackets, bottles, old model televisions, children’s toys, magazine cut-outs, paintings, album covers, dolls, musical instruments and sculptures. The items are hung and stacked in such a way it takes several moments to absorb at face value alone. Empty space is the enemy of the artist. It is reminiscent of what I imagine Silvio’s mind may look like on the inside. The gnarly, half Italian, half English scribbling of the proprietor is embedded on nearly every artifact. I am tempted to call the place alive, but it is more flaccid than anything allowed to draw its own breath. This place is a memoriam to Silvio Barile, what he has seen, what he has known. This world is his, yes, it is the same one we all share, but none of us have the singular grasp upon our own place in it as Silvio does his.

There is homage to several Popes, the Catholic in him bleeding through into everything in a passing way. President John Fitzgerald Kennedy is well represented. Pavarotti, Bing Crosby, Gordie Howe, Leonardo Da Vinci, The Mother Superior and a flaxon haired circa 1984 swimsuit model whose name escapes me at the moment are also plastered about. Left and right, up and down, from side to side and back again. It is everywhere, this thing, this amalgamation of what has been witnessed by a crazy old man, this crazy pizza man.

The floor tiles curl at the edges, held in place by vapor of glue at best. In the far back corner of the building a bilge of ceiling tile debris hangs limp from a hole in the drop ceiling, pipe and wire exposed. The lighting doesn’t work. Well, to be fair I’m sure the lighting scheme once worked, but the shear mass of nostalgia crammed in every direction so completely blocks the store front windows that barely a ray of natural light can now pass through. There is a dry, dusty smell; Nothing offending or rank, just dusty. Everything creaks, except Silvio, portly and spry despite himself, as he leads the tour.

To describe it as decoupage is a surface critique. This place is not the product of a long weekend spent with magazine clippings and a glue stick. This is a lifetime of work. It is a mission. It is a credo – a living, breathing credo, which needs to create to exist. No form of art is more pure than the work of those who must create it.

His knees are clearly bad. There is a wobble to his step. A bow-legged-ness. A pitch and plant stride pattern. He has short arms. His reach is minimal. If he stands above 5′ 7″ I’ll eat my hat. Yet walls that climb 12 feet high are shellacked over with imagery. Piles of items are found in configurations I would have thought impossible for a man of his size and age to reach, let alone assemble. He will be 70 years old this year. Still he works, and works, and works at this never-ending arrangement in the dumpy store front in Redford.

The kitchen area is home to a once magnificent oven, now dilapidated by years of neglect. His cooking utensils remain scattered along the counter, buried amidst piles of yet to be hung photos and signs. There is little in comparison hanging in the actual work area of the kitchen. It is still his place of work. For a man who looks back through his art so thoroughly I find it queer that his utensils have not been put away. Is it a longing to begin that life again, or an acceptance of it being over? I don’t know. I imagine that once he finished with those tools he was immediately and hence forth distracted by what to create next, and fluttered away like a tan, old, Italian cherub.

Behind the pizzeria, in the garden seating area, is the beginning of a collection of pieces that in its’ entirety covers more than four residential lots. It is strange to emerge from the dimly lit inside of his crazy into the sun showered outside of it. It takes your eyes a moment to adjust. I thought for certain I was having some sort of hallucinogen induced flashback. Nope. Just the statues.

There are a handful of small concrete based statues inside, but outside is where the bulk of them reside. The bigger ones. Elaborate and ornate, the grey cement peppered with garage sale trinkets and spray paint, these figures are massive, some more than 20 feet tall and weighing thousands upon thousands of pounds. Each is a celebration of itself. From life-size depictions of Julius and Augustus Caesar to the Empire State Building, The Stanley Cup and the Three Stooges (with honorary stooge Silvio included), each piece is the result of painstaking work. There is a soft around the edges feel to his detail. Any mold he may use is primitive, hand-crafted. Metal rods create the spines, mixed concrete and rock harden into shapes he hones by hand. Fat, sausage fingers riddled with calluses hang from his small hands. His fingerprints are in everything.

Flat areas of the statues are marked with hand scribed text, the hybrid old Italian/ English dialect adorning each figure. Pater Familia is carved into the body of Octavius Caesar, just below the words USA and Popou Romania. This is to remind Italian Americans that one culture feeds another, and that the Italian heritage must be celebrated, lived. At least that is the answer he gave in response to my first spoken word upon seeing the sculptures – “Why?”

