February 25, 2010
February 23, 2010
February 21, 2010
February 18, 2010
February 15, 2010
February 12, 2010
FoReVeR lOaDeD
Sunrise, wrong side of another day,
Sky high and six thousand miles away,
Don't know how long I've been awake,
Wound up in an amazing state,
Can't get enough,
And you know it's righteous stuff,
Goes up like prices at Christmas,
Motorhead, you can call me Motorhead, alright
Brain dead, total amnesia,
Get some mental anasthesia,
Don't move, I'll shut the door and kill the lights,
And if I can't be wrong I could be right,
All good clean fun,
Have another stick of gum,
Man, you look better already,
Motorhead, remember me now Motorhead, alright
Fourth day, five day marathon,
We're moving like a parallelogram,Don't move, I'll shut the door and kill the lights,
I guess I'll see you all on the ice,
I should be tired,
And all I am is wired,
Ain't felt this good for an hour,
Motorhead, remember me now, Motorhead alright
February 10, 2010
February 08, 2010
February 07, 2010
February 05, 2010
February 04, 2010
Serbatoi HD in vendita
Serbatoio Blu anni 80/90 130.00 euro (da riverniciare)
Serbatoio Burgundy anno 1974 perfetto 180.00 euro
Serbatoio Candy Red anno 1984/85 come nuovo 200.00 euro
Spedizione in Italia 13 euro in Contrassegno
VENDUTI - SOLD
February 03, 2010
February 02, 2010
Drinkers
"There are, broadly speaking, two types of drinkers. There is the man whom we all know, stupid, unimaginative, whose brain is bitten numbly by numb maggots; who walks generously with wide-spread, tentative legs, falls frequently in the gutter, and who sees, in the extremity of his ecstasy, blue mice and pink elephants. He is the type that gives rise to the jokes in the funny papers.
The other type of drinker has imagination, vision. Even when most pleasantly jingled, he walks straight and naturally, never staggers nor falls, and knows just where he is and what he is doing. It is not his body but his brain that is drunken. He may bubble with wit, or expand with good fellowship. Or he may see intellectual spectres and phantoms that are cosmic and logical and that take the forms of syllogisms. It is when in this condition that he strips away the husks of life's healthiest illusions and gravely considers the iron collar of necessity welded about the neck of his soul. This is the hour of John Barleycorn's subtlest power. It is easy for any man to roll in the gutter. But it is a terrible ordeal for a man to stand upright on his two legs unswaying, and decide that in all the universe he finds for himself but one freedom--namely, the anticipating of the day of his death. With this man this is the hour of the white logic (of which more anon), when he knows that he may know only the laws of things--the meaning of things never. This is his danger hour. His feet are taking hold of the pathway that leads down into the grave.
All is clear to him. All these baffling head-reaches after immortality are but the panics of souls frightened by the fear of death, and cursed with the thrice-cursed gift of imagination. They have not the instinct for death; they lack the will to die when the time to die is at hand. They trick themselves into believing they will outwit the game and win to a future, leaving the other animals to the darkness of the grave or the annihilating heats of the crematory. But he, this man in the hour of his white logic, knows that they trick and outwit themselves. The one event happeneth to all alike. There is no new thing under the sun, not even that yearned-for bauble of feeble souls--immortality. But he knows, he knows, standing upright on his two legs unswaying. He is compounded of meat and wine and sparkle, of sun-mote and world- dust, a frail mechanism made to run for a span, to be tinkered at by doctors of divinity and doctors of physic, and to be flung into the scrap-heap at the end."
--from John Barleycorn, by Jack London
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