Last time I was here, at the ghetto coffee shop, the only guy who works here who is nice to me made a big deal of asking if I had heard about the protests downtown. I asked, what? Are there not protests any day and any place these days?
I realized later why he was stoked about this. The protesters in this case were Yemeni bodega owners, and this dude happens to be one of them. He could not be at the protest himself, he works here 6 or 7 days a week, but I’m glad to have made the connection. It was like he was bragging about it, or at least taking pride.
I generally find organized protests to be a crude and ineffectual means of getting anything done. And I’m not sure I should take this young man’s excitement about this particular protest as any cue to change my mind about that.
My attitudes about the matter might come from having never properly attended a protest rally. Maybe I don’t understand the feeling of solidarity, of unity, or whatever constructive upjizz materializes in the spirits of those who Occupy and who Demonstrate and who Organize.
I attended a college where protests erupted over anything. The college got something of a reputation around the country for at least one particularly inane series of protests. I would have to look it up to remind myself of the detail but it seemed to be a matter of organizing the protest rallies with the hope that any good reason for doing so would coalesce around the organizers.
But if I ever start going to big protest rallies it will be for the same reasons I suspect most people go: To get laid and smoke some pot. Neither of those activities suit my character or lifestyle. So no protests for me, I predict.
Through a slightly wet eye just now I thought I saw a carat used where an apostrophe should have been. I might make that a Flaneur.NYC annoyance. ^ instead of ‘. That^s instead of That’s. Eesh, doing that just once revealed how deeply runs my habit of reaching for the apostrophe.
…
OK, the day’s heart-racing palpitations seem to be slowing down, ironically enough after guzzling a second tower of coffee. Yesterday was, it was no fun. Last night was like trying to sleep with a washboard cajun zydeco band playing inside my chest. I swear I hear music forming in the flirtatious interminglings of a box fan and a Honeywell air purifier in my bedroom. I noticed it last time I quit drinking. I know it that this music is not actually there. That does not mean I do not hear it.
No books here at the ghetto coffee shop. They have some at the other shop, where at least one customer every time I go there feels it necessary to absolutely scream something at somebody.
Derf, feeling the writing muscle tiring out for today. Looks like 3 solid hours, though, if this last one was kind of stupid.
