Arcana

Since Editrice is currently otherwise engaged – and delightfully so by all reports, not to mention that titillating video – we are calling on a few of our more notable peers to ruminate on current and future events.

Enquiring minds are lusting for signs, runes, dish, as to what comes next. What does the Halt to the Journey and the Lingering Silence augur? Is there a shakeup in the works, a reshuffling of personnel, locale or logo?

And, since we are totally not in the mood for the usual long-winded, tedious fluff churned out by most of our “intellectuals” and “journalists” [Jasmine, Peony and Violet notwithstanding, but they are also, and quite similarly, engaged], we decided to call on those whose business it is to peer into the future.

First we called on our most elegant Reader of Tarot, Madame Sophie, who has charmed her way through the most discerning drawing rooms on the Continent.

We posed the question, “Whither things?”, and this was her cunning reply:

“There seems to be a new partnership, a new relationship being formed, and the partnership will begin in the near future. It's already been decided, although there remains significant controversy and discussion among the three primary players or sectors. However, the decision has already been taken at the base (perhaps literally). There has been a good deal of concocting, as well as searching, seeking. However, the decision proves to be the right one, as the last card is a Major Arcana, the Sun. The Sun is a very powerful card that both attracts and sends out light.”

Ah, partnerships, relationships! This is the sort of thing we adore. We asked her to elaborate, which required more cards:

“There were quite a few Major Arcana cards, which adds weight to the answer. Here's the thing - I think someone is out of sorts. These cards seems to be saying that. And that this is a period of conflict, resolution, and moving on. Perhaps even of transformation. Also, for the second time I got the Three of Swords, which could even indicate a love triangle. I might venture a gentleman and his Svengali on one side, the directorate and the townsfolk on the other, and a bevy of ladies on the last.”

Finally, some clarity.

Not to mention dish.

Reporting from an Undisclosed Boudoir...

Just checking in, darlings, from our Undisclosed Suite at our manly and attractive Publisher’s terribly hidden Villa-Enclave tucked somewhere along the coast of the Mediterranean.

We did manage, not without incident, to pick up a few of our closest and most attractive Icons of the Left. Yes, this meant we had to leave José behind, tubby little dear that he is. He seems determined to out-Depardieu Gérard, if you catch our drift.

Lots of heated discussion and penning of tracts going on, of course, but we’re still managing to find time for more serious pursuits. Such as trying to tear the Shadow-Master’s stylist, Charles, away from our most thrillingly important and deeply Undisclosed Guest.

Apparently said Undisclosed Guest is determined to have a total makeover that will allow him to step forth proudly into the new Millennium. Yes, darlings, we know, but he was elsewhere when it actually took place, and, besides, he observes a very different calendar. Charles is tearing his lovely hair out, trying to concoct just the right mélange of accessories that scream hip, post-mod and hot whilst still referencing authentic, heroic and below and to the left.

No, it’s not as simple as one might think, the iconic life of the radically chic. Shadow-Master is furious at Undisclosed Guest, for example, for having bedded his new Bridelet, thus leading to Undisclosed Guest’s sudden obsession with a sartorial retrofit and Bridelet’s sudden passion for Martín’s copy of the Idiot’s Guide to Mass, Movement and Messiah.

But we’re still terribly thrilled with our upcoming jaunt to the Venice Film Festival. Our manly and attractive Publisher’s Executive Assistant for the Procurement of Proper Diversions has already secured a bevy of politically committed starlets for the delectation of Undisclosed Guest.

More to come, when we’ll get down and oh so dirty in an exclusive interview with our Undisclosed Guest himself. And, if Violet turns up in time, we can even promise you a three-way. Of sorts.

Breaking: Our First Vacation Pics

We here at YO's Travel Desk are hoping that our highly literate, yet ever so decadent, readers will be able to come up with much more politically correct [or at least filthier] comments on this fabulous, moving photo than did the cute, but most inauthentic, wonkettes, who noted, more or less:

1. A cigar may be a cigar, but sometimes it's just not big enough for the matters at hand.

2. The fetching, matching RED pj's, which provided the perfect party theme for this in-patient sleepover for our fave Comrades in Arms.

3. The amazing healing powers of a two-way reacharound, especially when performed to a heart-rending rendition of the Internationale.

