I’m sure no one outside of Spain really cares about the new tripartit. It’s so convoluted and regional that any of the regulars to my little soap box in cyberspace could probably care less.
Yup, this is about the regional elections in Catalunya – or should I spell that Catalonia, or, god forbid, CATALUÑA. The “Ñ” is considered downright evil by some in Catalunya, meaning by extension español, therefore, españolista, therefore, centrista, therefore FASCIST.
Let’s bandy that word about a bit more until it means nothing, why don’t we?
I guess my circle of friends and acquaintances is pretty small, because everyone spouts the same rhetoric. No one would ever, and I mean ever, vote for a party that was conservative. That means the PP, former party of Aznar (who I will proudly and loudly assert is one of the globe’s biggest fools). Which is a shame, because despite those morons Acebes and Rajoy, the PP's regional candidate, Josep Piqué, comes off in debates and interviews as a reasonable human being. And there's Ciutadans de Catalunya, a new political party of progressive -thinking anti-nationalists. Because they are anti-catalanista - that is, anti-nationalist - they are considered conservatives. This, despite the fact that they are not anti-catalan.
So, that’s democracy. The majority vote, even if it went to the CiU (the faux-nationalist conservative party), counts for nothing. Because of a pact between the "left wing" parties, and a slim coalition lead - about as slim as Judith Mascó - the new tripartit is born. Oh, sorry, it's now called the govern de entesa according to the ERC. I’m glad their clever PR people fooled me and the rest of Catalunya into thinking this wasn’t the tripartit again! If there’s one thing I believe in, it’s the power of suggestion.
The govern de entesa = tripartit with a disgruntled Montilla as president and an elated Carod-Rovira as vice president. The ERC will also be in charge of the culture department. It’s a good thing too. For example, it’s a good thing they forced the Festival Internacional de Cine Erótico to leave Barcelona. What an evil and degrading thing sex is for women! And shocking too. Ah, it’s understandable. Like porn director Conrad Son’s Les exxxcursionistes calentes, which was given subsidies by the Generalitat because it was - despite its being porno - dubbed en la llengua català (the movie was also dedicated to Carod-Rovira “el català més trempat” or "the horniest Catalan”). Then there’s Conrad Son’s next ode a la femme, El mar no es blava. Given subsidies, again, because it was dubbed into Catalan. I wonder if Sr. Son still considers Carod the horniest man in Catalunya, or if he'll still get his subsidies.
I have no ethical qualms about porno being dubbed, by the way. Just to clarify that. It just doesn’t make much sense unless you’d rather hear your groans and moans in dubbed català.
Well, they’re handing a vote to the PP is all. Rajoy, Aznar’s minion, is rubbing his sweaty palms in supreme satisfaction. Carod, the kingmaker, and therefore real president of Catalunya, is handing him the next national elections. Besides the ERC’s 300,000 thousand strong, he is reviled throughout Spain and large parts of Catalunya. Power is a nice thing, ain’t it?
I shouldn’t even get worked up about politics, because the intention of this blog was to talk about the seamy side of Barcelona. It was also to self-deprecate my status as guiri. The guiri term is pretty much played out now and holds no comedic value. And, robberies and such: since I moved out of Barri Sant Pere, I haven’t witnessed one robbery or one furtive pissing, not even an exhibitionist. Yes, what was once a daily occurrence in my old neighborhood is now stripped from my life. It’s so quiet here in the Eixample. About the only distraction I have is the neighbor’s border collie howling for hours on end. That, and the odd car accident, and the doppler shifts of sirens and super-tuned scooters wheezing by.
Jolines, I need some grit.
I need a party, and not no electric boogaloo (actually the sequel to 1984’s classic Breakin’ … kids don’t forget to chop the “g” off the gerund to make it cooler sounding). Unless Montilla and Carod perform the “rotating room” breakdance scene, replete with techno-fied sardanas blasting in the background, I think the next months to come are going to be redundant, to say the least. Oh well, it’ll give the pundits something to bitch about. I'll do my best to stay away from politics - that is unless another drunken ERC militant belligerently calls me a fascist simply for disagreeing with him ... oh, that's another story.
But, speaking of grit. Maybe I can find some on the trains. Check out this disturbed citizen’s letter to the editor in yesterday's 20 Minutos (the letters to the editor, by the way, are the best part of that free newspaper):
Fiesta en el tren
El día anterior a Todos los Santos, a las 11.30 de mañana y después de una larga jornada laboral, me encuentro en el tren de cercanías con destino a Sant Celoni el siguiente panorama vergonzoso: seis jóvenes fumando porros, una chica meándose, dos jóvenes dando patadas a la puerta del baño, una chica en sujetador andando por el vagón, gritos y risas de todo tipo, sin ningún agente de seguridad. ¿Cómo puede ser que después de pagar mi billete me encuentre este panorama?
Party in the train
The day before the Day of all Saints, at 11:30 in the morning and after a long day of work, I find myself in the regional train with the destination of Sant Celoni the following shameful panorama: six teenagers smoking joints, a girl pissing, two teenagers kicking the door to the bathroom, a girl wearing a bra walking through the train wagon, screams and laughs of all types, without one security guard. How could it be that after I pay for my ticket I encounter this panorama?
Since I’ve been relegated to walking and taking subways again after my second bike got stolen, this gives me hope. Girls in bras! Porros! Who would have thought!
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