Thursday, June 29, 2006
Boys being boys
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.