Hiding out

Goodness, we’ve been busy.

After all, darlings, it is August, and we could hardly be expected to be slaving away at our desks.

Even our esteemed, and very manly and attractive, Publisher is at an Undisclosed Location in the Med with his charming bride and some very Interesting, yet Undisclosed, Guests.

Far be it from me to let anything slip, given how much I value my job and my life, but let’s just say that one of the Interesting, yet Undisclosed, Guests was reported to have been seen chasing a charming young bride around the deck at a most unseemly hour. And, when not paying his fleet-footed respects to nubile newlyweds, he was surrounded by a claque of earnest young students from Milan, all imported for him by our most generous and politically astute Publisher.

So no need for even a smidgen of puritanical, Western guilt. Cat’s away, shadow’s away, everyone’s away [all except one concubine of note, who was shuttled off to faraway parts in order to earn her keep, silly thing, especially since we’d sent her a copy of our “beware the overripe fruit” article].

We, however [Editrice, her new footboy, Martín, and the rest of her “staff”] are off for some quality dish at all the most elegant and proper Resorts of the Left. Paris, briefly, just to pick up Danielle and José, a quick visit to the Italian coast to say hola! to Gore, and then a terribly exclusive little 5-star on the beach in Croatia [which is the new Italian coast, of course, and someone really should have told Gore].

Although we won’t be back to our charming offices until September, we’re taking an entire LV suitcase full of the very latest electronica [not to mention a former False Web Administrator who knows everything about such things], so never fear, Brave Readers, you shall still be hearing from us regularly.

And we can also promise you some very special, deeply authentic, Exclusive Interviews with the most glittering of the Glitterati of the Left.

Academy of Tarts

Press statement from YO! Basta, for immediate release to all press, be they alt, free, mass or budding:


Now that voz, thanks to Jasmine, Peony and Violet, has been so firmly restored, everywhere in the Globalized Universe, we have decided it’s high time to celebrate some of that feminine voz.

And we thought the most thrilling way to do that would be to establish our very own Academy of Tarts. Thanks to a sudden massive outpouring of funds from the deep, proud pockets of all our most favorite Foundation Masters, including, but by no means limited to, the sweet compas at MacArthur and Tides, we are moving forward with no undo haste, given their divinely generous administrative allowances.

We’re currently scouting for a permanent location for our Academy, but at the moment we’re terribly torn between that fetching villa in Umbria, the Georgian manse in Dublin and that small, but elegant, chateau in Dijon.

We shall let all our fervid readers know the moment we’ve secured a proper property for our lovely and daring tarts, a place for them to frolic and hold forth. Both tarts and readers.

We shall be inducting our tarts on an irregular, but deeply thoughtful, manner, announcing their induction, here, with suitable flourish, homage and cocktails. But first honours must go to our very own, ever cherished, Tart Emeritus.

Emma Goldman, of course.

She was many things, but here we think of her as the Mother of us all, Auntie Emma, unabashed, brilliant and ever so kind tart who, once upon a time, it is reported:

“Free speech,” she wrote in letter to Mother Earth while on tour, “means either the unlimited right of expression, or nothing at all. The moment any man or set of men can limit speech, it is no longer free.”

While we could never have said it so well, we shall nonetheless continue to say it, over and over again. It is, after all, what we do.

More Girl on Girl Action

[A cautionary note from the Editrice: Once again I would like to remind our Lovely Readers and very Manly and Attractive Publisher that the words and actions of our lively Girl Reporters are not necessarily reflective of my, our Publisher’s or our Generous Contributors’ predilections. Not to mention our lifestyle choices, beverage preferences or street language.

Nonetheless, we are ever so proud of their tireless work and endlessly pleased with the goodie bags (or should we say good boys) they’ve been turning out and sending our way. Oh, and Jasmine: Martín says hola.]







Jasmine, Peony and Violet, crack girl reporters,

Reporting from the VIP room of a very well-known, yet excruciatingly exclusive, exceedingly hot club in an Undisclosed Urban Center.


P: As much as I hate to say this, it really does feel good to be in a boy-free zone again, at least for a little while.

J: Totally. They kept stealing my Santa Maria Novella pomegranate soap, for god’s sake.

P: Not to mention my Agent Provocateur corset.

