After stopping by Cameron’s bookstore, I walked down to the hubbub along the waterfront this morning. I walked past Saturday Market, and heard a saxophone player knocking down a super slow rendition of Tina Turner’s “What’s Love Got to do With It.” The left was gathered nearby… a lot of them. There were speeches and costumes and signs, and I’m sure they were doing their typically Portland thing condemning racism saying “Move along now, Nazi’s” or “Suck it, Fascists” and all such things.
There was a very heavy police presence. The police had moving mega-phones (I couldn’t quite figure out how they worked) that were loud! “Front Street is closed to all traffic and all pedestrians. Anyone walking on the streets or sidewalks will be subject to arrest.” Helicopters. Police boats on the river. Mountain bikes. Lots of riot gear. The fuzz weren’t playing around.
I walked south and found the Nazis, and not for the last time today, I heard, “There’s no such thing as Nazis! No such thing as Fascists!” -- this coming from a noisy but small woman who definitely had her passions. Lot’s of really bad T-shirts and red hats, bullet proof vests and helmets. Don’t forget the tactical eye-wear. Nice touch there. Don’t Tread on Me flags, Christian Nationalist flags, and of course, the flag of the good ol’ USA. Personally, I liked the Trump flags that were worn as capes. You go, TrumpMan. I bet you get all the ladies.
The Trumpanzees were separated by about 200 yards from the leftists, but the only barrier between the two were about 10 bicycle police monitoring. Leftists came to the edge and were vocalizing about some such or other, and the Proud Boys were vocalizing back about something probably the exact opposite. I watched this for a good 15-20 minutes, hanging out next to a light post, keeping my wits about me lest an AK sprung from the crowd and I had to duck sharply. A couple police officers chatted with Nazi leaders for a quick sec, and it was time to move. Too much confrontation already. Leaders shouted, “We’re moving this way!” The hoard, and by that I mean only 200 of them, started heading south and I followed. I laughed my ass off when I saw about 10 of them running to keep up. I was like, “Dudes, just walk fast. You guys have no business running.” I guess that’s a little bit weightest of me. My bad. I’m anti-jiggle.
So, I followed, chatting it up with characters in black polo’s with yellow “PB” logo’s and police officers, and I forgot to tell you about the trombone player. I really liked the trombone player. He had a sign, I can’t remember what it said, but it was something nice about loving your neighbor or peace unto you or something sweet, and he placed himself in front of the idiots and played, “My Favorite Things.” The racists thought this was something interesting to film, and had cameras in his face (they filmed everything.) When he was done, I was the only one to clap. He did a really nice job. I liked it, and I thought he was brave. Nice work Trombone Guy.
So we’re heading south, and nobody had a permit to march in the streets. I’m really curious to know where this freak circus is going, because remember, there are police loudspeakers that are blaring “Don’t go on the Freakin’ streets.” Well wouldn’t you know, the coppers opened up Hawethorne Bridge (which had been closed down for both traffic and pedestrian travel for this very event) and were letting the assholes cross to the other side of town.
I was chatting with my girlfriend on the cell, looking up at those folks crossing when one dude dressed in battle garb complete with helmet and yes, elbow pads, shouted down at me, “You calling back up for your Antifa friends?” I said, “Fuck you, bro, I’m chatting with my girlfriend.” He seemed to think that was a fine answer.
I decided to follow (FYI, I’m not really a follower, just really curious), and as luck would have it, I was the last one through. Right behind me the police fenced off the bridge and so I made my way across at the back of the pack with about 15 mountain bike cops. I chatted them up a little. They seemed okay.
I caught up with two officers, and they were talking about how much they’ve walked already today. Dude’s fitbit was working double. I interrupted and said, “Yeah, I watched my step count for a bit, but it was awful. The more I knew how many steps I was taking, the more tired I was. I gave that up.”
We got to the other sided of the river, and I heard my first “USA” chants. Those folk love their country. Can you even imagine doing a “USA” chant anywhere other than at the Olympics or World Cup? So weird.
So now, I’m legitimately the only leftist in the group. All the others are back on the other side of the river. This is just one big fascist powwow. I’ll be honest, I’m kind of having a good time. Total cultural adventure. I meet people and compliment them on their appropriate footwear. “Yo, sweet boots, dude.” I listen to bro’s talk about their gun collection. I said, “See that boat down there?” pointing at a tourist jet boat, “My buddy drove that for a summer and said it was the most fun job he’s ever had.” They seemed friendly enough.
Except a guy came from out of nowhere with both birds blazing and screamed, “F-you. F-you. F-you!” Oh Lordy, not a good move, Leftist. He was surrounded (completely) by a pack of deplorables, and I felt sorry for him because he was gonna get it. I went up to a skin head and said, “Bro, maybe you should make sure that dude doesn’t get hurt.” He nodded in general agreement, but Crazy Left Guy escaped in the meantime. I’m not sure if my skin head brother would have done anything, but he seemed at least a little sympathetic. I have a soft spot for that asshole.
Saw a dude in USA flag pajamas. They looked comfortable and obviously, super classy.
Because of that kerfluffle though, riot cops arrived, and hemmed us all in. I was a little bit nervous. I’m a local, so it’s cool, but I made sure, I had a quick exit strategy. Things were getting tense, and the rednecks started to confront the police. They were right in their face. But there were a couple Nazi leaders that yelled in their best dad voices, “Everybody back-up! Let them have their room!” That settled things down. Nothing like a good dad voice to ease tensions.
I hung out with them for another half hour or so. Not much really happened. Just assholes being assholes. If you’ve ever been to the Oregon Country Fair, think, the exact opposite.
Proud Boys and accompanying scum then broke up into little factions and went separate ways to wreak havoc across the city. I tagged along for a bit behind the faction with Boss Numero Uno, but quickly got bored. I’d had enough. I walked home, and don’t really need to do that again. I’m pretty sure I won’t. Yeah, I’m pretty positive I won’t.