As soon as I posted that last part, I started hearing yelling outside. It was not the normal yelling that I hear every night, of the “WHOOO!” variety intended to indicate a good time.* No, this was the more protesty kind of yell. I threw on a sweatshirt over my lounging pajamas** and hotfooted it outside to the street. Sure enough, a group of maybe twenty or thirty people were banging their hippie beat drums and waving signs and marching and hollering. This group included Frank Chu. (I felt that his presence added a WHOLE lot of credibility to the group, since that guy has been prophesying doom since way before it was fashionable.) This group kept to the sidewalk, moved along at a good pace, and did not seem interested in destroying anyone’s property (much to my relief, since I live only half a block away). They were being followed at a crawl by not one, not two, but THREE police cars.
Well, I thought, here I have JUST clicked on my new Civil Disobedience link when suddenly a protest appears outside my very window like an urban Romeo. I would be some kind of fool not to join. So I joined, although I eschewed the yelling, chanting and clapping. I don’t really do that stuff (unless Jolie is yelling too, in which case one is gripped with an odd compulsion to follow where the truly impressive decibals of her voice are leading).
I lasted for exactly a block and a half before I ditched them and circled back around to my warm little hovel, but I haven’t given up. I’ll keep attending the big marches and in the meantime I will look for something else helpful to do.
And that’s the truth, pbbbbt.
*Why do so many people, immediately upon reaching the Castro, feel the need to yell “WHOOO!”? I hardly ever do it, myself.
**which are different from my sleeping pajamas and my being-seen pajamas