J: But Peony, Rafael took that for his girlfriend!! Now he understands that lingerie has a much higher purpose than just wanking.

P: I know, and she even sent me a thank-you note. Speaking of wanking, that really is the core issue of our re-education program, isn’t it?

J: Of course. And wanking in all its forms.

Violet: Right, first literally, instead of subjecting themselves to the tedium of courting. And then the way they just go on and on and on and on every time they can find a podium, a list, a journal, a website, a classroom…

P: Infatuated with nothing but their own words and thoughts.

J: Muscling in at the slightest hint of feminine voz.

V: Or body.

J: And the depressing thing is, it’s not even sex they’re after. Just snickering, leering, overwhelming.

P: So that’s what we our mission is. To get their heads out of their rear ends once and for all. That’s how you got the idea for the blueberry tart, isn’t it, Violet?

V: Well, I was thinking of Little Jack Horner, and I thought blueberries might be even more effective than plums.

J: How long did you make Tomás sit in it?

V: Oh, I don’t know, maybe 10 hours. Until he learned to stop yammering about what a good boy he was.

P: Thank god boys like Tomás are the exception. Mostly we just have to get rid of their constant anger.

J: Our patented 12-step Pleasuring Program.

V: Admitting they have a problem, turning themselves over to a Higher Power…

P: Us!!

V: And then the careful, measured reintroduction of joy.

J: Shelley, model airplanes, teddies, triolet, comic books, Octavio Paz, chocolate mousse, swing-sets, limericks, bubble baths, Rabelais, fireflies…

P: Library cards, birthday cakes, Eminem, rainbows, sleepovers, smoked salmon, cava, museums, kites, flirting, Sherlock Holmes…

V: Until there’s no more room left in their hearts for rage or stealing and overwhelming voz…

J: No sex, of course. That’s the 13th, post-program Step, to be happily and endlessly indulged in with their girlfriends, boyfriends, wives, lovers-to-be, once they’ve re-entered the Globalized World.

P: God, we really should get a Nobel.

Girl on girl

[A Note from your Editrice: The following is a special piece, commissioned by our very manly and attractive Publisher. Wishing to take advantage of the current spotlight, and following the current infatuation with the media’s infatuation with itself, he asked our news-making Peony to conduct an interview with her daring Girl Reporter pal, Jasmine. We believe he also had some concerns of his own [but, darlings, trust me, he really IS manly and attractive.]


J: First, P, let me lay the ground rules. I don’t do Straw Chick interviews!

P: Of course not, sweetie, but you have become a bit iconic.

J: But so have you. So why are you interviewing ME?

P: You know exactly why. Mr. Moneybags likes blondes. He wants to know what makes you tick.

J [grabbing another triple espresso and a bottle of Remy]: Oh, Christ. I thought Editrix was taking care of him.

P: She was, but her fiancé finally agreed to tear up their pre-nup, so now she won’t play with him anymore.

J [sighing deeply]: They just don’t get it, do they?

P: Get what?

J: What girls want.

P: Hell, no. Otherwise we wouldn’t have to be touring the globalized world, conducting our re-education programs, creating fanciable boys.

J: They always think it’s about upping the ante, raising the volume, inflating their manhood.

P: You mean that last one literally, right?

J: Oh my god, if I see one more midlifer grabbing his bottle of little blue pills, clutching pink fur handcuffs to his wheezing chest…

P: Stop it! For god’s sake, Jasmine, I haven’t even had breakfast yet.

J: Sorry. It’s, you know, like those screeching cheerleaders, the blind gringos, the Non-Authentic Journalists…

P: You’re out of your mind if you think I’m going to re-educate those creepy, sweaty old guys…

J: Of course not. Some are beyond – what’s the word? – redemption. But they think that by spewing more and more words, attacking everyone who doesn’t toe the party line, screaming louder and louder, it’ll cover up their, you know...

P: Absolutely. That’s old news. We've always known how guys who need absolute authority and direction are, um, unsure about their orientation. But it’s not just their manhood that’s teensy. It’s the fact that they’re just total wusses, right?

J: Exactly. Girls like courage. Real men don’t suck up. And they’re not scared to death of the directorate. They don’t scamper around looking for cover, hiding behind their lists, posting anonymously.

P: And then they wonder why they don’t get laid.

