Chapter 6

Occupy the Rose Parade—J2

Occupy Congress—J17

Occupy the Supreme Court—J20

January 2012

January promised to be an action-packed month, chock-full of opportunities for arrest and incarceration. Reclaiming Sheila Newcome’s home, getting a commitment from Chase Bank to begin the process of renegotiating the elderly couple’s loan, and stopping the foreclosure auction were victories that lifted my spirits and energized me for the ambitious schedule I’d crafted for the next few weeks. After landing at the Burbank airport, I picked up my rental car and began to navigate my way southeast on the freeway to my host house. God bless Mapquest. I’d once more beaten the bushes of my social media accounts to find a home stay right in the heart of Pasadena, at the residence of a liberal couple who somehow, despite their political bent, had done well enough in life to own a beautiful stucco home in a safe, well manicured, upscale neighborhood. Their place wasn’t far from the Rose Parade, which was where we intended to make a big splash this New Year. Dave and Louisa Fertig were Facebook friends of mine who had, years earlier, helped produce a fiftieth anniversary concert I played in Los Angeles, for the now defunct Ashgrove Concert Hall. The venue had earned its place in history by featuring legendary musicians who were also political activists during the Civil Rights Movement. Ed Pearl, owner of the old Ashgrove, was in his late seventies when he asked Dave for a hand with the details of the show. That’s when he and I first met, and I’m guessing I was well behaved enough then, for him to offer me a room in his house, years later, during the city’s high profile annual shindig, The Rose Parade. My purpose was to help orchestrate the Occupation of the nationally televised production, which was as American as apple pie, and to give viewers an alternative perspective to life in paradise.

When I first laid eyes on their place, I knew I would be comfortable and safe, which was in marked contrast to my challenging tenure at Occupy Oakland. And I owed it all to Dave, who had, some time in his youth, realized there wasn’t much money to be made playing blues harmonica and smoking pot, so he decided to go back to college and become a lawyer, which was his day job. The restorative effects of country living had massaged my senses over the holidays and brought me back to reasonable health. The constant hoarseness, coughing, wheezing, asthma, and sore throat that plagued me ever since being gassed in Oakland, had mostly vanished and faded into the background as each day passed without incident. Invariably, pastoral quietude had given way to the niggling doubt that my country was never going to wake up, right itself, and get back to taking at least minimal care to feed, clothe, shelter, employ, and educate some of the non–rich people who also live here in the land of plenty. And that reprehensible fact was due, at least in part, to my own apathy. Down comforters, flannel sheets, all-wheel drive minivans, data plans, and vacations to Hawaii aren’t what it takes to light a fire under soft, well-fed asses like mine.

So, this was Pasadena—palm trees, clean, bum-free storefronts, landscaped estates, and plenty of obedient, polite, hard-working Mexicans to keep it that way. I was more than lucky to have found free lodging so close to Rose Bowl Stadium and the parade route. Bonus—Dave was a gourmet chef and loved nothing more than throwing together fabulous healthy meals, chock-full of fresh organic ingredients on a moment’s notice, any day of the week, for anyone in his company. Added bonus; Dave liked to drink expensive, delicious booze—thinking nothing of uncorking stunning, complex, rich, peaty, sixty-year-old bottles of single malt scotch and pouring ample portions into a heavy highball glass, even for the likes of me, who would have been just as happy with a paper sack fifth of cherry Thunderbird and a pickled pigfoot. God Bless America. Dave was also a great, clever conversationalist, in addition to being kind and generous to a fault. Yay.

Louisa handed me an ornate antique house key before I left to meet with OTRP (Occupy The Rose Parade) planners, and said I could come and go as I pleased, even bemoaning the fact that I’d rented an economy car instead of allowing them to lend me their gorgeous 1962 baby blue Jaguar “that hardly ever got driven,” and was parked “all by its lonesome” in the three-car garage behind the house. What a difference a month makes. They gave me the option of either, joining in whatever they were doing, or not engaging with them at all and giving my full attention to the cause. They even told me I could bring OTRP organizers over and have meetings at their house if I wanted. How in the world had such good-hearted people done so well in such a mercenary, dog-eat-dog world. Not only had they both landed squarely on their feet in this shi-shi habitat, they still gave a shit about those who hadn’t fared so well. How rare is that. One night after I distributed leaflets for Occupy, Dave (who was the more gregarious of the two) told me of how he’d grown up poor, aimless, and without many extra groceries in his household, before he met the love of his life—Louisa. She had been his salvation, he confessed. She grew up an only child in a stable, well-to-do family and had somehow seen the hidden potential in her inauspicious classmate and fallen madly in love with this intelligent, but ambitionless boy from the wrong side of the tracks. I detected the trace of a smile on her face from the corner of my eye as she quietly knitted, listening to his story. Though lavish parties, extravagant gifts, riding lessons, and sailing trips to exotic places had never been his reality, she had seen beyond her own privilege and chosen him to be her life partner. She readily admitted that part of his allure was the exotic nature of his bohemian world. Her mother wanted, as all mothers do, only the best for her daughter, however, possessed the extraordinary wisdom to go with the flow of this unexpected curve ball and make lemonade out of the lemons that were Dave. Her parents had, in fact, cared so much about Louisa, that they graciously put Dave through law school, employed him in the family business, and gave their cherished daughter their blessing to marry him, only after he had proven his mettle through hard work, dedication, honesty, and sacrifice to the family. So visionary and forward thinking were her parents in predicting the unstoppability of this union, that they had gone to great lengths to groom and make something of this bright, but nowhere-bound lad before they passed into the hereafter, and left the couple the bulk of their estate and this rockin’ crib.

So that’s how Dave had come by his extraordinary understanding of, and compassion for, the other half—or, more accurately, the 99%. And that’s why he didn’t have a hint of the contempt most rich folks display in the first five minutes of assessing your bottom line. He’d grown up poor, and furthermore, his greatest heroes had been the black blues performers he’d revered since seeking out their recordings, as a youth, from the nearest library. Many of his idols had never achieved great wealth or even much fame. They were men and women with names like Tampa Red, Elmore James, Sonnyboy Williamson, Jellyroll Morton, Memphis Minnie, Blind Lemon Jefferson, Big Mama Thornton, and Sister Rosetta Tharp. He immersed himself in songs like, “Dust My Broom,” “Shake Sugaree,” “Black Snake Moan,” “Keep it Clean,” and “You Can Have My Husband, But Please Don’t Take My Man.” Not a great fan of the British Invasion or early American pop music, he’d skipped over Elvis, Cream, and the Rolling Stones and gone directly to the source, delighting at how those early lyrics, deconstructed, all seemed to refer to some kind of bumping grinding sexual encounter—just like the ones, I’m sure, he hoped to have someday with Louisa.

