The peak of the NATO protests in Chicago took place on Saturday,
May 19th as crowds converged to the Grant Park area for a general assembly
that kicked off around 10AM. It was clear from the start that every outcast
faction from every sub-genre of society was present to voice their
opinion on the issues they felt strongest about. Thousands arrived in droves armed
with cardboard signs as their preferred weapon of choice.
I started my day observing the crowds shooting random photos of the wide array of characters in attendance. After being shut out of the grassy knoll by a self-proclaimed Black Bloc security member, SEE VIDEO HERE I relocated my position to the front of a stage where rejected Woodstock applicants showcased their talent to an unsuspecting crowd. I winced in pain as a tone deaf burn-out lead the crowd in a sing-along of Woody Guthrie’s “This Land is Your Land.” He added a few F-words into the chorus that I couldn't recall being part of the original recording.
I quickly needed something to distract my attention from the slaughter of Guthrie so I made a game of counting how many pairs of Nike shoes dressed the feet of protesters waving “DESTROY CAPITALISM” signs. I came up with an un-official statistic that had three out of ten freedom fighters rockin Nike’s as they sipped on Mac Donald's beverages to cool their anti-imperialistic bodies from the day’s all-consuming heat.
Every which way you turned there was a demonstrator with a camera shoved in his face failing miserably at convincing an attractive reporter that the banks and corporations are destroying the world economy. I couldn’t help but listen in as a self-elected spokesperson for "the cause" stumbled over their words resorting to the same types of vague, agenda-suiting rhetoric that they so strongly condemned the Christian right and Tea Baggers of being guilty of.
At some point my bladder began sending signals to my brain that a bathroom stop was in order. The porta-potties set up in Grant Park were far cleaner than the ones you’d find at an Kid Rock concert but with an equal amount of drug paraphernalia discarded into the abyss of the temporary shitters. As I held my breath and unloaded a stream of hot piss into the dry, black void of a plastic crapper, I noticed a punctured nitrous cartridge nestled up against a hippy turd and a half eaten apple. To the left of the turd was a dirty syringe that may or may not have been used to inject diabetes insulin. I’m thinking most likely not.
After the conclusion of a number of regurgitated speeches plagiarized straight from the pages of a Noam Chomsky essay, the crowds began to line up in formation led by the Black Bloc Anarchist militia who succeeded in striking terror into the hearts of spectators with their black attire complete with face masks and gloves similar to the ones made famous by the O.J. Simpson trial.
The march officially kicked off sometime around 2PM and clogged the streets of Michigan Avenue heading south from Grant Park. My brother in arms for the march was former co-worker and Chicago native Jeremy Farmer who ended up suffering first degree burns to his forehead region from his lack of base tan. Audio and visual overload attacked from every direction during the march. Singing, dancing, yelling, screaming, laughing, cheering, drum beats on stained bongos and dirty buckets. Walking under the crumbling viaducts in tight packs of demonstrators became claustrophobic at one point when protesters used the acoustics of the concrete walls to raise the volume of their rants. The stink of Sage and patchouli blanketed the air like a tear gas attack and the pungent odor of the “skunky, funky, smelly, green shit” flowed from those who dared pull a hit off their glass blown one-hitters in the presence of a million angry cops.
Chants ranged in degree from the playful “YOU’RE SEXY! YOU’RE CUTE! TAKE OFF THE RIOT SUIT!” to the blatantly confrontational “WHAT DO WE WANT? DEAD COPS!” Some of the most frequently heard chants included the popular “WHOSE STREETS? OUR STREETS!” and the far more impressive “NO GUNS! NO TANKS! DESTROY THE FUCKING BANKS!” I did my best to kick off my own chant but it didn’t catch on – a tribute to the Stanly Kubrick war epic Full Metal Jacket “I DON’T KNOW WHAT I’VE BEEN TOLD, ESKIMO PUSSY IS MIGHTY COLD”
Some of the more important things I took away from marching in a protest is that you never wanna find yourself stuck behind a midget on crutches or a shirtless white man with back fat and tits bigger than a lactating orangutan. I learned that hippy aromas can be just as fatal as tear gas and that marching in sweaty sneakers without socks can cause blisters painful enough to result in fatality.
