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Today’s the big day. My first anarcho-enviromentalist-anticapitalist protest. I sprang awake at 6:30am. Less because I’m excited about today’s events (though I am), more because my dog found something dead in the yard, and brought it in to show me.

I’m a raging capitalist. But my goal today: become an anti-globalization business-hater. Infiltrate. Blend in. My first inclination is to shower. Then I think better. I have to start thinking like a protester. Duh. Capitalism haters don’t shower.

My first challenge? Figuring out what to wear. What does one wear to an important protect-the-world’s-exploited protest? Deep in my closet I find an old fraternity t-shirt. My frat threw a huge party every spring called “Decline of Western Civilization.” All the guys in the house would shave their heads into mohawks or Mad Max-inspired themes, and the girls would slut it up (come to think of it, most of our parties seemed to invoke themes that involved the girls “slutting it up”). At any rate, the t-shirt seems appropos — it has a big skull on the back, the skull is wearing a beret, and the words “Decline of Western Civilization” are scrawled just beneath. Unfortunately, it also has a bright yellow “Theta Chi” on front and back. This is trouble. No one’s going to buy ex-frat guy as angry protester. So I grab a black marker and try to blot it out. No go. I find some black touch-up paint. Still doesn’t work. The yellow “Theta Chi” is now black and glossy, but still readily visible. I give up. Instead, I settle on an old white t-shirt I find wadded up in the corner of my dresser. This will do. It’s extra wrinkled, signifying my extra anger. White, extra-wrinkled, extra-angry t-shirt. Check.

I also find a couple of dark blue bandanas for myself and the friend who’ll be going with me. These will be important, in case we get gassed. I’m not sure that a bandana really keeps tear gas off your face, but every time I’ve seen someone get gassed on TV, there are always a couple of guys in the middle of the gas cloud, still throwing rocks and shouting important, profound slogans — and they’re always wearing bandanas over their faces while they’re doing it. This is evidence enough for me. Two navy-blue bandanas. Check.

Next? Shoes. A friend at work suggested I wear shoes that would be easy to run in. Good point. Certainly, I’ll be running from pig cops and water hoses before the day is through. But all of my running shoes have big fat logos splashed across them. New Balanace — which I know are made in sweat shops, and Asics — which I’m not sure, but I think are made in sweat shops, too. I settle on a pair of black slip-ons. Black of course is the color of anarchy. I jog in place while wearing the loafers. Yep. They’ll work. Black slip-on shoes, comfortable for running (away). Check.

I’m getting excited now. I decide I’ll drive in to work, then walk to the protest. Driving is risky, as the radio stations have been telling us all week to expect multiple street closings. I figure that, if need be, I can Metro home. Choice of music? Travis is currently in my CD player. Travis is patently unacceptable driving-to-a-protest music. OK, must think like a protester. Lemme see…there’s the new Fugazi, which rails against gentrification. A possibility. But gentrification is a local issue. These are global protests. Dylan’s great protest music. Especially early, accoustic Dylan. But not militant enough. Think global. And angry. And profit-hating. Rage Against the Machine! Of Course! Rage Against the Machine, debut album. Check.

I need coffee. Man, a Starbucks would hit the spot. I try to justify slupring down a Starbucks by reminding myself of the Starbucks in Manhattan that tried to charge rescue workers for bottled water as the Trade Center towers were falling. That’s certainly a big middle finger to everything civilized. Still, Starbucks is the epitome of corporate greed — all serious protesters know this. My fellow activists would surely smell the telltale overroasted beans on my breath, instantly giving me away. I conclude it’ll be a Dunkin’ Donuts morning. After all, there’s that urban myth about the D&D clerks hi-fiving and cheering as the 9/11 news coverage broke. Seems anti-west enough for me. Remember, marching and throwing rocks isn’t enough. We must remember to protest with our dollars, too. D&D coffee. Check.

By the time I hit the GW Parkway, the sun’s casting a pink glow over the Potomac. Thomas Jefferson sagely glances out over the tidal basin. I’m in full protest mode. Zach de la Rocha wails in my ear. “FUCK YOU, I WON’T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME. FUCK YOU, I WON’T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME.” Man, am I ever angry now!

I pull into work. I settle into the office, log on, and begin delivering this report. I email king blogger, the Instapundit, to inform him of my day’s activities, hoping he’ll direct some traffic to my site. If I’m going to hang out with these losers and risk meeting the business end of a nightstick, by God I’d better be sure I get a decent audience to read about it. InstaMan informs me that the first round of protests have already resulted in 40 arrests! Way to go fellas! I roll up my bandana.

Then I see it. There, on the corner of the bandana, in white, the three letters that strike fear in the heart of every serious fighter-for-justice: “GAP.” Rookie mistake! I’m jarred. How could I be so stupid! I shudder. Think of the beat down I would’ve gotten! Nervous, I recheck my inventory. What else might I have overlooked? Carefully, I cut out the logo, finish rolling, then tie the bandana ’round my neck. I shake off my doubts. I’m ready.

I’m an anticapitalist. I’m Che Guevara. I’m Norma Rae. I’m hungry for an Egg McMuffin.

This entry was posted on Saturday, April 20th, 2002 at 8:44 am by Radley Balko and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.