I remember our local manifestation was housed inside a football sized lawn across from the art school. This location ensured the proper fermentation, with likewise minded folk replete in string guitars and retro duds. Their trump card (Not a Donald) were the bars, drug stores and pizza shops within walking distance. It was patently Patton, replete with airtime cards, friendly drinks and (free) mozzarella sticks.
War is hell mostly cause of the cravings, I’m thinking.
The adopted corner was a random expanse of urban invisibility before the Occupiers defined it. A brief eye frisk of saplings dotting the perimeter, with benches made of recycled materials fattening up the midsection, the benches earth friendly but murder on your ass.
Typical days were indeed redefined inside the Occupiers squat. Before the Soldiers of Anti-Fortune 500 came along, the space was nothing more than a predictable plot of a same looking white noise: Runners using the grounds as an excuse to show off the results of their hard work, graphic design students conspiring to murder their Art History professor for being an atrocious bore and a hum of bleary eyed mothers pimping nouveau baby chariots.
This particular corner is brooked by two main arteries. No shortage of congestion equaled a Broadway presence for a grassroots manipulation. A brilliant spot for a fledgling enterprise since the only thing shorter than most folks bank accounts these days is their attention span.
What did I take from all that sturm and drang? Simple. I would make a lousy protester. Here are a few reasons as to why . . .
No hot water- I don’t dig any locales which don’t include hot water on demand. Give me my hygiene or give me death.
Tents- I’m not big on them at campsites, much less in an urban setting. I’m guessing it would feel something like sleeping in a blanket fort in Central Park.
Weed- I have done it twice in my life (Future Post Alert), to pathetic results.
Meditation tents- Sorry, I don’t close my eyes around strangers. Anymore.
Hacky Sack- Much like the Rubik’s Cube, I never figured this one out.
Protests are the single guy’s best friend- Guys can rally around any cause that bears the promise of a naturally funded progression of pheromone. I knows of what I speak, even if it’s all past tense now. (The Dukakis campaign was a very good year for this here Reagan punk.)
Young ladies, beware the loopy fiasco protesters out there. They mean no harm but they also mean no good, which, as any mathemetician worth his salt will tell you . . equals zero.
An example, to wit . . . In the big fat holler of Occupy, I was driving home one night when I came to a stop at Movement Corner. There he stood, this baseball capped participant of the Revolution, holding up a hand painted sign which read HONK FOR DEMOCRACY!. He was flanked by two young lovelies whose blossom was about to be ambushed by a rogue agent whose cause was pants driven.
My honk wasn’t for democracy, just as that sign holder wasn’t anchoring a corner at rush hour in a rage against the machine. I honked out of the knowledge, mine and his, that all politics is local. And corporate tyranny is the best thing that ever happened to his little black book.