Thursday, June 29, 2006
There are times when one very much wishes to not Wax Serious, at least in public. That is a pose better left to those who do it for a living: posing, that is.
And the artful posers are everywhere right now, as the two Campaigns approach their most current moment of reckoning this weekend.
The Bad Intellectuals and the Good Intellectuals. Politicians of every stripe imaginable, whether institutional, sectarian or ad - or post - hoc. The “Journalists”, of whom I’ve spoken much too much, despite the fact that I’ve yet to read one who meets my own arcane and classical [as in epoch, I’m sure] definition of such.
I shall contentedly watch, then, as they indulge their apparently congenital need to pontificate on large issues, the sweep of history and, of course, their own place, or byline, within such sweep. And I will continue to cringe with every day’s predictable spate of name-calling, vilifying and slander.
Whether it’s Martín the Gatekeeper at the Page, spewing dime store rhetoric, proffering sophomoric [literally, I presume] reading lists for the unenlightened masses and now savaging a certain Delegado for such mortal sins as sharing a table [and a round one, to boot - such horrors!] with Señor Gilly.
And all the other feline tussles:
Who is pure enough to be allowed to lay claim to setting the time and place of the Internazionale? What newly incisive adjective can be coined for the latest Intellectual who disagrees with us on a particular point of doctrine? How many names can we drop in our authentic outlet to establish both our street cred and bonafides in one fell swoop?
And so often followed by effusive, demeaning, congratulatory caveats as to how grand, how wise, how yesterday, one’s poor mistaken compatriot.
Basta, truly, but absolutely unavoidable, if, that is, one reads. As if that’s all there is. Nothing but sand kicking, nose punching, ball snatching.
And, despite the pollyannaesque connotations, I myself, would be happy to put up with, tolerate, ignore, all of those who make my skin crawl. Even Martín. Yes, how terribly “inclusive” of me. Just imagine, a Parlour where all parlours fit. With no need to patronize, re-educate, belittle, purify.
But this, right now, is clearly a boy’s game.
[I imagine the above statement could stand on its own, but I would dare anyone to scour the Page, LJ or any similar outlets and find one single Lady involved with the longish knives, except, of course, as the subject of attack – whether it be Elena or Ofelia, Soledad or Ana].
I could even live with my recurring philosophical dilemma/nightmare as to how many funded gringos can dance on the head of a pin.
Better to just leave them to it, I suppose, huffing and puffing and blowing each others’ houses right down. Perhaps – who knows? – there may be some left standing to pick up the cards.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Monday, June 19, 2006
Yes. Totally beneath me, and, if I had to do it, it should have gone to YO!
The problem was that YO! wasn't allowing me to upload pics this evening, and these are all so excruciatingly appropriate...
For those of you who managed to follow any of the crumbs in the previous post, we could see this as our first Parlour Contest.
Which one of these most piquantly captures the essence of alt cheerleaders?
The rigid, asexual Pillar of the Left?
The non-tummytucked, Gay Old Blade of the Center?
Or the ever popular, and so very au courant, Poodle to the Stars of the Right?
OK, I know some of you have already seen this pic - and, no, it's not the one I referenced in the previous Post, and, yes, we know I should be relegating silly tidbits to our Tabloid of Choice...but I simply couldn't help myself.
Spats, especially of the hysterical, boyish sort, are simply too entertaining to ignore.
Now, I actually have two in mind this evening.
The first I discovered from an email sent to me by one of the wisest compas I know, sending me to a page he knows I do not haunt. And there I discovered one of those faux socratic dialogues which we've been seeing so much of lately. Wherein one is set up as a straw man of sorts and the other waxes endlessly verbal.
In this case, the gentleman being so set up - previously of much renown, but currently, I should imagine, kicked out of the sandbox - asked some very hard and simple questions. Twenty of them to be precise. Speaking for many, I should presume, if, that is, I were to judge from the tenor, and quantity, of email I've received on the subject.
And, speaking of faux socratic dialogue and odd words, I wonder if anyone else was taken aback by recent references to Right Thought being more important than Expression of Impure Thought? I had somehow thought discussions of that nature were kept closeted in dark basements which had been meticulously swept for wires. While there is certainly something to be said for putting one's cards on the table, I find this particular outing rather unsettling.
