Democracy at Work

Around these parts, when folks are upset about something, they pester unsuspecting people in Starbucks to sign vaguely defined petitions and submit mildly illiterate and highly belligerent letters to the local rag. Vocal minorities come and go, never quietly, but eventually nobody really remembers what they were ranting about.

As superior as we are, we Americans could learn a lesson or two from abroad. Take, for example, Spain. A developed country (though way down toward the bottom of the list by most measures) its people know how to live. Great food, lots of wine, and long naps in the middle of the day. And we call ourselves the leaders of the free world! More importantly, they know how to get things done, quietly and effectively, without resorting to the somewhat infamous tactics of that silly Inquisition they hosted way back when. Everybody makes mistakes.

A not-so-annoying petition

Take, for example, a band of Basque firemen protesting budget cuts. Not to be confused with the often violent Basque Separatists, this unified group of men in uniform (ahh, be still my heart, it's why my friend so generously sent me the picture) offered up a rather compelling twenty-one plus bun salute to give voice to their gripes, and let me tell you, I bet the powers that be paid attention. I know I did, and as soon as I remember the international dialing code, I'm phoning in my support.  And, I'd bet my bottom dollar (or just my bottom, for what that's worth) that plenty of passersby stopped to, um, further investigate the details behind their petition.

Naturally, the strategy isn't foolproof. For someone like me, for whom the fireman appeal stems largely from the uniform itself, I'm far less of a pushover when the clothes are gone and the helmets have been removed from what are revealed to be ordinary, balding heads and hung, a bit absurdly, over their little hoses. I do admit that I spent time zooming in, trying to catch a glimpse of a "member," but only as a matter of cultural enrichment. I've seen many statues, but I've never seen one in the flesh -- er -- uncut. (No luck, by the way, so don't waste your time ladies.) And, though I admit the Basque buns were, for the most part, gravity defying and quite inviting (I certainly wouldn't toss them out of bed for eating tapas), I tremble -- and not, mind you, with any sort of pleasure -- to think what the sight of some middle aged suburban behinds would do to my psyche, not to mention my appetite.

So bring on the petitions. I might take a peek, just so I don't miss any important details. But
please, keep your pants on, and I promise to do the same.