Sunday, a Democratic activist friend sent me a message:
"The evil one [George W. Bush] is coming to Reunion Arena tomorrow to raise money and spread fear and discord o'er the land. Right-thinking people will be protesting this terrible event, of course. I'm heading over there right after I get home from work about 6pm. Give me a call if you want to come along."
I'd like to protest just to get out for the evening, but in Dallas protesting tends to be an embarrassing activity dominated by fringe political parties like the Black Panthers or ANSWER. At the last protest I attended, some scary guys with matted hair who hadn't showered in weeks bragged about spitting at a congressman. They could use some lobbying advice. Congressmen must be bought, not spit on.
I like understanding people, and protests aren't about understanding. They're about yelling your opposition into oblivion. Chanting "Bush is a Terrorist" with a bunch of monosyllabic freaks just isn't my style. I go anyway.
I park in the West End, thinking the protest would be in Dealey Plaza (more infamously known as "the grassy knoll") where a usual group of activists gather on Thursdays to yell in futility at passing cars. As I load the meter, my friend Joel rings my cell. "If you're coming to the protest, stop by my loft and bring my Rick Perry sign for me."
Recently, Joel has taken to counter-protesting protesters. He relishes the attention that comes with stirring-up conflict. Since he lives downtown, he's never short on opportunity. I knew he'd be there. "I wouldn't be caught dead holding your Rick Perry sign. In fact, I'm walking right by your loft at this minute, and I could easily step inside to get it, but I'm not."
He insists he would do it for me if the situation was reversed, but he's lying. The guy is so unreasonably partisan; he thinks protests against the Iraq war should be outlawed. He realizes that this legislation would put an end to his favorite pass time, but doesn't care.
"Look for me when you get down here. I'm in the protest zone outside Reunion Arena. I'm the one holding a big George Bush sign being mobbed. You can't miss me."
As I approach Reunion Arena, I ask a couple DPD officers which way to the protest. They respond "which one?"
I didn't know I had options: Anti-Bush, Gays and Lesbians against Bush, Bikers against Bush, Blacks against Bush and of course Pro-Bush. "Wow, that's quite the segmentation. I'll go with the generic Anti-Bush crowd."
He points up the road to Houston Street. I double take. It's away from the arena, closer to the Main Street District. "That way?"
He affirms. Up to Houston Street and right at the corner. I walk skeptically back to where I originally came from. Half-way there, I ask a family holding anti-Bush signs if it's the right way to the protest.
The father responds with the corny wit of an academic author promoting his new politically-motivated book on late night television. "If it's the right way, it's the wrong way."
I chuckle, his kids grimace, and he goes on.
"You should go back down where you came from and take a left. Left is always right, you know." Poor kids. I'm sure they get that all the time.
The cop lied to me. Thinking I was anti-Bush (which I am), he intentionally directed me away from the protest area. My intentions this evening aren't remotely political. I only want to see Joel get the shit kicked out of him by a bunch of black anti-war lesbian communist bikers. Is that so wrong?
I arrive at the protest zone to discover it's the only protest zone. The cop spewed all that shit a litmus paper to my allegiance. Had I opted for the gay and lesbian crowd, he may have beaten the shit out of me instead of giving me wrong directions.
A woman at the front holds a bouquet of red, white and blue helium-filled balloons. It's festive and patriotic, terribly disconnected from the fanatical tone of the protest. She offers me a balloon, and I accept.
With the balloon tied around my wrist, I wander through the protest. I'm a kid lost at a carnival and can't take my eyes off the carnies. Some exhibits at this freak show are more terrifying than others, but all of them prove fascinating in some way.
White-bread suburban kids in Middle Eastern garb chant "Bush is a Terrorist." Their props include a "Free Palestine" sign, and a defaced American flag. The more obnoxious one has a megaphone. He fancies himself as a protest leader ala Mel Gibson's Brave Heart, running up and down the line. Nobody listens, so he ends up looking mildly retarded.
The gays and lesbians wave a rainbow flag and a few tasteful marriage-related signs, but they don't do much chanting. They're too busy checking each other out, or clinging to their partners. This isn't a protest. It's a hook-up opportunity. I admire their thinking.
Black children chant "Cheater, Stealer, Killer!" With more than a dozen kids to the one adult, I wonder how this outing came about. "Yeaa? Rolanda? This is Lawanda. I want to get the neighborhood chilluns together for some killer-chantin' down at the Bushy fundraiser."
Later, they'll captivate audiences with a refreshing rendition of "Bush Hates Blacks!" It's the most adorable little thing you've ever seen. But I sit that one out.
A college-age guy in a pin-striped suit with a megaphone glued to his lips spends the entire evening talking at the disinterested cops supervising this freak show. "Bush isn't all there in the head," he states with matter-of-factness. "He's a puppet. I'd debate him right now. But you know what? You guys are all right. At least you're not Cheney's SS."
The cops aren't paying attention. The talk amongst themselves in clumps of twos and threes. Pin-Stripe has enough cliché anti-Bush material that he'll keep the one-sided conversation going till the crowd thins out, the cops have gone home, and he's talking to a janitor on smoke break. The janitor will be his first attentive audience of the night.
A skinny woman in her mid-50s pulls on Pin-Stripe's jacket. She wears a military-policy style "peace badge" strapped around her arm. This makes her an official of some kind--an official lunatic.
"I found a young man with a republican sign over here. We need your help driving him away." Captain Peace is dead serious.
Aloft! There's a peace emergency somewhere in the protest zone! The deranged duo makes a dash across the front lines. I follow, because I know where they're going. They're going to Joel. He's surrounded by a crowd of vehement young socialists. I'm surprised he hasn't killed anyone.
He stands on his tiptoes to push his "Vote Republican" sign above the swarming crowd. His shirt pulls up a bit, revealing a bit of boxers and bare back.
"Hey look, he's wearing clown underwear!" Captain Peace valiantly attempts to mock him into submission. The socialists giggle and join in. Underwear-based ridicule may be effective on your typical 4th grade playground, but Joel is a seasoned protest instigator. On this playground, he's the equivalent of a 6th grader. At least.
With the way Captain Peace has taken to mocking underwear, I'm feeling suddenly vulnerable in my baby blue boxer-briefs. I look for shelter.
Back from the front-line, I spot a humble man in slacks and a wrinkled grey button-down observing the scene with his hands in his pockets. His wife stands just a few feet in front of him, silently holding an American flag in her right hand while her left hand strains high into the air, the index and middle-fingers pointed skyward in a victorious peace sign.
He keeps a safe distance. She's the activist. He's just along for the ride. I walk that direction, looking around aimlessly to pretend he's not my destination. We stand in proximity for a few silent minutes before I ask if he would like my balloon. He declines.
"What's she doing?" I nod to his wife.
"This is what she does," he shrugs. "She enjoys it."
"Classy." Too bad nobody notices her in this crowd of unbalanced attention whores.
We sit back and watch all the ridiculousness that surrounds us. All the yelling. All the vitriol. All the chanting, megaphoning and instigating. All the underwear-mocking and Palestinian-impersonating. It's all so tragically disconnected from reality. Ineffectual and repulsive.
I love it.