J: Like girls are going to get all swoony about loud-mouthed, creepy cowards.

P: With diamante-studded crops…

J: I suppose we really should explain exactly what goes on inside our re-education programs.

P: Probably. But not one word about Violet and the blueberry tart, otherwise…

J: Maybe just one word...


[To be continued, of course…]

Minds and hearts

I am afraid, Dear Readers, that we do not have a report from Jasmine and Peony this evening.

We do know, however, that they have both the two adolescent False Web Administrators and the Former Web Administrator [and you may have noted that the Page in question has been uncommonly quiet of late] firmly sequestered and well in hand.

It would appear that they are busily engaged in what they refer to as “re-education efforts” with said Administrators.

As to what that might entail we can only surmise, but we do know that emergency rations of Shelley, smoked salmon and La Perla had to be hurriedly rushed to the scene. We have total faith in our intrepid Girl Reporters, and we are certain that, once the evil-doers are released, they will emerge wiser, happier, much more quietly self-confident boys.

No longer will their lives be dedicated to stealing, overwhelming or diverting voz. They will be attentive, self-effacing, charming…comfortable in their own skin, with no further need to prance and preen about, begging for attention.

And, if it is seduction they’re after – either political or amatory – they will remember that the focus of attention should be on the object of their desire. Not on themselves.

The Shadow-Master Speaks

A Memo From Our Publisher


First, I would like to take a moment to congratulate our staff on the excellent work they have been doing since the inception of our journal. Readership numbers are up dramatically, and our last quarter earnings statement has far exceeded our projections.

Second, I must dispel those rumors which have been circulating on the street that we plan on taking YO! public in the near term. Despite healthy profit-taking, those on our end of the political spectrum should understand the obvious benefits accrued from remaining a privately held entity.

Third, I am pleased that our female journalists have justified my decision to both hire them and to allow them to continue drawing salaries in the face of their continued unwillingness to provide my accountant with their surnames. Nonetheless, these women are a credit to their gender and a sterling example of what our well-honed, rigorous affirmative action hiring policies can produce.

Fourth, on to the matter at hand. Since our recent scorched earth policy, and with the playing field having been brutally, but necessarily, leveled, this is no time for resting on our laurels. We must seize the moment to push forward with our rigorous cleansing program. I do not think our comrades in arms could find better example than the harsh, but requisite, techniques utilized by our peers at the Fifth International. Let me quote but one small example from their latest purge:

“…They have openly toyed with revising Lenin’s theory of imperialism to remove the issue of decay and stagnation. They have suggested that the world is in a Kondratiev-style long wave that will ensure expansion till at least 2015 and which will act to dampen down class struggle. Again this represents a yielding to current neoliberal bourgeois ideology. Because the League rejected this and defended our analysis of globalization as a period where the tendencies to stagnation in the world economy were still present, despite powerful countervailing tendencies represented by the massive export of capital to China and India, the Minority faction cried that we were ‘catastrophists’, misrepresenting our views as if we believed that capitalism is on the verge of collapse.

“The faction also systematically ignored or grossly underestimated the strength and scale of the movements resisting neo-liberalism and imperialist war, regarding them as dead or as good as dead. Unfortunately the wish is father to the thought. Seeking a return to “more propaganda” and regarding the League’s turn to combining propaganda with agitation focused on the youth and the vanguard fighters against neoliberalism as “voluntarism”, they adopted a more and more passive propagandist approach. With this was combined a tailist and routinist approach to trade union work…”

http://www.fifthinternational.org/

Fifth, and lastly, I would like to suggest that the New Pure Webmaster, as well as all those providing direction, take full example of this substantive, rational and erudite approach to all those necessary, much awaited, expulsions yet to come.

Down the rabbit hole

Peony
Reporting from an undisclosed location en Mexico, pero muy abajo:

It may come as no surprise, faithful reader, that, after exposing the nefarious and illicit games played by the Collective Forces of the State against the Voz of Those of Below, I, your faithful servant, barely escaped with my life. Luckily, I was able to make my way from those dark, whispering halls into the arms of my faithful boy collective, who then valiantly spirited me to a secret, velvety lair – a veritable cave if you will – while rising to every occasion.

