My Week in the RNC Stench

	My Week in the RNC Stench	Blogs

	I’m still trying to recover from a week of demonstrating here in New York. I didn’t realize how much energy was required to stand up to these under enlightened Republican Americans. I don’t hate Republicans, in fact, I’m sure that they’re for the most part pretty nice people. The ideas are what I hate and I hated the ideas being so close to me. It would be an effort to not only try and protect our city from the vibes of conservatism, but also from the policemens’ strain and feelings of mixed alliances. The week was often surreal and depressing, but equally humorous and bright. Here are some of the highlights.

	On Sunday, rushing to get to the march, I shared a cab with two burly men. I asked them if they were police; they admitted that they were and were on their way to protect someone from something up near Lincoln Center. They were not happy with Mayor Bloomberg, but didn’t go into it deeply. I thanked them for the ride and chalked the fare up to coming out of my taxes.

	I met up with the Abbie Hoffman Brigade, Johanna Lawrenson coming down from the St. Lawrence River area where she shared her home with the late Mr. Hoffman, Sam and Wally Leff and others. We marched in front of a giant world sculpture, that way assuring the Brigade’s photo on the cover of the Post the next day.

	It was peaceful. I was only sorry that more New Yorkers weren’t on the sidewalks to yell with us. But for a Sunday in August, it was still a strong turnout. I borrowed someone’s megaphone and bellowed “I’m mad as hell and I’m not gonna take it anymore”, ala Peter Finch in Network, but the motto was too long for people to chime in with. I still think singing is the best thing to do … even if you don’t know all the words to Imagine. At one point, I turned around and spotted the actress Christina Ricci marching behind me with her eyes down, her male friend waving his arms madly at the Madison Square Garden entourage.


	From the march we went up to Central Park, gorged on Zabar’s food and then proceeded to the Great Lawn where people were relaxing and recovering from walking in the heat. Again, peaceful and pleasant. Candace Bergen walked by with her white Labradoodle and people were interviewing each other. . We met a guy named Johnny America who runs around like Paul Revere, and the infamous Billionaires for Bush, dressed to the nines. They use satire to make their point and it’s really effective. The only thing is they looked too good, much better than the real thing . I suggested more green and pink, and to not forget the white patent leather belts.

	Back in the East Village, I stopped by St. Mark’s Church to see the kids hanging with their bikes. There had been a lot of arrests a few days before, bikers locked up all over the place. But otherwise, the place was a sanctuary in the real sense of the word. Reverend Billy held wild services there and people were fed by the Yippies.

	The next day I couldn’t move. The heat and marching had really taken its toll. Pity as I wanted to attend the reading of Sophocles’ Elektra uptown. But my body said rest. I did until 9 o’clock when I attended the play “I’m Gonna Kill the President: A Federal Offense". We were met by a staff member in Thompkins Park, where they videotaped my friend and me to make sure we weren’t the Feds. Rena, posing as Mary, said there was no film in the camera. I played along and we were then marched around in circles so as to confuse us on the direction of the theatre. I won’t give it away even now. The show had some good moments, absurdist and truthful. Sitting behind me was an old friend and his girlfirend, Vagina Monologue’s Eve Ensler. Behind her was Tom Hayden whom I mistakenly called Tom O’Horgan. And next to them were the two NYU students who hung a banner off a building after climbing down the front of it. The play had a surprise ending, again lips sealed.


	On Tuesday, I dug out my cowboy duds and headed up to Sotheby’s Auction House were a Tennessee delegation was honoring Johnny Cash, whom the Republicans coopted for the convention. As Mr. Cash was dead and couldn’t speak for himself, the demonstrators did it for him, singing Fulsom Prison over and over again. He was never a Republican and it seemed like a really dirty trick to associate him that way.

	I then ran down to Herald Square where an action was taking place.. basically to get closer to the Garden. Blue, an activist from Ohio, who has worked against the KKK and neo-Nazis as well as activism on the Gaza strip, told me that many of his medic friends had already been arrested … that they were specifically going for medics. While we were standing there, he saw two of his friends get arrested for trying to cross the street to meet up with him. The National Lawyers Guild inspectors were all over and when one suggested to me to move away, I did. I had no interest in being detained in an old bus depot laden with grease and asbestos. But apparently many people were arrested for just being onlookers.

