POLITICS, UNUSUAL
used without permission • excerpted from Summer Burkes' SF Bay Guardian column, dilettante
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Saturday, we arrive late to meet the What, Me President? faction of the George W. Bush inauguration protest. We power-walk from the Embarcadero to the cable car turnaround, where we catch the avant-garde cavalcade just as a homeless woman is assaulting Bishop Joey, the founder of the Church of Stupid and he whose brainchild today's parade was, while he speaks on the bullhorn. "Gimme a B!" the Bishop says after finally wrangling free, and the crowd thusly spells "B-U-S-H-I-T."

As tourists waiting for the cable car stare quizzically and scramble for their video cameras, Bishop Joey warns us that there's a rolling blackout coming, whereupon we all cover our eyes with our hands and turn around in circles. He leads the conglomeration in the "Texas Three Step," a dance where we take one step forward into the future, then two steps back into the past. We waltz for a while, then weave in and out of the pilings and on the cable car tracks before continuing on our way.
 

We march along, and someone plays "Yankee Doodle Dandy" on a tin whistle. (Perfect.) We pass by some dancing crackheads and curious stereo shop owners, and the whistler switches to "Yes, We Have No Bananas," inspiring the first of many impromptu sing-alongs of the day. There are rainbow clown wigs, Nixon masks, upside-down flags flying, ladies in red, a couple Ren Faire jesters, Jesus H. Christ, an official alien suit (by Ronco), and Satan in a business three-piece, who brandishes a pitchfork with a jar of piss built into it.


A woman in a blue cowboy hat, while being pushed in a shopping cart, leads a sing-along of "The Hokey Pokey." We stop at an intersection, obeying the laws of traffic, and one bystanding Vietnam vet joins the parade, getting into it, suggesting to a couple participants that we start a new civil war. A man in a pinstripe suit and a creepy Alfred E. Neuman head-mask holds up three fingers for "W." Half the members of the procession carry handmade signs: Not Just Another Smiling Affluent Jerk; Ladies Love Dick; All Hail President Snippy; R U 4 Baby Jesus?; Hail to the Thief; King George 2; Bushit!; Don't Blame Me; I Voted for the Majority; Mommy! Why won't Daddy buy me a Presidency?; We've Been Bushwhacked! Ladies Against Women Re-Elect Gore. Back to Top

  
 
 

At United Nations Plaza we pass another example of the right to freedom of expression; a group of teenagers with a "Give Your Life to Jesus" sign and rock-band equipment; and the two factions leave each other alone. One dude in an elaborate Satan/Darth Maul-ish mask pushes downstream through the gathering, holding aloft a sign that says "My Boy Won." Per Bishop Joey's command, "the parade rests" in the Plaza: the entire herd stops mid-march and sits down. A real live marching band plays tunes to roust the crowd, and parade-goers lounge and roll around and chat and dance and pet dogs. A black-clad bride in full veil and American flag cape bangs on her elaborately painted bass drum; a man in an orange prison jumpsuit and suit coat keeps the rhythm on his briefcase, which says "Corporate Criminals for Dubya."


Rested, the parade heads up to City Hall through the outdoor corridor lined with outdoor alcoholics. The band plays "When the Saints Go Marching In," thereby completing the Mardi-Gras-funeral-for-America vibe. The San Francisco Mime Troupe joins up with the Stupid faction, large banner aloft, and we all march across the wide street to Civic Center Plaza.