It soon became evident to me that the general assemblies and planning meetings for OTRP were little more than snarky, provincial, in-fighting sessions, often characterized by thinly-veiled contempt for co-members, frequent put-downs, petty squabbles, and territorial feuds between self-appointed leaders. I came to understand that Pasadena, with a population of 138,000, was little more than a small town, and compared to Oakland, had much less diversity within its borders. Almost everyone at the sparse gatherings was white and male, with a few notable exceptions. On this night, a young hiply attired black man drove from L.A.—walked into the GA—and generously offered OTRP use of his large, state-of-the-art PA system, along with high-quality video cameras, as well as his labor and expertise in operating them. Furthermore, he told the meeting that he had a group of highly skilled audio/video technicians who said they were eager to work alongside him—for free. I took an instant liking to him as he politely identified himself as Marcus Jackson, and briefly outlined his impressive credentials as a current part time resident of both L.A. and New York City. At that time, he was employed as a sound engineer and producer of MTV programming. He was immediately challenged by a slovenly man of about thirty-five, bearing a shock of greasy, black curly hair, partially enveloped in a grungy black scarf. The chubby challenger wore a stained Utilikilt and a dingy plaid shirt, There was a silver ring in his left nostril that was connected by a chain to an identical ring in his ear. “Um, yeah dude … what’dyu say your name was again?” questioned kilt-man.

“Marcus,” others in the room answered, before Marcus could.

“Oh yeah, Marcus … Hey, pleased to meet you. My name’s Stash and I got a shit ton of buddies I grew up with right here in the community, and we all got great gear and mad skills, so we pretty much have video and sound handled for all the pre- and post-parade events. All the details are already worked out and my mom’s keeping the donated audio stuff in her garage, where I can keep an eye on it from my room, so nothin’ happens to it between now and then, so … thanks anyway, buddy.”

The soft-spoken visitor seemed slightly nonplussed, but made a gracious attempt to shift back onto the right foot with Stash in the meeting which was being held in a small room of a church basement. “Oh, I’m sure you’re well prepared and everything—I’m sorry if I suggested otherwise. I love what you all are doing and I wanted to find a way to volunteer whatever skills I have to whatever needs you might have. I just feel like this is a great movement and I wanted to support your idea of bringing Occupy into the living rooms of America at such a high profile event. I’ve done some work with Occupy L.A. and maybe I can help you get some good footage at the parade. Perhaps I could pitch it to my bosses somewhere down the line if you’re interested. At the very least, I could loan you my gear to flesh out your sound system if you’re planning any large set ups on outdoor stages.

“Yeah … so … my best friend used to roadie for Dave Matthews when he was just startin’ to go viral and he knows everything there is to know about outdoor venues so … again, thanks, Marcus. I’d hate to see you lose your rig by gettin’ it stolen or something, what with all the out-of-towners that’re gonna be stompin’ around here this weekend,” said Stash before turning his back to Marcus and walking over to a desk to retrieve his clipboard.

“Okay, now … let’s see … what’s next on the docket,” resumed Stash after thumbing laboriously through what looked to me to be empty pages.

“Well, now wait just a minute …” piped up a hirsute, middle-aged woman, in a pair of denim overalls. She struggled to swallow quickly and free her mouth of the audibly crunchy trail mix she’d been grazing on ever since I walked in with Daniel, another OTRP volunteer I’d met online while sussing out the event from Pagan Place. “… I know we’ve got sound and video handled, but I bet we could find something useful for this young man to do in the group.” She swept her head from side to side, glancing expectantly at the faces around her to solicit approval from the other eight or nine people in the room. As she did so, some of the trail mix crumbs that clung stubbornly to the light grey mustache on her upper lip dislodged and tumbled silently onto the tattered wool sweater she wore under her bib. Her glance was met with tepid shrugs and a few barely perceptible nods. “Can’t we just give the new guy a chance to get in on the ground floor and make history with us?” Fewer nods, fewer shrugs. “Well look, Marcus, my name is Cindy, and I’m sort of the Jill of all Trades here. I’ve been helping to plan this thing right from the start back in November. We have been trying to figure out just how the heck we’re gonna feed all the long-time volunteers after the parade and I was wondering … Well, can you barbecue? Are you any good with a grill?”

The words that fell out of her mouth sounded so condescending and demeaning that I felt my face flush with embarrassment. Could it possibly be that these well-meaning, but clearly clueless, white people had just asked the only black man in the room (who happened to be so accomplished and caring, I found myself wishing I’d done more with my own life) to cater a meal for the afterparty?

“You know what—no … Not just no, but hell no! I’m not going to flip burgers and bust out the ribs to wait on your staff. You know, I was just running sound for a GA last night at Occupy L.A., and someone announced that Occupy the Rose Parade needed some sound volunteers, so I got in my car and came down here to see if I could help. But, hey, it doesn’t look like it—so … I’m just going to carry my little self on out of here, and bid you all a wonderful night, people.” With that Marcus got up and began to gather the printed business cards he’d left on a table, to put back into his wallet.

Alarmed at the unseemly turn of events, Cindy moved to intercept him before he could reach the door. “Hey, if grilling doesn’t trip yer trigger, I’m sure there’s other chores that need doing around here. You don’t have to leave, you know. If that’s not your bag I’m sure we could put you to work somewhere else.” Marcus softened as his eyes met hers and saw her sincerity.

“You know, I didn’t come down here just to upset your apple cart,” Marcus said, addressing everyone in the room. “And, I honestly don’t need to find things to do to fill my time. I’m plenty busy, but if you think you might be able to use some of my professional skills, I am happy to donate my time and energy here to help make your plan a success, if I can, because I believe in activism and trying to make things better for people who don’t have many options.”

“Look man, that’s totally cool,” chimed in an older man from across the room. “There’s never too many volunteers for a big production like this. Even though we’re ‘Occupy Pasadena’ and aren’t technically affiliated with Occupy the Rose Parade, we put our feelers out to other Occupations to see if folks wanted to help us organize our own protest at the parade.” This was the first I’d heard that I wasn’t sitting in on an Occupy the Rose Parade meeting. “You see, we all took a vote here at Occupy Pasadena to not officially endorse OTRP, because we don’t like the leadership over there, but we do appreciate what some of their members are trying to do. Even though we’re sorta like, overlapping jurisdictions, [air quotes] in a way, we still wanted to do something similar ourselves at the Parade. Hey, Marcus, did you just say you’re from Occupy L.A…. like the official Occupy L.A.?”

“Uh huh—yeah man, there’s only one,” answered Marcus.

“Wow, that’s interesting, because I was almost thinking I might want to join up with those guys sometime, or maybe at least go to a GA, but I heard they were super racist up there, so I never did go.” Jesus, how far is Oakland from here, I thought gloomily.

Monday, January 2, the day of the Rose Parade, dawned brilliantly with dazzling sunshine and a heady air of festivity. From all the meetings I’d attended the week before, (for who knows what organizations) I knew that the lead OTRP organizer, Jack Tatum’s main objective was to bring attention to the fact that the Rose Parade’s largest sponsor, Wells Fargo, was conducting staggering numbers of fraudulent, illegal bank foreclosures in California and nationwide. He had become a vocal opponent of the corporation’s “robo-calling” tactics and wanted to expose other murky dealings with homeowners, which amounted to, what he considered, criminal behavior. He abhorred the discouraging, complex, convoluted, and usually downright unnavigable process the banks had put in place to modify distressed loans.