Now, the second contretemps of which I spoke - an old one, but of much present relevance - is one I lovingly described in my Boys Gone Wild post some time back. The one full of tossing objects-other-than-crockery, uttering a stream of bad words and flouncing out of one's accomodations in the middle of the night.
The one which, we learned, never took place, of course. And the deep, evocative and sad irony of it all, given current circumstances and bedmates.
Lots of easy morals here:
Word count does not an argument make, nor is it a substitute for penis length. Beggars can't be choosers, but they could occasionally opt for celibacy instead of turning cheap tricks.
Sunday, June 18, 2006
And this after, well, perhaps this isn't the proper moment to go into it [though anyone out there who might have any bloody idea whatsoever as to the meaning of "fanfirulea" will earn, shall we say, the best of all possible lagniappes].
The point of the post is to let everyone know that there is a new acquisition in our Library, one which I trust some of you might wish to take the time to peruse. Don Durito makes an appearance, as do two other persons of various renown.
Now, thank goodness, it's most definitely time to retire with, sigh, the Charterhouse of Parma which I do not recommend, and an even heftier tot than usual of Jameson, which I always recommend...
Thursday, June 08, 2006
“…A tiny storefront clinic, in the middle of nowhere, dispensing little and never enough. An exchange of stories, thousands of them, of lives lived and what is needed. No stump speeches on podia, but the deepest of winding back alleys, where cameras never reach. Not ready-made photo ops or soundbites but simple visits, meant to delight and instruct all parties involved...”
And so it was.
No kleig lights, no microphones, no machetes, no auditorium, no calls for barricade storming nor cries “a morir.” No entourage, no News Bulletins, no Photo Op Albums on the Page. Not even Hermann.
And, yes, the night before last, while the Debate was being ushered forth from on high, some, one at least, from the Other Campaign, slipped quietly, and literally, into one of those back alleys. Paying a call on the ladies and gentlemen of the night, listening, we are told, for more than four hours to Other Stories.
One of the ladies noted that zapatismo says the land belongs to the one who works it, and they say that the street belongs to…the one who works it.
Another said that todos somos the Juarez dead, because we, too are a closed file. Todos somos Atenco, because we also suffer outrages. And todos somos Chiapas, because we are removed from the streets where we earn our living.
“…Not fierce, circumscribed little groups with their “leaders” and manly symbols, but a vast swath of idiosyncratic individuals, accustomed to much and more than schooled in providing hospitality…”
How very nice to know, especially on days like this, that hospitality can be accepted, and the occasional fantasy can indeed come true.
No matter how much my head has been urging my heart to silence all day long, some words, at least, must out.
The final straw was other words, words which pushed me to a level of rage that surprised me by taking me by such surprise.
“Hoy es un buen dia para morir...”
A lovely day for a 20 year old student to die, someone wrote somewhere. I know nothing about Alexis, the 20 year old boy who I am told “had to pay the price” today. I only know that he was a boy, he was a student, and he was 20.
But I did foresee, and would have given much not to see, those who would lay claim to him.
I know nothing of Alexis other than he was 20 and could have seen little of life.
But I do know – and have known – hundreds of other 20 year old boys, full of dreams and themselves and the promise of life. How quickly, and easily, their hearts and minds are captured. How moved the good ones are by words and passion and, most especially, by impassioned words.
Everything I need to say has already been said here. About words and their consequences and the moral imperative to take responsibility for both. About alternate universes where babies would lead themselves into unknown battle, Chiquita somehow sequestered, offering themselves up quite unwittingly to and for worlds and words they will never know.
And then the timeless horror of allowing such horror to be painted with adolescent dreams of romantic martyrdom. To hell with honour and wisdom and vision and virtue of any sort.
Better, I am sure, I am told, I see, the easy lies of Houseman to his Athlete Dying Young than, say, Auden’s, once upon an even more horrible time:
Defenceless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere,
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the Just
Exchange their messages:
May I, composed like them
Of Eros and of dust,
Beleaguered by the same
Negation and despair,
Show an affirming flame.