[as ever, keep scrolling down for all the latest EZLN translations]
It really is Friday night, and it really is August, and I really truly had every intention of paying homage to those facts this evening.
It struck me that what we all [editorial "we all," of course] needed at this moment was some kind of alt "Hola." I think the version in the States is People or US or somesuch. A flippy little rag of no content whatsoever, full of pictures and tiny captions, all designed to make the masses shudder with scorn or envy or giggles.
I tend to the giggling end of the spectrum.
So, as I was attending to my daily chores, my mind was gliding about the planet, trying to come up with suitable characters. Who were the glitterati of the "left"? The over-accessorized ones, those celebrating dynastic marriages, those who made one's jaw drop, those begging to be teased?
I needed to come up with someone, or many, other than George Galloway, of course. So, since I have passing acquaintance with a fair few countries, I thought and thought and thought. Sigh.
In the States, all those who considers themselves of the left tend to mirror the panic of their souls in their garb. Either fiercely trying to mimic the conservative mode of all those witless yapping heads on telly, desperately trying to project gravitas, to "pass" and not to scare the horses in the street. Or they cling to their archetypal visions of the 60s. Weatherperson meets midlife crisis, as it were. The ponytail may be grey, but fire still burns in the expanding tummy.
Ariana Huffington, though, might be a damn fine possisibility, although she's much too Euro to have mastered the California Dynasty art of dressing. Much more Armani than, say, Rodeo Drive, and, therefore, not nearly as much fun.
Mexico, of course, has Gilberto López y Rivas, very much a Galloway clone. I wonder if they could possibly have been separated at birth? Not only in dress and style and swagger, but also in ill-considered, startlingly boorish yowls. Does anyone else remember the Pol Pot outburst?
France has Bové, the alt Depardieu in so very many ways. And Danielle Mitterand could be our Lauren Bacall.
There must be others, but my imagination fails. I promise to work on this, though, throughout this long and exceedingly hot month.
As a bit of a postscript, and for anyone who wishes for treasure...follow some of those leaving comments, back to their blogs and websites, and, I promise, you'll find it in abundance.