Mad King Watch (Take IX): Good Trouble Lives On (Scenes From Our Protest)

 

<We improved on 

the Alitos' version 

of the distress flag... :-)/The Reckoner> 

<i.>

I'd never been to a weekday protest before, though I figured the vibe was bound to feel different. There's a reason why Loverboy sang, "Everybody's workin' for the weekend," though nowadays, not even that ritual seems like a given anymore for Americans, laboring for longer and less money than ever, thanks to four decades of feeding the rich, the military, and the donor classes.

Still, having missed the last couple of events -- like the doings on July 4th (above) -- and thought it important to show up myself, in some fashion. Still, I had a dilemma of my own: how to juggle my load? As I've often chronicled here, working for yourself doesn't mean that you lay in a hammock, waiting for all that "mailbox money" to land, smack dab on your doormat. 

That's what late night hucksters have you believe, but I guarantee: if you don't dream up something to generate that kind of money, you won't be laying down anywhere for long. Not with an empty belly, and an empty bankbook. And, while I'd gotten a pleasant surprise on my brake job -- about $250-plus, being a brake leak, not a master cylinder issue -- I needed to generate money for next week.

Well, I could do some transcription work, which wouldn't pay till early next week. However, with groceries and medicine likely to eat up my $250 savings, I'd probably need to drum up some money for the weekend, too. OK, I'm thinking, I've got the basic pieces of a drumkit, some T-shirts that long ago stopped fitting me, and an array of Prince bootlegs. Our friendly neighborhood record store could use that!

Mind you, working all this up would take some time, and our local Good Trouble Lives On event had been structured as a two-hour rally. Having already put in a ton of hours, scratching up all this additional money, I didn't feel sure that I could hit that long -- so what to do? 

Right, then. Make it mobile, I thought. Bring a sign that I could hold up in the window, with one hand, driving with the other. Oh, and make a sign of my own, which I duly whipped up: "NO KINGS: 1976 - 2025," with an image of a red circle running through a crown. Short, simple, and to the point, drawn with black, red and blue Sharpies, scratched out on a cardboard box flap.

<ii.>

I decided to make up 13 trips, up and down Main Street. One trip for each for the 13 colonies, in keeping with our colonial theme, where I could count on seeing a fair number of protesters. Who knows, I'm thinking, maybe I'll see a friendly face or two that I know. With temps running in the mid-80-plus range, the Squawker stayed home -- when you've got breathing issues, you don't push the pedal to the floor.

So off I go, armed with my humble cardboard effort, and one of Squawker's creations ("Trump Has Betrayed The Working Class & The Poor!"), and I begin zipping up and down Main Street. It doesn't take long for my signs to attract attention. I start to hear a shout or two, which starts to get louder: "Roll down your window, so we can see it!"

I duly hit the power button, and take turns holding both signs, as long as the light glows red. I can't resist the snarky remark, as I'm brandishing Squawker's sign: "See this? It's from Trump 1.0! And I didn't have to change a word!"

A graying gentleman with a goatee shoves his sign, whose sentiments don't seem too far removed from Squawker's sign: "See this one? That's from Trump 1.0! And I didn't have to change a word!" 

"Need we say more?" I laugh. "Tells you what you need to know!" Just then, the light turns red, and off I shoot, ready to turn around, and circle back again.

<Next round/Coming to a town near you: Saturday, August 2>

<iii.>

I count about a couple dozen people, thronging on both sides of the street. Obviously, if we were doing this on Saturday, you'd have those four or five blocks packed, wall to wall with people. But even though the proceedings started around six o'clock, who knows how many are still working late? Or can't snag the time off?

No matter. Everyone seems well engaged, though with fewer chants ("This is what democracy looks like!") than you might hear on a weekend protest. Tonight is a lower-key occasion, after all, though the commitment behind them isn't hard to miss. There's not a Trump supporter in sight, which is more likely on a weekend, as well.

Eventually, it's time for my last run, and head back home, to the editorial salt mines -- well, and the memorabilia ones, too, since I have to get that stuff ready, too. I roll down my window once more: "I'm really sorry, but it's time to head out. Gotta get back to work, if I'm gonna make a buck."

A fortyish Black woman reassures me, "Hey, that's all right. At least you were here. you showed up, you did something."

"Yeah, I suppose..." I sneak a look at the light, which is still flashing red. "Well, that is the point, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is!"

Just then, the light turns green, and off I go, ready to hunker down for the next day and a half, so I can put my plans in motion. 

Time will tell where this energy takes us, though it's worth remembering that the Democratic Party's overall rating is worse than Trump's. I suspect that the Democratic National Committee's goals of its long-threatened 2024 postmortem might not tick up the old confidence matter.

Why I do say that? Well, three topics are off the table, it seems -- whether Biden should have run for re-election, or quit the race sooner, and if Kamala Harris made the best alternative to replace him.

I don't know about you, but all I can say, when any established group insists on saying, "Nothing to see here, folks, time to move on," you may well hear a UFO -- as in, Unanimous Fierce Outcry -- to the contrary. And as any comedian will tell you, those who don't read the room can only sigh with the pain of hindsight -- once the paying customers start heading for the exits. --The Reckoner