However, even as I was sipping my favorite fruit blend that next languorous afternoon, the disturbing events of the night before continued their unfolding when I suddenly remembered a dark detail, one steeped in such betrayal that I must have recoiled from its presence in self defense.

A familiar hand, the whisper of a face among those convening in sinister conspiracy…it was - yes, I fear to tell you, but I must - it was one of Ours. It hit me like a lunging canine - I had seen among that bad company one of our own weavers of words, the Real Web Administrator. Yes, that one, the one to whom I was seeking to deliver my feverishly snapped cell phone photos.

Sick and dazed, I dropped my mix of passion fruit, orange, banana and mango [poor, darling Luigi] and grabbed my coat. I would have to stop it, this usurping of Page by the Not So Real and Quite False Webmaster. Suddenly it all made sense: the summary deletions, the Rules issued forth. Voz was being stolen, and it was coming from within.

Quickly and daintily picking my way across the mantas and posters littering the alleyway, I eventually arrived at the hallowed Center of Operations. My plan was this...

[Frenzied Note from Editrice: Our intrepid Girl Reporter, Peony, has apparently met with some disturbing interference. Her mobile transmission was rudely cut off, and we are deeply concerned as to her whereabouts, status and expense report. Our daring Girl Reporter, Jasmine, is currently hastening to DF, selflessly abandoning her current Reliable Source, in order to secure Peony’s reportage, virtue and voz.]

The merriest of all possible birthdays!!

love is a place
& through this place of
love move
(with brightness of peace)
all places
yes is a world
& in this world of
yes live
(skilfully curled)
all worlds
e e cummings

Peony peeps at the perps

BREAKING…BREAKING…BREAKING SCOOPLET……………….

Evil Pranksters Stifle Voz

Peony,
Reporting from an Undisclosed Location in DF

As we are speaking, and in real time, I can breathlessly report what my own eyes beheld just a scant few minutes ago.

I had been sitting at an undisclosed eating establishment, innocently chatting up a precious young waitperson, sipping a well-iced tumbler of Campari, when my well-honed investigative reportage skills detected something amiss.

An endless parade of Very Important Men were being escorted by a phalanx of hard-bodied, Armani clad bodyguards. They were headed towards the back of the cathedral-like room, through a set of mahogany double doors.

I knew, instinctively, my journalistic sixth sense now humming madly, what they were up to.

There, behind those doors, they were Stealing Voz.

After a hurried exchange with cute Manuel [the usual barter in our demanding business: information for maidenly favours], I slipped out a side door, down several labyrinthine corridors and found the service window. Peering through the narrow opening, I could see it all.

El Presidente, the Secretary of Government, the Tyrant of IFE and the entire Chamber of Deputies and of the Senate.

All of them, in a circle, prancing, chanting words en masse which I couldn’t quite make out, but which sounded suspiciously like Ring Around the Rosie.

The object of their devilish prank was a clearly terrified mid-life gentleman, weeping, begging for his dignity, his AM station, his life.

I knew what I had to do. I must get to the Real Web Administrator fast and give him the photos I’d been slyly snapping with my phone. Without them, I was sure no one with even a single synapse still firing would ever believe this scurrilous scenario had taken place.

The entire cabal of Certified Major Evil-Doers, all gathered together in the Richard M. Nixon Banquet Hall, performing their demeaning, demonic Censoring…

The silencing of the lambs

Editrice's Note: The following is the first in a series of daring, on the scene, reports from our crack team of Girl Reporters. More interested in making the news than breaking it, they will be risking their girlish lives, taking you to previously unknown places, all out of their fervid desire to Save Voz wherever it may be threatened. As well, as Jasmine noted, to collect Trusted Sources throughout the planet.


On-the-ground, exclusive, late-breaking reportage...


Jasmine,
Reporting from an undisclosed location.


It started out like any other brooding afternoon here, in this undisclosed, yet quaint and dusty, hamlet.

It was hot. So hot my waterproof Lancome mascara was already in need of adjustment. And I’d only been up for an hour.

I was perkily perched at a creaky outdoor table in the sole, but quaint, little café, sipping a mediocre cappuccino, condemned to Marlboros, no Gauloises to be had in this dusty, yet intriguing place, still feeling woozy from last night’s tequila cosmopolitans, waiting for my Trusted, yet Anonymous, Source.