Banks routinely claimed ownership of homes they could produce no deeds for, nor could they even prove in some instances that borrowers were behind in their payments. Jack, and countless other Americans (like me) felt that something drastic had to be done. That something, in this case, was to gather thousands of foreclosure protesters together to create an arresting visual that the entire country would see. What better way to usher in a new year, than to shame wrongdoers into more just ways of doing business. To that end, Jack declared Occupy the Rose Parade as the start of “Occupy 2.0,” which he touted as a more focused version of the much criticised Occupy Movement itself, which was often said to have no real direction or purpose. Jack envisioned a streamlining of the nascent uprising, which would now begin to hone in on on specific issues, such as this, and appoint recognized leaders, (like him) to implement direct actions which would address America’s most pressing concerns. I knew this from conducting a battery of Internet searches over the holidays, trying to decide what my next big Occupy endeavor would be. I was beginning to understand, from persistent grumblings at the General Assemblies, that many people considered lead organizer, Jack Tatum, to be somewhat of a slimeball, but I wasn’t sure exactly why. I’d read he was a lawyer of some sort, and that he shared my personal beliefs that America’s big banks had become cold-blooded land thiefs, but I didn’t know until the eve of the Parade, that Jack himself had been embroiled in a number of unsavory brushes with the law. On January 1, the day before the parade, a Pasadena newspaper published a scathing exposé of Jack’s past that left me wondering who, and what, to believe about OTRP’s mastermind. The article said that Jack had been busted at least twice, for shoplifting—once domestically and once in Mexico. I could forgive the shoplifting, especially if done in his youth, (who hasn’t?) so I wasn’t too put off by that, however, it baffled me how anyone who’d been caught and prosecuted could ever risk the humiliation and expense again. Still, the dirt I’d read on him wasn’t a deal breaker yet. I could easily believe that the banks who stood to lose the most if the masses turned on them, had dug deep to uncover—even manufactured—the skeletons in Jack’s distant past. The “scandal” might have been little more than adolescent bad judgment and immaturity. But I could also believe that these minor crimes were the portent of deeper character flaws, which had continued to grow and become more sophisticated over time. A more disquieting revelation to me, was that Jack had recently been involved in a nasty family dispute where he had sued his own brother for being a crooked investment banker that had bilked his customers out of much of their hard-earned money. He accused him of selling unwitting buyers some sort of creepy, Bernie Madoff-style Ponzi scheme investment fund. Now, I know that it’s not exactly fair to assume that if your brother’s a criminal and a jerk, you’re a criminal and a jerk, but that’s where my head naturally went, somehow. The news discouraged me, and I was just about to put the newspaper down without bothering to turn the page and read to the end, when I decided to forge ahead anyway, since I still had some time to kill. The last paragraph mentioned, almost as an afterthought, that Jack had lost his license to practice law in Nevada because of the second shoplifting conviction in that state. Oh, now that’s much different, I thought. The guy shoplifted in his home state as a grown man, after he became a lawyer. Classy.

Since I was already there, Jack’s being a weasel didn’t detract from my original conviction that banks had committed egregious crimes against humanity, so I continued on with my plans to Occupy the Rose Parade. The negative press had made me wince, but I wasn’t there to find a guru; I was here to protest corporate excesses. To that end, I woke up at six a.m, January 2, and walked over to Singer Park to help make signs and join in the fun. I was among the first to arrive on that glorious morning, so I got a rare opportunity to watch the sunrise, which, as a musician and power sleeper, I hardly ever do. Around eight o’clock people started filing in from all corners of the park. Anti-War activist, Cindy Sheehan, had been chosen to be the grand marshall of our parade, which Jack was calling, “The Human Float.” He told us, we’d been given official permission by the Parade Commission to march at the very end of the parade, which I thought was a major coup, given the scope of the event and the surety that millions would be watching. I had devised the perfect outfit for the festivities and couldn’t wait to show it off to my country. I’d purchased a “jailbird prison suit” at an online costume maker for under thirty dollars (delivered) and sewed the words “BANK CEO” on a large rectangular patch, that I positioned prominently on the chest. To complete le tout ensemble, I raided my nine-year-old’s toy shelves to find a cash register with large, fake dollar bills, which I stuffed all around the neck, hat, and arm openings. It was marvelously effective as many parade-goers stopped me to take pictures en route to the park.

By 9:00 a.m. I’d run into lots of Occupiers and Streamers I knew from Oakland and elsewhere—some whose faces I recognized only from seeing them on my computer screen. I estimated our crowd to be around five thousand, which was adequate, but disappointing to me as I’d dreamed of millions showing up to overshadow the whole affair. I found that my sentiments were shared by others as I was approached by a woman who wanted to take my picture before we got in line to march at the end of the parade. “Gosh, I wish there were more people here,” she whispered to me, after she captured the shot. “I’m just a stay-at-home mom, but I came all the way from Oregon to be here today. I guess most people just don’t care about what the banks are doing to us in this country. All Americans seem to care about is football and celebrities like—hey that’s it!” she burst out, interrupting her own sentence. “I got it! I totally know how we can make Americans give a shit about what’s going on. We need to Occupy a Kardashian and find out where that one … uh, the super slutty one … Kim, goes all the time. We need to follow her wherever she goes, with our signs about foreclosure and stuff like that. That’s what we need to do to get the word out!” Her enthusiasm made me smile as I envisioned gangs of political activists bird-dogging Kim Kardashian’s every move.

By 9:30 a.m. there were around seven thousand of us standing on a side street, watching the end of the parade behind temporary wooden barricades. Our lead sign was a gigantic parchment-like scroll, which read, WE THE PEOPLE, in reference to the Citizen’s United decision granting corporations personhood status. Dozens of us were upholding a giant red plastic octopus, which was extending its eight long tentacles, labeled, WELLS FARGO, as they reached out and snatched up single family homes with occupants inside, hanging out of windows, screaming to be rescued. A large contingent of police on the other side of the barricades informed us we could file into the end of the parade line as soon as the last float passed. I made sure to be in the lead group so I could be among the first to see the reaction of thousands of spectators in the bleachers lining the route. Three minutes after the last float had passed, police still had not removed the barriers and people were descending the bleachers in droves, leaving the scene. We the members of “The Human Float” began complaining loudly, to the cops, who still weren’t letting us get onto the route before everyone was gone. A full ten minutes after the last float passed, and more than two-thirds of the spectators had left the scene, police officers began to slowly draw back the barriers and let us come forward. As we entered the route smiling, waving, and looking up into the stands, I noticed platforms holding mainstream media cameras, which were being hurriedly powered off and removed from the area. As we advanced, the few talking heads still stationed ahead of us, rushed to wrap things up before any of their viewers could see us being disrespectful to their biggest sponsor, Wells Fargo, who had bankrolled the whole event. Wells Fargo management had been so fretful that OTRP would rain on their parade, that they’d gone so far as to phone Jack-the-shoplifter up the Friday before, and try to persuade him to scuttle the Human Float at the last minute, fearing a massive turnout, resulting in a public relations nightmare. The bank reps had promised to give OTRP an audience with Wells Fargo higher ups, who assured us they would “consider our complaints sometime in the New Year” if we agreed to abort our mission. Unwilling to do so, we now waltzed past hundreds of celebrants, who’d hung behind to let the crowd thin, wearing the colors of the football teams yet to play that afternoon. Half were in red and white to support the Wisconsin Badgers, while the other dressed in green and yellow, for the Oregon Ducks. “Boo! Boo! Go home freaks! Take a bath and get a job assholes!” came the jeers of hostile sports fans. Some even spat on us or flipped us off as we proceeded past them in our activist regalia. I reminded myself that if saving the world was easy, everyone would do it, and vowed to remain smiling, regardless of the insults. I was heartened by the small number of spectators who stood up and clapped—some even flashing the thumbs up sign and joining us.

