Fact or Friction*#!... 02/02/03

Some Velvet Morning

Fog. Tule fog. I don't know why they call it Tule Fog. Somebody once told me that a Tule is a plant that grows in the Northern Valley and is about knee high. They call it Tule Fog because it hangs above the ground at the height of a Tule. On that logic, why don't they just call it Knee Fog since nobody is quite sure what the hell a Tule is?

Some Velvet Morning when I'm Straight...

Visibility is at less than a quarter mile. The whole valley, from Redding to Bakersfield, or so says the Sacbee weather map, is blanketed. It is a shroud that hides its sadness, frustration, and giddy glee, all at the same time, or so say I. There is an eerie stillness throughout Sacto. It's quiet, with only occasional rumbles of traffic on the freeway behind me. All else is quiet in Midtown, save a few Tomcats strutting about, marking cars, tails up- sniff, sniff- tails up again, turn around- spray. I've never understood the Tomcat's territorial fascination with automobiles. Strange fetish I suppose, or just a way of showing kinship with their human brethren. Countless times in my travels throughout and all over our big blue marble [it's rampant in England, but virtually nonextant on the streets of Paris since Paris is une ville des chiens], I've witnessed big husky male cats slinking against license plates and hub caps in sensual, almost pornographic, displays of appreciation for the smoothness of chrome and stainless steel. It must rub them the right way.

Street lights are haloed. They don't shine, only give off diffuse light. No shadows. I can see only muted outlines of objects more than fifty feet away. Beyond one hundred feet- nothing but misty gray mass and darkness.

The steps I take in my big Red Wing boots don't create their usually reverberation native to Sacto's normally dry air. The air is so thick is so thick with fog that there are only subdued thuds that barely reach beyond my ears before dissipating into the wet ether around me.

It's a two mile hike through the frumpy Old Vics of Midtown- Old Vics being local patois for "Old Victorian." Some are creaky old Mansions, others are fresh and refurbished. Some of the creaky Vics look as though they'll crash under their own weight at any moment. But these old dears don't weep beneath the funereal shroud that engulfs them. They merely groan, pondering check out time from this mortal coil- envious of the others who have passed on without them. Perhaps they envy the dead and demolished because all they're left with on this increasingly hellish earth is a rampant loss of soul among the inhabiting humans. These hollowed out creatures consume, and suck the life out of everything around them. They lack warmth, never giving the sweet and lovely structures the affection they so deserve. They make the Old Vics houses, but not homes. They eye me with suspicion. "Another soulless human" they are sure to think as I stroll by in the pre-dawn.

The wrinkled faces disappear at R Street and the LRT tracks, giving way to blank walls- warehouses, some concrete, others of tin, or red brick. The red brick ones are old and deteriorating, yet have some personality in contrast to the concrete and tin prefabs- like they have something to say- trying to whisper- as the Old Vics groan- divulging the secrets that the Old Vics conceal. The pain of both the Old Vics and the Red Brick warehouses are not audible to the human ear. But if you stop and stand still for a bit, you might feel it. I hold my hand to my mind's ear and I hear something. It's in Spanish or Portuguese, methinks. Most people outside of the Northern Valley don't know just how numerous the Portuguese were in the zenith of the Gold Country.

All the while, as these manmade structures groan and whisper, the grass sings. It's moist with dew, playful, and damn happy to be alive in the incipience of this subdued break of day. Mid-January, but the grass is as vibrant as Spring. It hums and chirps amid the groans and whispers, creating a cacophony, a roiling rave of the urban landscape. In a moment of reveling in a wading pool of infantile narcissism, I believe this spectacle is strictly for my benefit and no other. After all, who else is perceiving this internal interaction with what the soulless majority calls inanimate objects. Baby, the town is alive with the sound of Pomo Romanticist TecknoLust- and the band ain't stopping till the dimes are droppin'.

"Here's my quarter, lads."

"Shut up and dance," they say. "I've never stopped," I reply.