	As I walked downtown, the sound of helicopters was deafening. So many cops standing next to shiny new cycles. This was not my New York, but some Bladerunner's version of city on lock up.

	I had a great meal with old friends on their roof, while the helicopters buzzed overhead and the searchlights flashed on our grilled asparagus.

	Wednesday I delivered a copy of my film My Dinner With Abbie to the Bowery Poetry Club for a late afternoon screening and then headed over to Cooper Union for a reading of the Constitution and the Bill of Rights. Richard Gere started it off, having fun with the bits that were outdated and racist, like not giving Native Americans voting rights, and then the stuff that was completely being ignored under the evil Patriot Act. We listened to the Nation’s Victor Navasky, Kathleen Turner, some amazing judges and Laurie Anderson. When Ossie Davis read the no slavery section, we all stood up. Betty Freidan also got a rousing whoop on the right of women to vote. The event was powerful and made it comfortable for older people who couldn’t demonstrate but who needed to be part of dissent.

	I rushed from there up to the East Meadow in Central Park for the NOW rally. It was a bucolic setting except that the rally itself was held in a sandpit. People were sitting all over the surrounding meadow, but I had wished for at least fairy lights to make the paths more visible. There were a lot of older women there and it was hard to see past the metal fences constantly being put up by the police. I stayed long enough to hear political poetry and a powerful speech by Sibel Edmonds, the FBI whistleblower who was given a gag order after being fired for telling her truth. A runner was sitting next to me who said that he had been waiting for this to happen his whole life. By that, he explained that he had had doubts about our government for years and was only now feeling a little less crazy because of his thoughts.

	I left the rally and headed to the anti-media event in front of CNN and Fox. It was a large crowd and Robert Greenwald, of “Outfoxed” fame spoke after being introduced by Global Films Danny Schecter.

	I wanted to stay till the end, but had a date for the Billionaires for Bush Bash at the pier on West 23rd St. I was wearing my ‘a village in Texas has lost its idiot” tee shirt and had no tiaras or jewels to upgrade my look. So I slapped on red lip gloss and met up with the glam faux crowd. It’s really amusing to be with people pretending to be pretentious. At first, you feel insecure, then when you realize the hoax, you too become as in my case a Van Houten and the fun begins. The band was terrific and when Phil T Rich crowned the George Bush actor as King, I ran up and kissed the royal on the cheek. I guess the second wine had taken hold of my senses.

	I met some young journalists from Columbia University and one of them told me a creepy Bush tale. Her uncle is friends with Robert Ney the Republican Congressman who had related a story about hearing Bush complain about his fucking family who were touring with him through the White House. Apparently, they were to be greeted by the President after the tour. It seems that Bush only likes the fucking nuclear family when he can sell them on no gay marriage and no abortion, but not when they want to pay respect to the leader in chief.

	By Thursday, I really wanted to sleep but dragged myself to the Veterans anti-war vigil in Union Square. It felt like the marketplace outside the temple, the one Jesus pissed on. So many anti-Bush t-shirts for sale. There was a moving shoes exhibit to represent the dead in Iraq and the Billionaires for Bush had us all sign a new Declaration of Independence from Bush with a quill pen. Sam Leff signed Abbie Hoffman’s name and I wrote in my sister’s and Mae West. I went uptown after that to see how close the Answer Movement was getting to the Garden. It was a very scary sight … with cops on the roofs and people penned in like cattle. I watched a policemen jostle a woman leaving the pen for a coffee. I saw him become more and more aggravated. But when Aaron Kay, better known as Pieman because as a Yippie he threw pies at people, walked by with a cane, the policeman was very kind and offered to help him through the crowd. I complimented the officer on his kindness and he said he simply just wanted to get home to his wife.

	The evening ended for me at the Nightingale Bar where we watched Bush accept his nomination. I screamed at the TV – it felt good – and when Ron Silverman showed up, the once liberal, now Judas, I really screamed. Then I went home and collapsed for twenty-four hours.

	Days later and I, too, am turning my poster into a t-shirt. For sale.

	Nancy Koan aka Sui Generis

	Contact

	Lambstar.com

	BitterHippie