His art is not for sale. It is not destined for galleries. The work is not commissioned. It is created out of unfettered desire for a thing, a representation, a vessel through which to tell a story. My first tour lasted some two and a half hours. Every piece has a story. I saw them all. I heard them all. I lost count of how many sculptures in total exist in his cavernous back yard, across the alley, behind the pizzeria.

The gate is fashioned with a hodge podge of wire and cable tying it shut. There are two signs – a small black and blue Posted No Trespassing, the kind you’d find at any hardware store, and a hand painted red, white and blue Silvio’s American Forum sign, unlike any you could find at any hardware store. There is only one way in, and it is through the madness of the man himself. Don’t get me wrong, he is delightful, truly so, and no more dangerous than your own eccentric uncle. He invites total strangers into his outdoor galleria, re-telling the same stories he has undoubtedly told hundreds of times, perhaps more. He sings. I’ve been told his selections vary with the seasons, but Italian Opera seems to be a constant theme. I imagine he may have sung for me the same tune that once netted him a hunk of stale Nazi bread, that which imprisoned his family and kept it alive in each same bite.

He has been the subject of countless articles and even a low budget, short documentary nearly impossible to find even in the internet age. His hair is grey from root to halfway up, black dye from there to end. A photographer came to his home some time ago to capture him and his work for a magazine, bringing out the vanity in the man. It seems since there have been no photographers, hence no dye jobs. Imagine a disheveled Paulie Walnuts.

Paths are laid between the trees, old carpets lining the thin passage between decades of stone and cement. The pieces sit outside all year, moving them is simply not an option. Some smaller works, placed on top of barrels, have been blown over by strong winds, or laid down as a precaution, giving the yard a stronger ramshackle appeal.

I find it peculiar that he shares a birthday with Picasso, Silvio says it connects them. Coincidence or not there are similarities in their shape patterns. The faces of his statues are consistent in the deep, round, hollow eyes, gaping mouths and bulbous noses. Perhaps I am ignorant in the study of sculpture, but I see little else in his work reminiscent of others. I doubt Donatello ever incorporated a school bus belt buckle. I do not believe Bernini specialized in seashell breast plates.

Barile’s filler arises from availability. Whatever the salvation army store has in the nick nack department that day is what will some day end up embedded in the walls of the coliseum or St. Francis of Assisi. Bold splashes of color abound in his grey backdrops, sometimes through ornamentation, others through $2.79 cans of Krylon. His driveway is lined with more than 2,000 pounds of large rocks he purchased to build the centerpiece of Gods Throne, his latest work.

However the pieces arise, they all exist to fulfill that purpose he told me in the beginning, to teach, to enlighten. This may be the end purpose, but I hold true to my hypothesis that each piece is created because it must be. There is simply no other thing for him to do with any subject he finds himself ensnared in. He must build it. He must materialize opinion, history, celebration and pain. And there is pain.

A few pieces depict his children. Their names are carved into the cement with sticks and fingers. Their faces round and hollow like the others. I should pause here to disclaim that I spent only one afternoon with Silvio. It is not possible to probe a man entirely in a single afternoon. Even if time permitted, certain things are off limits on day 1. I don’t pry into family difficulties. Sometimes however they emerge.

Some time ago his wife left him. It seems his relationships with some of his children are strained. He is alone, in a giant house, with a yard full of concrete giants. I learned enough that afternoon to see there is a sadness in the man. I can only imagine all the places it comes from. The sadness in him becomes the madness in his work, and therefore in him. Silvio sees the world at its least common denominators. His judgments are based in values we all aspire to, Love, Loyalty, Honor, Respect, and God. He draws from what he believes and freely opines it. He is without a filter. I like that in an artist. Some of his thoughts on religion, sex, abortion and other matters of catholic debate are considered archaic, some are more quaint. In either case he has squabbled with visitors before on these matters. He makes no apologies. He believes what he believes; you can see it in every concrete slab.

I would not expect him to waiver. Men like him solidify as they age. They have grown into their skin and even in the darkest of hours, find solace in their work, in their amassed collection of memory and thought. The most comfortable place in a maniac’s world is in his very own chair. In this case that chair is used to stand on while he affixes a plastic replica of Abraham Lincoln into a concrete mold.

The next time I visit a museum and peruse the sculptures, I will think of those concrete giants in the yard. The work I see at the DIA will be of finer detail, better quality, masterpieces of recognized genius. There will be a hole in each exhibit though, where the work of Silvio Barile should be. It is on the other hand charming to think that the next time I am in the market for Olive Oil or a bottle of wine that I may visit this man and this place. I may just find him napping in the yard, pondering what tribute must next be created.