5:30am. R Street and the LRT Tracks, as you may have already been able to discern, comprise the dividing line betwixt Midtown and Downtown. I stride past the Capitol. It's white dome is in soft focus. The surrounding office buildings rise above the 'hood.. The LRT tracks divide and unite these two worlds, moving people between business and home. The two worlds are dreams and consciousness-> struggle, push, survive -> versus -> Dream, Hope, Aspire. Do we still dream or are work/home now the same? Do the Old Vics groan from the mental, social, and psychological deterioration of our society, our culture? Is work, prose, linearity now invading the space of dreams, our place of poetry? The Jungians disagree, and say the opposite- "No! The subconscious, the world of dreams is invading consciousness." The Old Vics beg to differ. I ponder if it is their own weight that makes them groan or the psychological weight of the occupants. The occupants. Definitely the occupants.

More questions spring to the fore- Have media devices, the telly, movies, internet, taken over our dreams, our poetry, pushing out our own uniqueness, our own dreams to be replaced by a mass dream dictated by the corporate throne, the new kingdom of heaven?

Is Jung's mass consciousness, the natural mass consciousness, at constant war with the artificial and enforced one of our corporate masters? Is this the weight under which the Old Vics groan. Where is Stuart Ewan when you need him?

The light is no longer diffuse at ground level in the prosaic landscape cohabitated by government and corporations. The light around me is clear, though the upper floors of the glass structures sleep in the mist.

An old man stumbles and dances in the shadow of the east side of the offices at 10th and Capitol. The shadow leaves him nothing but a stark silhouette. I can make out his floppy-earred hunters cap and the overturned shopping cart next to him filled with stuffed garbage bags, now spilling out onto the ground. He spins, waves his arms and spins again. I hear no music. Maybe it's the grass again, the melody of which I've lost in the stark brightness of the new harsh world north of the LRT tracks. No music. Just the din of silence- forced, repressed, prosaic silence.

At L and 9th, a man reeking of liquor shoots a beautiful arching silver stream of urine through the air some four feet and onto the face of a building-side cash machine. The berth I give him puts me in the street.

"Bup bup bup bup bup," he sings as the whoosh of the stream hits the ATM for several seconds before falling to the wall below, and then the sidewalk. Singing in the Rain.

I hit 7th and L, finally, the Greyhound Station. In front of the automatic sliding doors, a man wearing nothing but gray sweatpants screams at no one.

"Help! Help! The devil took my pants!" He looks down at himself, dried spittle all over his very full black beard glittering red and blue in the neon lights of the Greyhound logo. He then mutters, "No, no, no, no, no!" as his hands and arms flap about wildly, waving hard, cutting the air frantically as though he is try to take flight like some sort of grounded bird whose body has gotten to big over the millennia of evolution to take full flight- like a turkey or chicken. "No No No No!" he mutters again, then he screams, "No! no! No! The Devil took my shirt and Jesus ate my shoes!" He then goes all melodrama man, dropping to the sidewalk and blubbering "The devil took my pants and Jesus ate my shoes- sniff, sniff." Now choking- "The devil ate my shirt and Jesus took my shoes. Shiva help me!" He looks up screaming, arching himself off the ground like he's doing yoga. "Buddha!" he cries like a child abandoned. "Allah! Mohammed?"

Here was a tour de force of nonlinearity, a veritable scrambled egg narrative in the which the shells were thrown in, taken out, and thrown in again before the eggs themselves suffered the same fate. Both were better, dirtier and sexier for it, a Jungian field day of dancing archetypes galore- Romantics, Goths having even a giddier more frolicking time of it reveling in the stark raving nakedness of our very own society's Frankenstein- first given the fruits of a consumer culture, then robbed and abandoned by all deities and counter deities his mind can conjure. But remember, friends, Lucifer/Mephistopheles was once a god himself. All deities are but two sided coins. But for our society's little streetside creation, our consumer culture's lost boy on the sidewalk, all the coins have come up tails, revealing that consumerism itself is just another god, and is in fact, the dominant god today. Some get heads, some get tails, but for most of us though, the coin is perpetually in the air. We all run like madmen- work, work, work; strive, strive, strive - to keep it there, our biggest fear is that it should finally fall to the ground and come up tails, leaving us but mad bitter Frankensteins on the wrong side of the socioeconomic tracks, constantly wondering the Swiss countryside in search of companionship, only to be rejected and castigated for our impoverished ugliness.

