On Sunday in St. Petersburg, a town in that Russia place, a music festival was held in support of the band Pussy Riot, several of whose members were jailed recently for something most of us don’t remember anymore.
At least they got us talking about pussy again. Let’s pussy riot again like we did last summer.
A thousand people attended the event to show their solidarity with the Pussies. Which means 143 million and 99 thousand other Russians couldn’t make it for one reason or another.
The women who dressed up like big vaginas outside the Republican Convention would have been there, but their vagina suits wouldn’t fit in the overhead compartments on the plane.
You can hardly blame them for not wanting to check them, for fear of gnarly “handling” by baggage handlers.
Their giant vaginas were there in spirit.
The event organizer, who, if it doesn’t go without saying, is named Olga, said city officials had tried to force her to stop Sunday’s show and firefighters had threatened to close down the Glavklub Hall, claiming safety violations ahead of the concert.
How city officials tried to force her to stop the show and why they didn’t if they’re so mean isn’t “fleshed out” in the article I read, nor was why firefighters didn’t close Glavklub Hall after threatening to do so because of safety regulations if they’re so concerned about the protestors’ safety.
That’s OK. Any vague allegations of official wrongdoing that didn’t happen but might have, knowing officials and all, or purported firefighter malfeasance is certainly going into any article of mine, further questioning-free.
Fight the implied power!
Maybe firefighters should worry more about fighting fires than throwing cold water on a young girl’s dreams of studiously provoking the powers that be in smirking, nose-thumbing petulance and in-your-face disrespect only to have brutal totalitarian regimes say, “You go, girl!”
You may say they are dreamers, but they’re not the only ones.
There’s eight or nine of them.
One of the performers, Yuri something-long-and-Russian, said, “In 1992, we participated in a festival against political repression. Twenty years have passed, but it seems almost nothing has changed.”
On your end, either, Protest Boy.
Counterproductive snot for the edification of a handful of likeminded narcissists still seems to be the order of the “protest” day.
It’s the third week in a row that people have gathered to celebrate the purveyors of pat platitudes of their choice.
Twenty years ago it was nothing to see a car with a bumper sticker on one side reading YOU CAN’T HUG YOUR CHILDREN WITH NUCLEAR ARMS, and, on the other, one declaring SAVE THE WHALES.
You can’t hug your children with whales, either.
The benign just-the-facts article I read contained the words “Pussy Riot” in the headline and throughout the text, yet when the humble peasantry tried to use the p-word in the comments, it was relegated to “%$@!#”, presumably by “autocensor” or “contextgard.”
There’s metaphorical gold in there somewhere.