He was cute, the Trusted Source, otherwise he wouldn’t be nearly as Trusted. That’s just how it works down here. You can tell by the pictures: the bad guys are brutish, nasty hulks, with pock-marked, snarling faces. The good ones are cute, or at least cute enough.

I was chatting up some of the local talent.

The jocular campesino, tool in hand, full of deeply meaningful tales of his Life Experiences. The obligatory inked Punk, full of Rage and meaningful Art. The lovely, sloe-eyed activist, full of anger and a slew of meaningful Pamphlets.

But we were after something bigger. Much bigger. Rumours had been circulating for days now that something was afoot. Something dangerous, underhanded, sly, incorrect.

Could it be true? In that most hallowed of democratic non-institutions? Agents imbedded, provocateurs run amuck, elaborate computer-driven schemes bent on silencing voz?

Trusted Source was bringing me video. And protection.

I would need it.

After carefully and leisurely examining the evidence, from every possible position, in the air-cooled retreat of my hotel room with my Trusted Source, I was convinced, although a bit exhausted.

And then he took out his notes, showed me the video, and my heart started racing again.

It was true.

After quickly slipping back into my fetching Chloe frock (last season’s, given the recent unfortunate – and ridiculous - cutbacks in administrative budget at YO!), I dismissed Trusted Source [just until midnight, giving him time to recuperate and procure more evidence], grabbed my driver and bodyguard out of the bar and took off to the Scene of the Crime.

After driving for what felt like hours, wending our way through endless, dusty yet quaint, serpentine back roads in our petite black Hummer…there it was ! The nerve center, the central command of the vile plot to silence voz.

And just as Trusted Source had so firmly instructed, I slipped easily through the tacky, yet massive, front gate, stealthily made my way to the back of the sprawling house, carefully avoiding the mine field of Weber grill, trampoline, hot tub, cabana and children’s toys.

Peering through a window, I saw them.

The two evil-doers themselves.

They looked to be about 17, sprawled in front of a bank of computers, giggling and snorting with ill-disguised glee. One wall was covered with a bevy of photos, brutally airbrushed nude pictures of implausible women, obviously downloaded from the Internets. Above them had been scrawled other names, the disappeared ones.

As I watched in horror, one of the acne-ridden youths (confirming our observation that here, in this dusty yet quaint part of the world, evil is always physically unattractive) let out a yelp and leapt from his chair. He reached for a dart and flung it at one of the pictures.

So this was how they did it. After successfully performing the ancient rite of Taking Down the Site, Pilfering Comments and posting a False Administrator’s Note, they were now celebrating their nefarious act by throwing darts at their latest target.

I knew I had to escape quickly. Their glazed eyes spoke of midnight raids on their parents’ medicine cabinet, and god only knew what they might be up to next.

And then I saw the box in the corner. I shuddered, and my blood ran cold as I fully realized what evil lurked in the hearts of these unattractive adolescents.

Stuffed into that discarded Dell computer box…

Voodoo dolls.

And taped to the sides of the box were Op-Ed pieces from La Jornada, articles from Memoria and god knows what else. I could make out some of the names. Elena, Gilly, and, oh my god…

To be continued...

A grace note, as promised

Jacquerie

Avant d'éblouir le peuple en lui promettant de l'eau chaude,
il faut luifournir des récipients pour la recueillir.
Alphonse Allais


As I should never have to remind our Dear Readers, our Editorial Staff, like our Editrice, are a divinely cosmopolitan crew. A Global Comité, of sorts. Internazionale, we might even venture, if it were not for fear of overwhelming our server with hate mail and/or one of those tedious denial of service attacks.

The above quote was provided by one of our thrice-blessed contributors, a gentleman of innumerable skills, including, but by no means limited to, fluency in more than one of our most favoured Romance languages.

Some, on the distaff side of our comité, have been wasting much too much time discussing said quote from the perspective of their less than substantive gentlemen friends. Cursing the evanescence of glacé and utter absence of gateaux.

I have absolutely no idea what they're nattering about.

We are much too serious, consequent and horizontal here to dabble in boys and pastries, no matter how petite and negligible they might be.

Grand schemes require grand slogans and incisive epigrams, and who better than our sober journal to provide them for the newly risen masse.