We marched for blocks before finally running headlong into a moving channel of celebrants, whose numbers were so large and spread out, we were quickly separated and swallowed up by them. Unable to move forward, I chose to back up and shoot down a side street toward the city park where our own after-party was scheduled to begin soon. I had been apprised by OTRP “organizers” that some “major celebrity musicians” were planning to drop in and entertain us, following our historic hike.

Upon arrival I saw Marcus looking agonized as he leaned against a panel truck and observed the horror of Stash and his motley crew trying to cobble together a woefully inadequate PA system made up of odds and ends, unlikely to have seen active duty since before the Vietnam War. “Hey Stash,” mumbled one of his staff, holding up a tangle of twisted cables and jacks. “Ummmmm, so … whut does this go to dude?”

“Fuck, man … Can’t you see I’m doin’ shit,” growled a frayed Stash, his entire head stuck into a large guitar amplifier that seemed to be missing its speaker.

“Wull, yeah DUDE, like—no fuckin’ duh, Sherlock …” retorted the crew member. “In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re all doin’ important shit.”

“Frickin’ assclown,” Stash muttered under his breath, while trying to locate parts for the amp. Marcus, standing on the sidelines, was unable to contain himself any longer as he interjected, “Hey man, I thought you could maybe use some extra gear to augment your system, so I brought a whole truck full of mics and cables and amps and stuff like that. I’d be happy to bring my board out and give you a hand with the set up if you want.”

“I got it handled, Marcus,” barked Stash. “No assistance necessary, man. I’m, like, fifteen minutes away from being ready to do a sound check. If you wanna help then, I’ll call you … ’kay.” A vein on Marcus’s temple looked ready to rupture as he shook his head and climbed, into his truck, where he sat sullenly, still overlooking Stash’s sound crew. As he did so I gazed past him through the windshield, to see a rail-thin woman with a guitar strapped to her back, stomping purposefully toward the sound equipment, haphazardly strewn about on the grass. Stash’s crew, suddenly aware of its absence, had the “aftsight” to begin furiously attempting to construct a makeshift stage from two abandoned shopping carts and some plywood they’d found on site. As the guitar-bearing woman got closer and surveyed the scene, she ripped a pair of gimongous sunglasses from her eyes, and pasted an expression of sheer disgust over her entire face. I recognized her right away to be early-nineties folk/pop star Amy Startle, who I had neither seen nor heard about in at least fifteen years. She had written and recorded a minor hit called “Settled in Seattle,” which became the single from her major label debut album, alliteratively entitled, Brief Bold Brilliant. The tune, which had been in medium rotation on MTV programming for the better part of a year, peaked at number twelve on the charts before landing in the cutout bins of record stores nationwide. Amy had managed to carve a fairly decent career for herself based on the strength of that one song, until it became widely known that she was a bit of a handful—on and off stage. Her last decade had seen a series of backstage tantrums and on stage rants, once or twice culminating in walk-offs, followed by threats of lawsuits from concert presenters. She had run through a series of booking agents and managers before deciding to train her current love interest, a woman she’d met at a women’s music festival, to do the job for her.

I followed Amy with my eyes as she stepped on the brakes, seconds before reaching one of Stash’s guys. She then pivoted alarmingly swiftly to glare accusatorially behind her. At that moment I spied another woman, roughly Amy’s age and size, staggering toward her with sweat pouring from her brow—arms weighed down by boxes of compact discs, and a backpack the size of a tropical tortoise on her shoulders. As Amy’s eyes locked on the other woman’s, I saw rage replace disgust. “You better not tell me this is the fucking gig you booked, Sierra,” Amy seethed. “And that better not be the fucking stage,” she snarled pointing at the plywood/shopping cart contraption. Sierra grimaced at the scene and began babbling a disjointed, rapid-fire defense of her work. “They said you’d be on the bill with Jackson Browne and Bonnie Raitt … And there’d be a totally tricked out sound system … and they promised you wouldn’t even have to soundcheck. They assured me every single one of the items on your rider would be provided, down to the last detail … and …”

All of a sudden, Stash was nowhere to be found, having high-tailed it behind a brick building upon seeing ballistic Amy. He was, in all probability, hoping his crew would somehow deflect some of the blows Amy looked ready to rain down upon them. I sat on a marble statue base just out of the action, wondering what would happen next. Marcus is what happened. Witnessing the entire painful scenario, he had boldly evacuated his truck and leaned into Amy and Sierra’s personal space to introduce himself. “Hi, I’m Marcus, and I apologize for the disorganization here. We’ve been unable to get the system fully operational because the police delayed our start time, but if you can hang on for about fifteen minutes, we should be able to get it together.” Sierra looked as if she wanted to pass out, as Amy turned her wrath onto Marcus. “This is bullshit,” she roared. “Complete bullshit. My manager and I are going to disappear for fifteen minutes, and when we come back, you’re either ready to go, or you can go fuck yourselves.”

With that she wheeled around and buried herself in the crowd, leaving an overburdened Sierra to try to catch up, as best she could. Marcus sprang into action the second she was out of sight, artfully directing Stash’s handful of feckless foundlings in the unloading of his truck and the setup of equipment. Exactly fifteen minutes later Amy returned to a fully functioning system of amplifiers, microphones, and monitors, ready to deliver her dulcet tones to the crowd of three or four hundred onlookers, still in the area. Nothing could be done in such a short time to address the inadequacy of the stage, so Amy, still shooting scathing looks at Sierra, mounted the makeshift platform with the help of Stash, who had suddenly reappeared.