Because of our position in the throng, we can't see until we arrive that almost the entire plaza is filled with serious protesters, who immediately disperse the silly vibes with actual anger, outrage, worry, and fear. The marching band appropriately (and probably not mockingly) breaks into "We Shall Overcome," and every student, activist, liberal, old hippie, new hippie, and concerned American citizen within earshot joins in singing the words. I secretly wish that I had worn flowers in my hair today.
A man in a pinstripe suit and a creepy Alfred E. Neuman head-mask holds up three fingers for "W."
The mood in the shadow of City Hall is somber to the point of mournful, and the air is heavy with the dread of a new Republican era, but the Stupids lighten it a bit with some clown noses, buck teeth, and steadfastly cheerful, interpretively interpretive dancing around the bass drum. A row of cops on horses calmly watches over the proceedings, blocking off one of the streets, and a jail bus sits quietly, as a warning, on the deserted avenue. We the uninformed didn't know this was the plan, but everyone begins to exit the plaza en masse; there's a march through town! We follow the throng, being careful to stay with the Stupids, occasionally getting mired in with the NOW crowd, the big-money-oil protesters, the Green party, the Palestine people, and whoever else strolls by. People continuously stop my companion, who is dressed in a smart suit and expensive cowboy hat, to take pictures of him. He presses the flesh. "George!" people call to him. "Yes, thank you, I'll be oppressing you shortly," he says, waving congenially. One man sets up camp along the parade route and sells upside-down American flags.
 
We learn that all of the Bush Street signs this morning have been changed to say "Puppet."
  

It's completely surreal to walk down the middle of a deserted Van Ness Avenue on Saturday afternoon with thousands of other people on foot. Everyone should try it.
After overtaking the largest boulevard in town, the procession turns onto Grove and marches on. We stop at Turk and Laguna to marvel that the protest stretches up as far as our eyes can see, and then turn to see the same scene behind us. We watch all the causes, each one worthy, parade by. "This is so rad, dude," one skater near us says. "Thousands of people that know how fucked our country is, all banded together against bullshit." Back to Top

Finally we get to Jefferson Square Park, where the rally is set to end, and sidle up to a fence to people-watch some more. Protesters flood onto the lawn and up the hill, crowding in to make room. We hear the faint rumble of a booming bass, then see a faction of the flock start to bounce, then see the sign: "The Only Party We Support Is a Street Party." A bicycle with a trailered sound system thunders by like the urban Pied Piper, festooned with spray paint-stencilled flags that say "Live," "Play," "Free."

The park fills with people, and again it's truly a sight to behold. The entire population of Berkeley seems to be in attendance. If these 15,000 activists weren't pacifists all, we probably would have another civil war on our hands. The line for the portajohn stretches half the block, and people start screaming into the microphone, and since our feet are tired and we know what they're all going to say, we split. We catch up with the dance party, which has moved on to Turk and Gough. While the majority of the horde has stayed at the park, an additional thousand or so attendees march on, and the dancing ones don't seem to want to move to the sidewalk.

Another line of cops on horses stares at the proceedings from the top of the hill. Then two dozen cops on loud motorbikes charge into crowd-control formation from the gas station on Franklin, endeavoring to free up the streets. Then, on Van Ness, five cop cars come, sirens screaming, from all directions and line up in the blocked-off turn lane. Twenty cops pour out of the cars in Mad Max uniforms with big sticks. "Soon as we get enough people, we're gonna take Van Ness again," one rabble-rouser from the throng whispers to us, but we have to pee. Sure enough, they do take it. The cops, smartly, just let them, diverting traffic as gridlock occurs and helpless control freaks in BMWs lay on horns, as if that would help anything. One activist stands on the median and holds up an enormous "Bushlost.org" sign.


Standing with rubberneckers across the street, we learn that all of the Bush Street signs this morning have been changed to say "Puppet." "The fact is," one conservative-looking tourist says aloud, "none of this is going to change the fact that George W. Bush is now the president." "Yes, we know," I say, simplifying, "but it makes us all feel better." Back to Top
 
 
Epiloge by HappyFeet: The roving street party (aka Reclaim The Streets) headed to Powell at Market street. After taking the same cable car turn around that the St. Stupid group took, and playing on it like a merry-go-round, the protesters proceeded to take the Gap store that is located there. And took it they did. They were in the store, blocking the doors, and creating much merriment. Police finally blocked off the entrances, but shoppers had to walk over a line of protesters sitting in front of the doors. Back at the park, speakers continued to speak, the Extra Action Marching Band played, and a large drum circle began under some nice trees. Your humble narrator ended up finding some friends and finding a WC without a huge line. Back to Politics