Tuesday 9:00 am. Everyone, it seems, is in Seattle. First, there are the usual suspects, like Naderites, AFL-CIO, Sierra Club -- all fools, of course, who think the whole rotten system can be reformed from within. Then there is a mixed bag of radical nuns, puppeteers, Zapatista-istas (kids from Portland who think they're Subcommandante Marcos), Earth-firsters, etc. Plus there are a few even I haven't heard of: Macrobiotics Action Network, Vegans for a Barter Economy, Students against Anthropocentrism, Free Hawaii. There's no sign of my comrades from the People's Action Front (not to be confused with the Front for People's Action, our arch-enemies). It's too early. I need a double espresso before I can bring myself to smash anything.
9:30 am. Joined into a march, of sorts. These labor people have no idea how to chant. All they could come up with was, "Hey hey! Ho ho! Unaccountable supra-national bodies have got to go!" I hate 401(k) socialists...
9:45. A flurry of excitement. Someone spotted Mike Moore nearby! Quick! A chance to actually confront the director of the evil WTO! Several of us rushed around the corner only to find it was the other Michael Moore, the corpulent foe of corporations, whose only crime against humanity was to have directed "Canadian Bacon." His fleshy frame was wheezingly trying to keep up with the march. Time to cut down on the Ben & Jerry's, eh Mike?
10:00 am. The blockade is a success. The suits can't get to their conference. Technocratic scum.
11:30 am. If there's one thing I hate more than global capital, it's earnest liberals with their teach-ins, folk songs, and all-too-civil disobedience. They're not content to simply bring the conference to a halt. They're trying to reason with the suits! They want them to come over from the dark side! They say, "Think about what you're doing! Join us!"
11:35 am. Well, I'll be damned. It worked. The Australian trade minister suddenly started shouting, "How could I have been so blind? Everything I've believed in until this moment was a lie!" Before anyone knew what was happening, he'd ripped off his tie and linked arms with a couple of monarch butterflies.
2:00 pm. Like the old Hollywood saying, you can't get arrested in this town. The devious Seattle police have upset everyone's plans by inexplicably not taking anyone into custody. The protesters thought they'd be safely in jail by now, but instead they're all milling around wondering what to do next. Some impatient direct action people have started to drop hints, like chanting, "Two, four, six, eight! Why don't you incarcerate?"
Something's gotta give...
3:30 pm. The uprising has begun! We have reclaimed the streets!
4:30 pm. The foot soldiers of capilalist domination are fighting back. They're trying to re-reclaim the streets. Counterrevolutionary scum. Some of the street theatre people realized too late that you can't run in a sea turtle costume. (It does, however, provide handy protection against rubber bullets.)
5:00 pm. Forgot my bloody gas mask. Overcome by the fumes.
Wednesday 7:00 am. Ugh. Must have passed out. The last thing I remember is a French delegate standing on the hotel steps -- his hair smooth, his impeccable suit uncreased. He looks out over the rubble and flicks his hand dismissively. "You Americans call zees a demonstrashion?"
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Ian Cooper is a graduate student and freelance writer living in New York City. Fan mail and offers of gainful employment may be sent to ameralien@hotmail.com.
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