Since no one had had the foresight to introduce her, Amy did so herself, by announcing shrilly that she had been trying to support the Occupy Movement since its inception in September, but had been driven back at every turn by ugly detractors, who contended that she, a famous folkstar, was more a member of the “1%,” than the “99%” and really shouldn’t be seen trying to glom on to our struggle. “Well, fuck that,” she brayed. “And fuck anyone who thinks that.” She then launched into a spastic, angry progression of power chords, followed by a series of shouted rather than sung words, which comprised the verse and chorus of an Occupy anthem she’d penned, on the fly, the day before. I stood next to Marcus’s sound board as he rushed to get a decent mix on her vocals and guitar. He and I had spoken briefly after the disastrous GA the week before, and he knew I’d done some singing, so he asked me for suggestions as he deftly dialed her sound in. She jabbed sharply at her guitar strings, while singing something about it being all of our faults the world had gotten so fucked up in the last few years. She then pounded a dissonant chord with her thick pick, before stopping the song altogether. “What is this, an oil painting? Ya know what?” Amy shrieked. “I’m getting pretty goddamned sick and tired of looking at you, looking at me, like you’re bored out of your fuckin’ gourds, and like you got something else better to do—so why don’t you entertain me for a minute while I smoke a fucking cigarette.” With that, Amy bolted nimbly off the stage, walked casually over to a nearby tree and lit up, to the stunned silence of everyone in attendance. “How’s this working for ya?” She hollered pointedly at the audience, whose faces were beginning to register the depth of their discomfort. Marcus looked as if he wanted to throw up as his eyes met mine, and he pleaded, “Can you just go up there and do a song or something?”

“Yeah, I can do that,” I answered, wondering what else could happen to make the day any more bizarre. I climbed, somewhat less nimbly onto the “stage,” and began singing a medley of civil rights standards, “We Shall Not Be Moved,” and, “Ain’t Gonna Let Nobody Turn Me Around,” while clapping my hands. Once people joined in and began to loosen up, I started inventing verses to lengthen the song and keep the groove going. Several verses in, I felt the plywood shift beneath me as I realized Amy was attempting to reenter the tiny, unstable platform from behind. Fearing the structure would collapse, I reached out to an audience member to steady me as I turned around to lower myself, ungracefully, to the ground—all the while still singing “Ain’t Gonna Let Nobody Turn Me Around.” I felt hands reaching up to support me as I landed, off balance, onto the pavement below. Somehow still on my feet, I offered the microphone up to Amy, whose hand was already extended toward me. She snapped her fingers impatiently for me to hurry up. Just then, a vigilant Marcus lurched toward us both, offering a wireless microphone to Amy who took it from him roughly. Not wanting to further offend her, I then began giving my mic back to Marcus, as I saw Amy poised to address the bewildered group standing before us.

“Stay there!” she ordered me, before returning to her audience. “Oh, I get it … You guys are into sing alongs,” she conjectured, condescendingly. “Well, why didn’t you say so. We can do that.” She resumed her complicated Occupy song from the same place she’d left off the first time around. “Okay, so that’s the chorus,” she explained, after running through a difficult assortment of syncopated rhythms accompanied by odd atonal chords and nonrhyming lyrics. “I hope you were paying attention. Now you try it,” she demanded, in a strange tone that was meant to be either conciliatory or patronizing—I couldn’t tell which. Wanting for this attempt to go well, I began beckoning people to sing along, as I echoed, to the best of my ability, the chorus she’d just sung. As we repeated her phrase, she cut us off, midsentence, screaming, “Shut up! That’s terrible! You need to do much better than that, “which we all struggled mightily to do. Still not satisfied, Amy speculated that we might not be “into doing the heavy lifting” that was required to rid the world of all the “fucked up shit that’s happening right now.” “If you’re not even willing to sing the goddamn chorus right, then how are you ever going to stop bank foreclosures? I can’t do everything!” was her parting statement, as she slammed the expensive microphone onto the ground, folded her guitar under her arm, and stalked past Sierra, who hurried to gather the rest of their things and follow.

Two weeks later I was making my way to the Hertz counter at Reagan International Airport to pick up the economy car I’d rented to Occupy both Congress and the Supreme Court in Washington, DC. I booked my trip well before Occupy the Rose Parade, but had been filled with reservations after that bust. Jack Tatum and Amy Startle had left a bad taste in my mouth and I hadn’t wanted the disorganized, marginally successful event to be my last action with Occupy. “Be the change you want to see,” had become my mantra in the days since the parade. If I didn’t like the way the Movement was going, it was up to me to find the solution that would reinvigorate it. After all, not everyone could afford the luxury of jetting from place to place, following dissent and unrest around the nation in the hopes of unsettling the status quo. How could a twenty-something single mother ever be expected to travel more than a few feet away from the hungry mouths that depended on her to attend to their needs. It was incumbent upon those of us who still enjoyed some modicum of comfort and privilege to sound the alarm that would compel others to recognize the monster storm bearing down on us. If people like me didn’t try to stop the onrushing social, environmental, and economic devastation, a fall of apocalyptic proportions would be unavoidable. Toppling the corporatocracy that had become the United States of America was as much in my hands as in those of every other thinking, feeling American—and it was high time I got to work doing something to combat the problem, even if it meant Occupying a Kardashian.

What in the world did I have to complain about? Sure the trip to Pasadena felt, overall, like a wasted effort, but I’d never eaten better food or drunk better alcohol in my life. On New Year’s Eve, two nights before the Rose Parade, the Fertigs had thrown a raging, music-filled party to end all parties, replete with prime rib, lobster canapes, Alice in Wonderland–themed costumes, copious amounts of killer weed, and Dom Perignon champagne. That had been fantastic. I had walked into their fabulous soiree, fresh out of another interminable, unproductive, catty meeting with Occupy Pasadena, (or was it OTRP?). That epic gathering had set me straight again. Other than my time and travel costs, I was out nothing for my efforts. And, there had been some cursory, eleventh-hour attempts by Wells Fargo to acknowledge our anger at their ongoing bad behavior. A few mainstream media outlets and print newspapers had even given the event scant, albeit shallow coverage, which led me to believe there may be some hope for future actions, such as Occupy Congress and Occupy the Supreme Court, which I was bound for on January 15, 2012. Both of those actions were scheduled to take place between January seventeenth and the twentieth in our Nation’s capital—the District of Columbia.

The first order of business was to navigate the way to my host house in Silver Springs, Maryland. Facebook had not let me down yet, and I was fortunate to receive another lodging offer from an easygoing lesbian couple who answered my query. Both of them were politically active and wanted to be more involved with Occupy, however, Beth, who was in her early thirties, was trying to maintain her employment as a full time labor union employee, while battling a rare form of leukemia that she had been diagnosed with the year before. She was still putting in forty hours a week at work, even though she felt like hell and was making frequent trips to the hospital to combat health problems that arose after multiple courses of chemotherapy. She told me she regretted that she couldn’t physically attend Occupy Congress, so she was sending me as her “surrogate” to make sure I represented her interests. The room she and her partner, Jennifer, gave me in their cheery daylight basement was private and cozy, and even had its own bathroom which was swell by me. No doubt, the week was going to be much more plush and amenity-filled than OGP, yet I still missed the vibrant pulse of the Oakland Commune and had yet to replicate that exhilarating feeling.

