Tomorrow the people of France will drunkenly dance wild in the streets in celebration of their country’s historic capacity to commit mass lynchings. Ah, I know, that’s not strictly true. Those French can hold their liquor pretty well! Plus, technically Bastille Day commemorates the Storming of the Bastille and not the bloody French Revolution. But let’s be honest: The Storming of the Bastille would mean little without the subsequent carnage of the French Revolution. What would the Boston Tea Party matter without the American Revolution? What would history remember of Gandhi’s Salt March if it had not popularized Indian independence? The spirit of Bastille Day is indelibly linked to mob rule bloodlust… and that’s why I love it!
The French try to play down the whole guillotine thing. A proper woman will wear a blue dress to her Bastille Day festivities, not red, because Bastille Day is not about insurrection, but about liberty. It’s about going on strike. The French are passionate about striking. Witness the disgraced 2010 French World Cup team, who went on strike during the World Cup. How fucking French is that?
It’s no accident that this blog’s banner glorifies the more violent ideals of the French Revolution: A fearless sans-culotte, brandishing her shackles in one hand and the head of an aristocrat in the other hand. Not a day goes by that the inequal distribution of resources and services does not pique my inner radical. But do I really believe that society’s poor and oppressed should violently rise against the wealthy? That depends… am I considered wealthy? Or are we talking about the CEOs with $9 million salaries? Yes, I would sharpen the blade for BP’s CEO, whether or not he had a direct hand in the Gulf oil spill. This company makes money hand-over-freaking-fist while recklessly pillaging the planet, and they would rather heap dividends on their investors than spend a few bucks to prevent cataclysmic environmental disasters. Corporate negligence and greed is literally turning this planet into a cesspool, and on behalf of the thousands of oiled birds, coated turtles, and contaminated fish beds, I would march through St. Jame’s Square in London, demanding Tony Hayward’s head.
Okay. Must stop with the cavalier death threats. Honestly, I only believe in capital punishment for capitalist pigs in principle.
Boston’s Bastille Day street party was last Friday night. We paid an inexplicable $28 to enter the cordoned-off area and buy expensive wine FROM CALIFORNIA and Frenchified foodstuffs (although the sausage sandwich from the Beehive was super.) I suppose we were paying for the live music, although anyone could stand on the sidewalk and dance to the sounds of the Tabou Combo from Haiti and Caravan Palace from France. (Guess which is which…)
We shared a table with another couple, and it turned out she was from France (like Mr. P) and he was from Pennsylvania (like me)! Everyone thought that was très drôle.”What is it that French people like about people from Pennsylvania?” I asked Mr. P as we savored our sausages. “Is it our peasant qualities?”