And, ever cognizant of the universality of our aims and reach, we shall continue to sample those who came before, from sans-culotte to Fenian, and everything betwixt.

Covering all continents, inclinations and bases.

Synchronicity

Into the forest and out again, following various trails of crumbs, but still lost without Ariadne's wise skein.

Such goings on.

And, even though all things political have been declared taboo in the Parlour for now, our spies are not so easily put off.

We are thoroughly impressed with IFE's new advisors. Such a cunning mix of high and low tech machinations. Old school ballot dumping, new school computer fail safe mechanisms, tripping totals in the opposite direction when a certain number is hit. A stop-loss order, as we believe they call it in other, equally renumerative, arenas.

We at YO! are enchanted with this evening's waltz, though we do find it just a tad too obvious. Show AMLO in the lead through most of the day, then slowly lower his numbers, closing the gap only after the evening news, Calderon to be declared overnight by IFE, and, voila, a fait accompli by the time the old dawn breaks.

But, not to be outdone, the ghost in the machine has been busy in an other place as well. Mysterious attacks, necessitating an odd series of shut-down, reposting and the targeted "disappearances" of Comments of a very particular ilk.

Perhaps they're hiring the same advisors?!

Especially given the obvious irony - the similarity of the subject of the Comments with the object of the electoral shenanigans. Almost as if they wished to prove those Commenters correct, leading us to wonder whether the ghost is merely naive or, oops, one of our least favorite characters in the Field Guide.

Or perhaps, sigh, the ghost behind the ghost is simply off his game.

Odd men out...and a contest!!

Since we’ve been noting a bit of buzz about odd bedmates [such a lovely topic], a Thoughtful Reader has sent us some old pics, just to remind us that , you know, plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.

And never fear, darlings, our next article is to be entitled Buff & Buffer, and we can promise you that the photos shall be much more attractive - both politically and aesthetically.

And, as a bit of a Saturday Night Special, everyone is free to hazard a guess as to which of the above gentlemen is, in fact, a banana republic tinpot dictator, inserted by the CIA, but now in hiding.

Epiphany of a dormouse

[Our Editrice, thoroughly devoted to maintaining the sterling literary level of our glorious little journal, and always convinced of the need to be au so very courant, is delighted to present the first of what we trust shall be an Endless Series of Straw Man Tales. The purpose of these gems shall be, as we know you know, to Guide, Instruct, Direct, Reveal, Confirm, Pontificate, Obfuscate when necessary, Preen whenever possible, and, hopefully, Amuse].


Dithering Dormouse [nigh hysterical]: Oh, my goodness, we are so horribly confused down here in our dark little warren. First we hear one thing and then another, never knowing who to believe. Tell us, fine Sir , how are we to know what is happening in the frightening World of Above?

Sir [modestly]: Well, my poor little compa, fear not. You have come to the proper Oracle. It is exceedingly simple. We shall tell you what is true and what is false, who is good and who is evil, where is up and where is down. And then, as the ground shifts, we shall tell you all over again.

Dithering Dormouse [sobbing]: Oh, at last! A true friend! Someone we can trust, who will stay by our side through thick and thin, who will instruct us in the ways of the widening world…

Sir [peremptorily]: Yes, but you must listen carefully, sip with care from the waters of authentic wisdom, learn Right Thought, organize horizontally and look only below and to the left…

Dithering Dormouse [desperately]: But, sir, we are always looking below, and there is nothing there to be seen but the damp earth with which we burrow our little pathways.

Sir [clearing his throat]: Yes, well, fine and good. You just do what you do, and we shall look down and to the left.

Dithering Dormouse [grabbing tail so as to prevent self from scampering]: But, fine Sir, what are we actually supposed to do? The babies are sick and hungry and there are more on the way, my sweet wife can find no work, and I must…

Sir [angrily]: Enough! Of course, we know these things, we report them every day. This is why you must leave your family as often as you can and take to the streets, to the great mobilizations we have planned, to demonstrate, to spit in the face of Those of Above.

Dithering Dormouse [scampering in circle]: But, Sir, if I leave my family, which is quite large and growing larger by the moment, then there will be no food at all that day, nor medicine for tiny Tim.