Before coming to DC, I made an online connection with two focus groups that appealed to me. Both had originally formed to influence the political decisions made by the Obama administration during his first term in office. Frustrated with the 2010 Citizen’s United ruling from the Supreme Court, (which stated that corporations are people and money is a form of free speech) the first group, Move to Amend, had been working for several months on overturning what many Americans thought of as the death knell to democracy. They believed that allowing corporations to spend as much as they want to get their candidates elected would do untold damage to the electoral process by granting them undue influence on who gets elected and what laws get passed. The other group, The Backbone Campaign, had formed specifically to embolden President Obama to find his spine and challenge the GOP by exercising the power of his office to get much tougher on corporate criminals as well as the scofflaw financial industry. Both organizations had collaborated to put together a series of political protests and events which they named, “Occupy the Supreme Court” that were slated to take place on January 20. I volunteered myself, in whatever capacity, which soon developed into both singing and acting parts in two skits which they’d written to inform and entertain people about the worrisome aspects of the Citizen’s United decision.

In no time, I was able to fill my calendar with acts of civil disobedience and rehearsals for the entire week. The morning of January 17, I got into my car and drove into the beltway to find the closest parking to the United States Capitol Building. It was early in the morning as I walked past several police officers guarding the building. I reached into my pocket to grab my cell phone and capture the moment on film. As I fumbled to activate my camera through gloved hands an officer walked up to me with an assault rifle displayed prominently across his chest. “What are you taking pictures of?” he asked, curtly. It bothered me that his dark, wrap-around sunglasses did not allow me to look directly into his eyes as I answered, “Oh, I’ve never been to the Capitol Building and I wanted to get a shot or two.”

“Then why are you filming me and not the building?” he continued, frowning.

“Oh, is it not legal to take pictures here?” I asked, genuinely perplexed.

“I’m asking you the questions right now, and you need to tell me why you’re taking pictures of me and not the building.” Another of the several officers within view strolled over to us and stood beside my interrogator.

“What’s up?” he asked his colleague.

“This lady’s taking pictures of me and I was just about to ask her if she was with the protesters we’re supposed to have coming in today.” My stomach churned as I watched a tiny smirk pass between the two of them.

“Well, are you going to answer him?” said the second officer, hostilely. I hadn’t anticipated having two men cradling assault rifles putting me through a battery of questions concerning my political affiliations and intentions before even reaching the South Lawn of the Capitol. Part of me wanted to proudly proclaim my alliance with Occupy Congress, while the other envisioned being blown to bits on the spot and bundled into a vehicle which would whisk me away to swim with the fishes at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean, if I admitted it. “Oh, is there a rally or something going on here today?” I asked, innocently. “Yeah, but you wouldn’t know anything about that would you, Lady?” came the sarcastic response from number one, reminding me how much I hated to be called, “Lady,” by anyone, for any reason. “Look, you can go, but we better not see you later with those Occupy protesters—got it?” I swallowed my fury and my pride as I answered, “Got it. Have a nice day fellas.”

Once I put some distance between us and stopped shaking, I decided to go have a cup of coffee somewhere, before making another stab at congregating on the South Lawn. I vowed to break my habit of arriving early to big political protests. As a single person, I’d be a lot better off waiting until more people showed up before I made my entrance. It was 10:00 a.m. before Twitter and Facebook convinced me the crowd was large enough to venture out again. I’m sure the owners of the cafe were glad to see me go occupy something else besides the two-top I’d monopolized for the last two hours. I dropped some ones into the tip jar as I headed out for the South Lawn.

West Coast homies were a welcome sight as I drew near the congregation on the South Lawn of the Capitol Building. FUCK YOU MCCONGRESS was painted across the face of a sixteen-foot banner being hoisted by a rebellious brigade of youths. Many like sentiments were in abundance on the signage being carried around the grounds. By early afternoon a row of cops lined both sides of the concrete pavillion that led to the steps of Congress. Those who had “legitimate business”(as determined by the police) inside the building were permitted to walk the gauntlet between the protesters who lined both sides of the walk. Some brave souls made a stab at crashing through the human chain of officers in order to reach the wide set of stone steps leading to a long row of entry doors at the top.

Guy Fawkes mask–wearing demonstrators yelled at police to let us into the Capitol, which they argued, was “ours anyway.” They were shouting that our business was just as legitimate as that of the lawmakers, whom we elected into office, and were not doing the job we appointed them to do. “You work for us, jerks,” and, “Who do you protect- Who do you serve?” came the frequent taunts. A group of twenty or so agitators did manage to break through the phalanx of cops and they bounded up the stairs, only to be turned away by a row of admirably restrained, black shirt patrolman at the top, who brought all but the most combative back to the group unharmed. One of the local organizers of Occupy Congress took that opportunity to mic check the crowd and school us on regional differences in policing practices.

“I know that there are lots of people here from cities like Oakland and Chicago.” (Repeat). “Who are used to getting the living shit beat out of them on a daily basis.”(Repeat). “But please know that our cops in DC, have actually been pretty decent to Occupiers.”(Repeat). “As a matter of fact, they’ve allowed us to have two encampments right here in the city.”(Repeat). “For which we are very grateful.” (Repeat). “So … let’s not make this a personal vendetta against the cops today—”(Repeat). “But rather, an indictment on how fucked up our government has become.” (Repeat). An outburst of applause, hoots, and twinkle fingers erupted all around me. “So let’s remember—It’s corporate greed and the co-optation of our elected officials that brought us here today.”(Repeat). More riotous applause. After that, all three thousand of us downshifted to low gear and reined ourselves in throughout the rest of the day. I got up and sang some songs, while some folks went to the offices of their home state senators, only to find that most had either purposely bailed on Occupy, or were otherwise indisposed and unable to meet with their constituents. Although, one Republican Senator from a Southern state had been caught completely off guard by a group of Occupiers who had stormed past his quaking intern and asked him a barrage of questions about why he hadn’t done more to stop foreclosures in his state and protect the environment, amidst a barrage of other accusations. “Who in God’s name let you people in here?” he roared. “I’m not going to sit here and have a bunch of hoodlums break into my office and put me on trial—that’s not how this works!” he fumed, before ordering his aide to call security. For the rest of the afternoon and on into dusk, the catchphrase around the soggy Capitol lawn became, “Who in God’s name let you people in here!” Which never failed to elicit peals of laughter from those hearing the tale, as told by the proud “hoodlums” who’d knocked the legislator off his game.