The repetitive chanting of liberal propaganda had taken its toll. By the end of the day I was convinced that I was a homosexual feminist, vegan environmentalist stricken with Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome who was adamantly against blood for oil, fascism, and animal testing. I learned that meat is murder and that women don’t feel comfortable pulling out wedgies in a public setting.
Chicago Mayor Rahm Emanuel has boasted that the $36.5 million used for NATO-related costs was not taken from taxpayers, instead raised by World Business Chicago. However, La Villita's Chicago Boxing Club board member Victor Rodriguez's is quick to question how the city can raise $36.5 million for the NATO conference but can't come up with $600 for a youth boxing club to keep kids off the streets after school? Or come up with money to keep mental health clinics open. Or to keep public schools appropriately funded with acceptable compensating for our teachers. Or for healthcare. Or for childcare. Or for homeless prevention and substance abuse care. Or for the simplest little things like filling those crater-sized potholes scattered throughout the city like silent landmines.
While protesters were catching batons to the face at the intersection of Cermak and Michigan, a documented $14 million dollars was being spent on wine and caviar parties for the 60 Heads of State attending the 2012 summit. If the protesters were successful at anything, it was in shutting down the city. Businesses ceased operation and some concerned owners went so far as to boarding up their windows. The term "ghost town" was thrown around like a 90 pound hipster to describe the atmosphere downtown and the millions in profits promised by the Mayor Emanuel has yet to materialize.
Everything remains the same. U.S. Troops are still dodging bullets in Afghanistan and you’re tax dollar is still paying for it. Our hands are still dripping with the blood of women and children and Mac Donald’s cheeseburgers still taste delicious. People are still uncomfortable with gay sex and Obama is still black. Be good to each other and have a nice day.
Brian James - 05/22/12
_________________________________________________________
ADDITIONAL VIDEO FOOTAGE
I started my day observing the crowds shooting random photos of the wide array of characters in attendance. After being shut out of the grassy knoll by a self-proclaimed Black Bloc security member, SEE VIDEO HERE I relocated my position to the front of a stage where rejected Woodstock applicants showcased their talent to an unsuspecting crowd. I winced in pain as a tone deaf burn-out lead the crowd in a sing-along of Woody Guthrie’s “This Land is Your Land.” He added a few F-words into the chorus that I couldn't recall being part of the original recording.
I quickly needed something to distract my attention from the slaughter of Guthrie so I made a game of counting how many pairs of Nike shoes dressed the feet of protesters waving “DESTROY CAPITALISM” signs. I came up with an un-official statistic that had three out of ten freedom fighters rockin Nike’s as they sipped on Mac Donald's beverages to cool their anti-imperialistic bodies from the day’s all-consuming heat.
Every which way you turned there was a demonstrator with a camera shoved in his face failing miserably at convincing an attractive reporter that the banks and corporations are destroying the world economy. I couldn’t help but listen in as a self-elected spokesperson for "the cause" stumbled over their words resorting to the same types of vague, agenda-suiting rhetoric that they so strongly condemned the Christian right and Tea Baggers of being guilty of.
At some point my bladder began sending signals to my brain that a bathroom stop was in order. The porta-potties set up in Grant Park were far cleaner than the ones you’d find at an Kid Rock concert but with an equal amount of drug paraphernalia discarded into the abyss of the temporary shitters. As I held my breath and unloaded a stream of hot piss into the dry, black void of a plastic crapper, I noticed a punctured nitrous cartridge nestled up against a hippy turd and a half eaten apple. To the left of the turd was a dirty syringe that may or may not have been used to inject diabetes insulin. I’m thinking most likely not.
