Before saying anything, as my dear professor of literature at the artistic high school Giovanni Zanzi said, we must start from the context. So let's talk about this context. In a few minutes it's midnight. I have not left home for 21 days and if Benigni saw me instead of "Model Giuditta" he would shout "Model imprisoned". After Christmas and as a resolution for the New Year I decided to go (again) on a diet and given the impossibility of counting calories I limit myself to fasting 16/8. In a word, I can't touch anything other than water or coffee until noon and twenty tomorrow. And I just baked a pie with potatoes, ricotta, raw ham and tara cheese and some wonderful breadsticks (here is the super easy foolproof recipe). On the other hand, 4 hours ago I ate my last food, a pomegranate, after 10 years. And I remembered that I never understood how to eat them, since I seem to come out of the exorcist and with me all my clothes and our kitchen. Distraught, I turned on Netflix, chose "Bridget Jones's Diary" and remembered that there is a woman less sexy than me who married Mark Darcy. Then I remembered that my husband, a sort of 27-year-old Adonis - who by some freak of nature is also sweet, intelligent and independent - has been sleeping in the bedroom for two hours. I went up to check that I hadn't dreamed it.
Once the context is defined you will understand if I can be unpleasant when I'm hungry. Then, already a couple of weeks ago a shit of hallucinating sexism had come out referring to wine angels and company and I had been silent only because I had an exam within a few days and I had no time to waste on the misogynist on duty, but all last pearl of Franco Ziliani I can't resist. I wanted to resist, I swear. I said to myself “But yes Chiara, forget it, that both he makes the figure of a captain phenomenon (as always) and she also gets a bit of advertising to ride the wave in the role of victim (advertising is never enough) ". But I just can't do it.
Franco, or Franco, but isn't it time to stop yet? Let me be clear, I have the respect for you that I have for a few for your wine culture and I agree with you that Laura (aka @theitalianwinegirl on Instagram) shot a photonic bullshit about the sugar ratio and worse on the old Burgundies they know of linoleum. Oy, not that I've ever sniffed the floor of my old gym. It could also be that by dint of collecting the sweat of dozens of desperate poor people he had some not-so-pleasant smell too, by God. However, I have been taught that who gets his dicks live 100 years, to you? Is it possible that a talent like yours should be wasted in being hated for ways that spark with many, many things except for a gallantry that at your age would even give you an interesting air?
Anyway, before your shot I didn't know who Laura was, now I know and I like her. At the end of your article the only thing I have left is that she is a creepy pussy. And it has class, a lot too. Don't you like it slim? I say lucky you. I weighed like her I would be less of a bad mood to write to you while cake and breadsticks mock me at two steps with the knowledge that I can not touch them. It also remained to me that Laura has a great command of English, which I would love to have too (and instead the only "other language" that I barely master is the Romagna dialect).
Finally, I do not discuss her professionalism 1) I have not followed her for long enough and 2) I am not here to judge anyone, but I will start by buying the "booklet" entitled "How wine changes your life"Because my life has seriously changed wine for me and I'm curious to read the stories of others who, like me, have been reborn thanks to this common passion.
PS You called your friend Oscar Farinetti, the one who had "the courage" to preface her, to ask him what he thinks of your (sad) article?
PPS A modest suggestion: Smile, Franco, Smile! That if you gnaw too much you risk dying prematurely ...
Ah, no sorry I still have one thing to say. I have just reread the comment of the erbaluce producer Camillo Favaro who writes:
"I would also take into consideration the fact that not knowing about wine and, very often, not even knowing the use of the written Italian language, they should limit themselves to delighting bystanders exclusively with the merchandise they have and of which, obviously, they are particularly proud . "
Camillo Favaro on Facebook
For all breadsticks, but seriously? So, that there are wine influencers who use merchandise to collect more likes is a given. As it is a fact that the likes, where the merchandise is exposed, swarm by the thousands. With me it is called supply and demand. If you criticize them that they exploit - demonstrating more intelligence and foresight than those who offend them - their body as a catalyst for interactions, what words do you reserve for the pussy dead who like every inch of exposed female skin?
Ohibò that the dead of pussy are not interested in wine we must not tell us. However, thanks to their quick and horny likes these photos "splash" in Explore (if you don't know what it means I'll explain it to you in a comment) and the bottle of wine depicted along with the merchandise is seen by thousands of people who, thanks to hashtags, are more in target with the bottle in question that with the nice pair of tits surrounding it. You may not like this style of communication, but there is no doubt that it is effective.
I believe that winemakers - if interested in this type of advertising - should limit themselves to choosing the influencer who is in tune with their product. If you have a wine to offer in an environment luxury the profile of @_wineangels_ it is the most perfect thing there is.
If you still have doubts, the numbers speak for themselves.
I would never buy a package of Barilla pasta, but most of them buy it and the supermarkets are full of blue boxes. Every time I see someone put it in the cart, I admit that I flinch, but I don't give him a wink about the crap he's about to eat. I simply choose something else.
And I do my dicks that I want to live 100 years.
Mr. Favaro, you simply choose something else and respect those you don't like (and the many of your colleagues who like it and a lot!). If Barilla sells millions of blue boxes and invoices what it invoices, it is right for me.
(Now I finish Bridget Jones's diary as I clean the kitchen where the breadsticks stare at me challengers. They pretty much have the same effect on me as those boobs, here.)
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