Still three thousand strong, we lingered on after darkness fell on that chilly, dreary day, relieved, only occasionally, by bursts of sun, before returning to the dense, wet air which clung to us all. We planned to circle the Capitol Building and disrupt traffic, when a group of mavericks broke off from us and began sprinting toward the Supreme Court, which lies just east of the Capitol. The officers who had hemmed us in on both sides were unprepared for the sudden detour, which forced them to chase after us, as we stormed past them and overwhelmed the thin row of guards who stood at the entrance to the Supreme Court steps. Clearly, no one had planned for this, as confirmed by the sudden breakdown in police communication. In no time, we swarmed every square inch of the stairs, right up to the classic marble Corinthian columns which held up the magnificent edifice. I admired the building’s lovely lines, even as I hastened to avoid arrest or injury. It was Chief Justice William Howard Taft who had been given the task of selecting a designer for the nation’s highest courthouse. Sixteen years earlier, he had served four uncomfortable years as the twenty-seventh president of the United States, from 1909 to 1913. It was his assertion that a governing body as large and important as the Supreme Court ought to have its own building, apart from others in Washington, so, in 1929, he hired noted architect Cass Gilbert, who’d already achieved accolades for designing New York City’s Woolworth Building. I was aware that Taft’s presidency had not gone particularly well and that he’d spent the majority of his time in office hiding from the cruel public eye and enduring endless criticisms about his excessive weight and general lack of competence or ambition, but I was glad he got this one thing right. Even though he’d been hand selected by a wildly popular president, Theodore Roosevelt, to be his successor, he was not well-liked, and the stresses of his duties caused him to balloon to epic proportions, finally topping out at nearly 350 pounds—no doubt to the dismay of those who were once famously summoned to liberate him from a White House bathtub, which he is said to have become stuck in while in office. Sadly, neither Taft nor Gilbert lived to see the finished product, which was a shame, because the building really was gorgeous.

As if scripted, a unison call arose from those on the landing at the top of the stairs:

“MONEY IS … ,” which was answered by, “NOT FREE SPEECH.”

And then: “COR—PORATIONS … ,” answered by: “ARE NOT PEOPLE.”

The chant began echoing everywhere and my heart began to beat wildly in my chest. A woman I didn’t know placed her arm around my waist to the right side, while a man’s hand found my own on the left. My eyes locked onto those of chanting strangers all around me and I felt tears rolling down my cheeks. Others around me were crying too as thousands of us held onto each other and mourned the loss of our democracy.

By this time police were doing little to subdue us and merely stood on the edges of the courthouse, settling for being bystanders after losing their tactical advantage. Before long, another chant began to replace the first one. “TAKE IT TO THE WHITE HOUSE. TAKE IT TO THE WHITE HOUSE. TAKE IT TO THE WHITE HOUSE.” Small groups of protesters began descending the steps to enter the streets below, carving out a route down Pennsylvania Avenue which would lead us directly to the Obama White House. Many more police vehicles and personnel arrived shortly on the scene to escort us and direct traffic around us, since the rush hour commute had not yet ended. A light drizzle began as we snarled traffic for blocks, amid flashing lights, sirens, bullhorns, and commuter chaos. My position in the procession allowed me to see that a bottleneck was forming about a block ahead.

As I got closer I saw large clusters of people pausing to face the Newseum Building, at 555 Pennsylvania Avenue. Together they were reading aloud the words of the First Amendment to the Constitution, which were carved on the front. “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.” As my group formed, we too began to read the powerful words before us.

Our ranks became much less boisterous, even somber after the benediction of reading the First Amendment, and we continued to walk in near silence toward the White House. Our numbers had swelled by hundreds by the time we huddled in front of the President’s residence, and someone began to pass a megaphone around so that those who wanted to could tell us what had brought them there that night. “My name is LeeAnn Bryce,” said a bedraggled woman with a pronounced drawl. “And I don’t—excuse my French—fucking understand why I had to come all the way from Kentucky to ask this bullshit, do-nothing, Congress to get off their ass and help me take care of my elderly, sick parents, who got robbed of their pensions and their life savings, by the banks.” She passed the megaphone on as she stepped down from her perch alongside the wrought iron gates that protect the occupants of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Some voices were strident, others matter of fact—but all were grievously wounded as they enumerated their dissatisfaction with Washington that night. A handful of people began distributing plain white folded cards with hearts and strings attached along with little yellow pencils. “Fill these out with your request to our President,” came the instructions from one. “And after you’re done, tie the card to the gate for him to read, please.” The river of people became strangely quiet for awhile when we noticed a row of black cars entering the White House from a side door that was just barely in our line of sight. Some began to speculate we might be granted a personal audience with the president as the atmosphere became abuzz with excitement at the prospect.

Again, as if preordained, one individual began a chant that caught on like wildfire and filled the air for blocks: OBAMA, COME OUT—WE’VE GOT SOME STUFF TO TALK ABOUT … OBAMA, COME OUT—WE’VE GOT SOME STUFF TO TALK ABOUT …” resounded all around me for a full ten minutes before beginning to die down. Then we all got silent, still holding out hope that the Commander-in-Chief might make an appearance. Moments later a slight young man with a booming voice took the megaphone and began to address us. “My sources tell me that …” he began, as others reflexively took up the human microphone system to get the message to the back. It struck me as odd to be hearing the words, “my sources tell me that,” coming from a scruffy kid who looked neither old—nor connected—enough to have “sources” of any kind, save perhaps his mother. “… the president has just left the building,” (disappointed “awwwws”) “… because I guess it’s like, Michelle’s birthday today.” A smattering of applause broke out from well-wishing Occupiers. “Okay … so, my sources also tell me that the President and the First Lady are, at this very minute, dining at a restaurant right down the street that way [pointing], which we happened to have passed on our way over here.” This revelation, whether accurate or not, caused quite a stir, as we began chattering excitedly in response to the news. “So like, I guess we’ve all got a big decision to make here … ,” he continued, almost playfully, “… about whether we take our protest over there …” he said, pointing again to the restaurant, “possibly ruining the First Lady’s special dinner on her special day with her husband—or decide we’ve done enough for tonight and call it good for now.” We debated the relative merits of each path amongst ourselves. Then, as if by decree, we began to quietly disperse ourselves into the darkness and back to the places we’d chosen to bed down. As far as I know, not one of us chose to disrupt the sanctity of their date on that frigid January 17 night. I hope the first couple had a wonderful romantic evening, and I wonder if she’ll ever know how close she came to not getting to blow out all of her candles.

Three days later, I was again making my way toward the I-495 Beltway and Capitol Hill, to officially Occupy the Supreme Court of the United States. The daily rehearsals had gone well, and though I only had one spoken line in the skit, my big feature was to be the song I was scheduled to belt out at the end. During the previous day’s practice session, five of us had crammed into my rental car to execute a thrilling guerilla “screening” on the side of the Courthouse. Armed with an industrial-strength film projector, two of the guys in our group somehow managed to put the materials together to project the words, WELCOME TO THE SUPREME KOCH, in giant neon green letters, all over the front of Cass Gilbert’s masterpiece. Some homebound commuters got a kick out of the sight, honking and waving as they drove past. We tittered like teenagers from inside the car while watching the reactions of Washingtonians observing our handiwork. A few tickled travelers went so far as to jump out of their cars and snap photos before peeling off, in stitches. Almost fifteen delirious minutes passed before two officers on foot walked purposefully toward our car from half a block away. We were prepared for that eventuality, and alerted our video men, who scrambled to pack up the works before giving me the go ahead to drive off. That next morning as I donned my black robe costume, I wondered if any official laws against projecting images onto government buildings existed on the books in that town.

