In one of those rare hybrid anglophone moments, I noticed that the butter means something else in another language. The butter is noisy. As little sense as that makes, its true.
There’s more hybrid moments here than just the food. The recent election has been a train wreck. Supposing this post will somehow be preserved into a post-apocalyptic world and the Omega Man is trying to decipher it, the 2007 French election began with a welter of candidates, which was reduced to two after the first round of voting.
Like all elections, there was no perfect candidate, though some of the outliers looked refreshingly quirky, if not promising.
In the end, the choice has boiled down to a nearly archetypical decision between a right-wing dickhead and a loopy moron. This is painful, and probably as it should be, because most elections end up this way. What troubles me is the ex-pat response.
I have few illusions about who becomes an expat — the independantly rich, the uselessly over-educated, the chronically dissatisfied, the ambitious — and for the most part, these same people have assuaged their French friends by claiming for years that Bush was “not their fault” and that he was “the worst president ever.” (You’re wrong. And it wasn’t Clinton. It was Johnson, followed by Jackson, then the other Johnson. Which Johnson? Hell, they were both bad, but at least Andrew has my sympathy.)
Imagine my surprise when I find how many of these expats have lined up behind the right-wing dickhead. None of these people can vote, nor can I, but I’ve never noticed that the uselessness of an opinion has prevented someone from forming it. I just wish that in the absence of having any hope of influence, people might opt for philosophical consistency. No — people tend to choose the political opinions which please their friends. Odd that they are so inclined to hang out with the right-wing dickheads they would avoid in America, but money does that to people.