After the conclusion of a number of regurgitated speeches plagiarized straight from the pages of a Noam Chomsky essay, the crowds began to line up in formation led by the Black Bloc Anarchist militia who succeeded in striking terror into the hearts of spectators with their black attire complete with face masks and gloves similar to the ones made famous by the O.J. Simpson trial.
The march officially kicked off sometime around 2PM and clogged the streets of Michigan Avenue heading south from Grant Park. My brother in arms for the march was former co-worker and Chicago native Jeremy Farmer who ended up suffering first degree burns to his forehead region from his lack of base tan. Audio and visual overload attacked from every direction during the march. Singing, dancing, yelling, screaming, laughing, cheering, drum beats on stained bongos and dirty buckets. Walking under the crumbling viaducts in tight packs of demonstrators became claustrophobic at one point when protesters used the acoustics of the concrete walls to raise the volume of their rants. The stink of Sage and patchouli blanketed the air like a tear gas attack and the pungent odor of the “skunky, funky, smelly, green shit” flowed from those who dared pull a hit off their glass blown one-hitters in the presence of a million angry cops.
Chants ranged in degree from the playful “YOU’RE SEXY! YOU’RE CUTE! TAKE OFF THE RIOT SUIT!” to the blatantly confrontational “WHAT DO WE WANT? DEAD COPS!” Some of the most frequently heard chants included the popular “WHOSE STREETS? OUR STREETS!” and the far more impressive “NO GUNS! NO TANKS! DESTROY THE FUCKING BANKS!” I did my best to kick off my own chant but it didn’t catch on – a tribute to the Stanly Kubrick war epic Full Metal Jacket “I DON’T KNOW WHAT I’VE BEEN TOLD, ESKIMO PUSSY IS MIGHTY COLD”
Some of the more important things I took away from marching in a protest is that you never wanna find yourself stuck behind a midget on crutches or a shirtless white man with back fat and tits bigger than a lactating orangutan. I learned that hippy aromas can be just as fatal as tear gas and that marching in sweaty sneakers without socks can cause blisters painful enough to result in fatality.
The repetitive chanting of liberal propaganda had taken its toll. By the end of the day I was convinced that I was a homosexual feminist, vegan environmentalist stricken with Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome who was adamantly against blood for oil, fascism, and animal testing. I learned that meat is murder and that women don’t feel comfortable pulling out wedgies in a public setting.
Chicago Mayor Rahm Emanuel has boasted that the $36.5 million used for NATO-related costs was not taken from taxpayers, instead raised by World Business Chicago. However, La Villita's Chicago Boxing Club board member Victor Rodriguez's is quick to question how the city can raise $36.5 million for the NATO conference but can't come up with $600 for a youth boxing club to keep kids off the streets after school? Or come up with money to keep mental health clinics open. Or to keep public schools appropriately funded with acceptable compensating for our teachers. Or for healthcare. Or for childcare. Or for homeless prevention and substance abuse care. Or for the simplest little things like filling those crater-sized potholes scattered throughout the city like silent landmines.
While protesters were catching batons to the face at the intersection of Cermak and Michigan, a documented $14 million dollars was being spent on wine and caviar parties for the 60 Heads of State attending the 2012 summit. If the protesters were successful at anything, it was in shutting down the city. Businesses ceased operation and some concerned owners went so far as to boarding up their windows. The term "ghost town" was thrown around like a 90 pound hipster to describe the atmosphere downtown and the millions in profits promised by the Mayor Emanuel has yet to materialize.
Everything remains the same. U.S. Troops are still dodging bullets in Afghanistan and you’re tax dollar is still paying for it. Our hands are still dripping with the blood of women and children and Mac Donald’s cheeseburgers still taste delicious. People are still uncomfortable with gay sex and Obama is still black. Be good to each other and have a nice day.
Brian James - 05/22/12
_________________________________________________________
ADDITIONAL VIDEO FOOTAGE