As for my role in the first skit, I was to play the part of a good-natured, albeit gullible, middle-aged housewife, (think Edith Bunker if you go back that far) who is taking a guided tour through the Supreme Court as a first time visitor to our Nation’s Capitol from somewhere in the Midwest. Our performance took place on a rented, portable, sixteen-by-sixteen, elevated, plywood stage.

“So, ladies and gentleman … here we are at the highest court in our land where the most important decisions we face as a nation are made by the men and women and corporations who represent us within these hallowed walls.”

“Excuse me, Ma’am … ,” a gentleman from our “tour group” asked our guide, “did you just say, ‘corporations’ who represent us within these walls?”

“Why yes, yes I did,” she replied gaily, before continuing her narration. “Yes, as a matter of fact, in a recent five to four decision, by this very court, [pointing behind her to the actual Supreme Court which was in plain view across the street] major multinational corporations were granted ‘personhood’ status, which allows them to contribute as much money as they like to any campaign they please, to influence the outcome of any election they have a ‘personal’ [wink, nudge] interest in.”

“Wait a minute … ,” my character interjected, “does that mean that corporations can actually buy elections now?” I asked incredulously.

“Why yes—yes it does,” replied our tour guide, still gay as ever, as she continued her explanation of the Citizen’s United decision. She then burst into a song which was deftly accompanied by a pianist who sat offstage. The tune was a parody rendition of Sesame Street’s, “One of These Things is Not Like the Other” game.

“Three of these things belong together/Three of these things are one in the same. If you guess which things belong with the others/You’ll know how to play our game. One of these things is not like the others, one of these things just doesn’t belong. If you guess which thing is not like the others/you can help me sing this song.”

Then a “postal employee” walked out in uniform, followed by a doctor wearing a stethoscope and white coat, next came a teacher with chalk and an eraser. The fourth character to enter the stage was a walking skyscraper, covered with corporate logos (Monsanto, BP, Chevron, BofA, Exxon, Wells Fargo, Smith and Wesson), as it was rolled in on a flat cart. At the end of her song, the tour guide grabbed her wooden pointer and asked a man in the tour if he could guess which thing didn’t belong with the other. He guessed wrong three times, making moronic comments all the while, before being stopped by the guide, who said, “Oh … I’m sorry contestants, but those were great answers. Give yourselves a big round of applause folks.” She then placed the tip of her pointer on the top of the cardboard building saying, “I know this game is really hard—but here’s your answer.” She burst into another merry song. “This is the thing that’s not like the others/ This is the thing that isn’t the same. Maybe tomorrow we’ll sing together/When it’s time to play our game. We’ll find the thing that’s not like the others/We’ll find the thing that doesn’t belong. We can all play and try together/When it’s time to sing this song.”

Our audience of passersby and journalists provided us with plenty of laughs as we quickly exited the stage to put on our robes in preparation for the next performance. In that skit, I was one of nine Supreme Court Justice look-alikes who had formed a garage band called The Supremes. I tried to look Sotomayor-ish as I sang parody lyrics to a song originally recorded by Aretha Franklin called, “Chain of Fools.” It began with a chorus of:

“Shame shame shame—Shame shame shame shame shame … Shay-ee-ay—ee-ay—ee-ay-ee—ame shame on you”

I pointed and stared back to the Supreme Court Building, which was the backdrop from the stage, before launching into the first verse which was:

For many a year/ A vote was one citizen

But I found out just now/That it’s a corporation

They treated us bad/Oh, they treated us cruel

They think they got us where they want us yeah

And we ain’t nothin’ but their fools.

From there I progressed to this chorus:

Occupy won’t leave you alone/No we ain’t a gonna go back home

You thought you could take it easy/ Oh but our anger is much too strong

We’ve had it with you! Shame shame shame/shame on you!”

Just as I was finishing, I saw a long line of marchers who were arriving from the two encampments that were located in the vicinity. One group had begun marching from McPherson Square, which was often said to be the rougher, (and also more “real” in the sense that a higher percentage of its residents were actually homeless) of the two, and continued toward the other from nearby Freedom Plaza, which was said to be a slightly more upscale, “homeless by choice” community of purely political dissidents. I was happy to be done with my official commitments and free to scurry from the stage to join the protesters who were now idling in the street and spilling outward onto the wide sidewalk which lead to the same steps we’d swarmed on January 17. Many reporters who had been covering our show dashed off to film the developing story across the street. Primal drums accompanied the cries of, “Money is not free speech/Corporations are not people,” only this time refrain dovetailed into, “Whose Court?/Our Court!” as police cruisers began pouring in from all directions.

Hundreds of us soon faced off with scores of police, who were cramming to unload aluminum barricades from a van parked right on the sidewalk. Their goal was to keep us from climbing the steps to the marble columns as we’d done a few days earlier, while ours was to gain entry into what we were contending was “Our Court.” The standoff was fairly predictable, until one demonstrator produced a long, slender wooden pole with a glazed donut tied to one end and began dangling it in front of the faces of the officers, in a game he called, “Fishing for Cops,” which drew thunderous laughter from our side, and even a few smiles from some men in uniform. All was going well and tensions were ebbing until one officer, failing to see the humor, suddenly yanked at the fisherman’s pole, raging, “Get that fucking thing out of my face, faggot,” which pitched the holder forward, almost landing him on the police side of the barricade. A furious tug of war with the body of the fisherman broke out—us trying hard to restore him to our side, as a battery of officers jerked him in the opposite direction, attempting to get him into their clutches. Donut boy was screaming out in pain as his torso got raked across the aluminum top rail and his clothes were being ripped off of him. Our side eventually won, and we were able to reclaim our scraped, bleeding prize from the maelstrom. A loud cheer went up, followed, bizarrely, by an eruption into “The Hokey Pokey,” at the other end of the barriers, some twenty-five feet away. I turned to see a big, scruffy guy leading other Occupiers in reaching through the barriers at knee height to poke cops’ legs while singing, “You put your right hand in, you take your right hand out.” Apparently, the feeling of having their legs groped by demonstrators freaked the officers out, because each one of them immediately recoiled and climbed the stairs behind them to avoid the sensation. Then, someone among us noticed how extraordinarily easy it was to lift up the momentarily abandoned barricades and back the row of police up the stairs, as they jumped back to avoid contact. In short order, the entire front row joined the Hokey Pokey game, while those of us further back sang along and kept the mood light. As we frolicked, lots of cops were becoming furious as they realized their own unwitting participation in helping us advance to the top. As their frustration grew, a few began swinging batons indiscriminately, in all directions. “Hey guys, stop swinging the clubs, you’re gonna hurt one of us,” came the order from a top cop. “Yeah—hey—we’re unarmed! This is a peaceful protest,” shouted some agitated demonstrators. We were almost to the marble columns when suddenly confronted by a solid row of riot troops, who had assembled quickly into place and exploded from the inside of the courthouse. They were wearing bulletproof shields, kevlar body armor, and gas masks as they maintained tight grips on their highly visible military-style assault rifles. We could all plainly see that the jig was up, and, as suddenly as the scuffle began, it ended, within a few short yards of reaching the entrance to the Supreme Court.