Sir [smiling indulgently]: I can see that you have taken little instruction, my dear One of Below, or you would understand that our own little lives matter naught. We must take the larger, historical view and make grand sacrifices, following that great dialectic that moves within and through us, all within the proper framework of a broad network of endless organizations of the left. I can see that what you most need right now is a lengthy, redacted reading list, a modem and a list of Proper Media.

Dithering Dormouse [sitting on tail]: But, sir, I do not read very well, have no idea what this “modem” might be, and my favorite “media” has always been of the most “improper” sort.

Sir [smugly]: Ah, you are so delightfully Of Below! Then, what you must do is join an organization of the left, and there you will be instructed by those New Leaders who do not lead, but rather march at the head of the throng, tool in hand, in front of the cameras, and you will swell their ranks, make placards, give stirring interviews to Proper Media, make coffee for the compas and all those other endless tasks which require endless hearts and minds.

Dithering Dormouse [eyes suddenly sparkling]: Oh, Sir, it’s as if a veil has been lifted from my eyes!! Instead of scurrying about Below, desperate with need to care for my family – which is expanding as we speak - I must move Above, into the light, the bright, white light of Above/Below.

Sir [growing bored]: More or less. But, off with you. We are quite busy right now here Below, ignoring the Calendar of Above, organizing more massive mobilizations to be timed, most cunningly, to the Calendar of Above.

Dithering Dormouse [casually]: And, Sir, as for food for my babies, who are multiplying at a most rapid rate, and medicine for tiny Tim?

Sir [reaching around for his campesino tool]: Food? Medicine? Do what We of Below always do: take up a collection, set up an authentic webpage, write a book, nag your subscriber list.

Dithering Dormouse [weeping]: God bless us, every one!

Kitten Fight!!!!!!!!!!

Yes, they're cute as hell, and they aren't going to take it anymore!

The downside to this tale is that it truly is the darkest of all possible days when the Page out-tabloids us, out bitch slaps us and outs - however briefly - He Who Must be Obeyed.

The upside, of course, is that your Editrice, who is still sick as hell of being sick as hell, was idly, and much to her increasing annoyance, whiling away the afternoon trying to download some translations for the BCN compas, while her computer crashed over and over and over again.

In dire need of diversion, she was switching back and forth to the Page, ever eager to follow the increasingly astonishing verbal adventures of Perla the Naif, Soldado Insurgente Lago [the obvious provocateur, and the mere fact that anyone there chose to engage him speaks bundles as to the need for Some to get out more, not to mention to check out one's own backyard], La Otra Buena Conciencia, Alberto Castillo the Enforcer, Martin the Wise, and all the rest of the stellar cast.

Well, after tiring of correcting Lago's grammar, vocabulary, idiocy and purpose [when I would have been questioning his sanity and whether he was related to one C. Null], the plug was finally pulled.

The thrill - and, yes, this is what illness does to one - came when the idiot snuck back in, frothing at the mouth, parrying with a few purported IP revelations of his own.

The dastardly, and purported, outing was also quickly pulled, but it certainly was entertaining while it lasted.

A cautionary tale, in some respects.

As some of my readers know, voz itself will out, especially to those who listen. And I, for one, have been very much enjoying that particular voz in that particular place.

Tinkers

Editrice [yes, sadly, still in less than agressive mode], a tad pale and wan and bored beyond words with vernal vapours...

But nonethless determined to not neglect our most faithful readers.

Especially any of those who might be in the mood for a bit of a parlour game [no, we don't actually do these things in the Real Parlour, where gossip and girlishness is strictly banned].

A guessing game for the evening, and there shall, as always, be a bit of cunning swag for whomever comes up with the most imaginative and entertaining response.

The riddle is: describe the owner of the latest domicile of our Itinerant Shade.

All we know [other than the neighborhood, which we shan't name, since, contrary to what the Purists amongst you might think, we really do adhere to the most righteous - though never authentic - of journalistic principles] is that said residence has an electric security fence, beemers in the driveway, three toddlers in the yard, and, um, etched glass windows.

We have the vague sense that the above may pass for decadence in some circles, but certainly not in ours. Beemers, electrified fences and, shudder, etched glass, sound more like, in the best of circumstances, minimum security penal farms for shifty CPAs.

As ever, darlings, no names. We wish to be entertained, not to be subjected to more botched hits.