You can find Silvio and his world of concrete giants at 26417 Plymouth Road (corner of Lucerne), Redford, MI, 48239. Come prepared for the tour. It is customary to purchase an item or two from his store as compensation for his time.

Hazaa

Super-absorbente

piru — Thu, 30 Oct 2008 08:54:29 +0000

El anuncio de Ausonia es lamentable, aquel en el que una madre que ha leído demasiado a Jorge Bucay y que llora con los trailers de las películas de Isabel Coixet le da ánimos a su pequeño preadolescente con sus problemas de autoestima por los brackets que le acaban de poner.

Para la madre:

- A tu hijo se la pela que se rían con el o no, lo que quiere es follar.

- El llevar una compresa u otra no varía en los consejos que le das a tu hijo.

- No le mientas a tu hijo: si hace reír a una mujer no se la ha ganado. Márcale claramente la diferencia entre reírse contigo o de ti. Te recuerdo que los mejores cómicos estamos solteros, pero claro, nuestras madres eran de tampax.

- Que no se te olvide dar el intermitente si vas a dejar el aparcamiento.

Para el hijo:

- No todas las fiestas son divertidas. Eso creía Roman Polansky al principio, y te recuerdo que no puede entrar en Estados Unidos.

- Hay que ver qué putada que tus viejos te puedan pagar una ortodoncia, eh.

- Si fuma, chupa.

- Dile a tu madre que de los intermitentes al salir.

Es una fiesta

mandawebos — Tue, 21 Oct 2008 13:57:00 +0000

Hace un tiempo venimos viendo, sufriendo, un anuncio en la tele de Ausonia donde, lejos de invitarnos a conocer lo bien (o mal) que huelen las nubes, una madre lleva a su hijo en coche a una fiesta y a éste le da corte entrar porque lleva aparato en los dientes.
El quid de la cuestión es cuando el chico le dice a su madre una frase memorable
“Pero como no voy a reirme, es una fiessshhhta“

Y se arma el pifostio.
Porque cuando dice fiessshhhta lo dice muy exagerado y claro, ésto le ha hecho gracia a todo el mundo menos a el.

Y teniendo tiempo libre, pues pasa lo que pasa…

¡Ez una fiezta!

Berto — Sun, 19 Oct 2008 15:17:54 +0000

Uno de los “remixes” más variopintos del archiconocido anuncio:

Fiesta en Esparta

Bullitt — Fri, 17 Oct 2008 16:58:53 +0000

Vaya panzada a reir me he pegado con el siguiente montaje que circula por Youtube del anuncio de Aus

Por fin viernes

zadock — Fri, 17 Oct 2008 10:01:14 +0000

Y los viernes son una fiesshhhta!!! Fijo que todos habéis visto el último anuncio de Ausonia, y puede que muchas de sus versiones, que han dado para mucho. Pongo una de ellas, porque la verdad es que hay algunas penosas y otras que bueno…no están tan mal.

Es una fieshta

mvp14 — Wed, 15 Oct 2008 14:42:55 +0000

Seguro que todos hemos visto el anuncio de ausonia, en que una madre sin mucha idea de la interacció

Es una fiefta!

!!Mike!! — Thu, 02 Oct 2008 13:56:52 +0000

Veamos, supongo que todo el mundo ha visto el anuncio de Ausonia, también conocido como el anuncio del chico de es una fiefta! del que existen numerosas perversiones parodias, como por ejemplo ésta o ésta otra.

Pues bien, en El Hormiguero no querían ser menos y el pasado día 30 hicieron su propia parodia: Mariano Rajoy no quiere reunirse con Zapatero y su madre le convence.

Eso es una fieshta!!!

JoséyJota — Mon, 22 Sep 2008 10:51:29 +0000

Nueva versión del anuncio de ausonia xD

Muy lol.

Salu2! Terrix

Videos_ Para lo que da una fieshta.

bellhara — Sun, 21 Sep 2008 21:26:49 +0000

No había visto tantas parodias de un anuncio de televisión en la vida, y es que fijo que el de “es una fieshta” de Ausonia se lleva el record, y no es para menos, la verdad es que es divertidísimo, pero ese chaval no sequita el san benito del de la fieshta de las compresas never. A continuación os pongo algunos de los videos que lo homenajean y el famoso remix, para partirse.

VERSION PARANOICA:

VERSION BORRACHA

REMIX..ES UNA FIESHHHHTAAA

¡Qué tremendo!, no paro de reir, lol.

video

getplaylist — Mon, 13 Oct 2008 08:25:47 +0000

Paolo Barbato @ Ausonia Music Convention (Trieste – Italy) 10.10.2008