6:00am. "What's today's date?" asks a man's voice behind me.

"The 18th," I reply, "January 18th."

"Oh, I keep thinking it's the 17th," he says adjusting the date on his watch.

I look at my watch to make sure that I am correct, and not misleading the man.

"Yeah, right, the 18th," I confirm.

The man thanks me.

The women at the Greyhound Ticket counter are perhaps the friendliest and most polite people working for the company, if not so for the entire city of Sacto. And this cheeriness is happening at 6:00am. A bloody miracle.

I get my ticket, and not two minutes later the call for "San Francisco, Gate 5" comes over the loudspeaker.

Still thick fog on 80. Glad I'm not driving. Good day to leave the driving to the fine folks of Greyhound. Can't see anything until Vallejo. Can barely make out the supports for the Carquinez bridge. Scary.

Oakland- 7:30am. Beautiful Old Vics, but this place looks like a war zone. Rusted cars on blocks country. Streets are deserted, and it looks like a lot of the Vics are, too. Tomorrow night, happy hooligans will run these very streets in a pyromania frenzy.

7:50am. Can't see the SF skyline until we're over the bay bridge- fog, fucking thick fog.

I'm gonna open up your gate...

7:55am. Transbay station, Mission and 1st. It's but a short walk to Justin Herman plaza at Market and Embarcadero. I'm half asleep- almost dreaming. I walk the border between Alpha and Beta consciousness. I wonder up Market to UN Plaza I don't know how many times, looking at the T-shirt, button, and bumper sticker Vendors. I need a shirt for the event. Numerous antiwar groups are hawking their wares in exchange for donations all up and down Market. There must be fifteen booths between Justin Herman and UN Plaza, and then a few beyond, by the Library, City Hall, Bill Graham Auditorium, and the Civic Center.

I choose to get my shirt at International Answer's booth at the intersection of Montgomery, if my memory serves me correctly. I find one- it has a large pic of MLK (this is a combination antiwar protest/MLK birthday bash, after all) shouting. Though the volunteer asks for $18, I donate $20 and trundle on my way.

I get XXL to fit over my XXL gray hooded sweatshirt. My new T-shirt is black. As MLK shouts, above is inscribed "STAND AGAINST WAR AND RACISM" in red letters on black background. Seeming to blast from MLK's screaming maw are the red words "NO WAR ON IRAQ." At bottom, in black on red is the group's URL: www.internationalanswer.org. Below that, white on black, is the "Union Bug" as it is called in certain circles, the logo for ILGWU of California, HQ Berkeley.

I'm gonna tell you about Phaedra, and how she gave me life, and how she pulled me in...

I make it back to Justin Herman Plaza and take a seat on a wall. I have an apple, two capsules of glucosamine, 500 mg of Vitamin C and 40 mg of fluoxetine to make life sunnier.

I meditate upon my new shirt. I smell it, enjoy the rubbery newness of the transfer and burnt cotton. I rub my hands over the transfer to feel its texture in contrast to the smoothness of the cotton. I turn the shirt around, rub it on my face and take a deep breathe, breathing and drinking it in deeply. Such olfactory and tactile reveries would most likely attract suspicious eyes in Sacramento. But here in SF, at this event, as Kerouac once said, "It's the end of the continent and nobody gives a damn."

I decided to end my rather involved inspection of the shirt and actually wear it. I put the sweatshirt's hood up over my head and slipped the collar of the new shirt over it. To my left, I could hear a young woman's voice gently singing John Lennon's "Imagine." The wall I sat on was about 3 feet wide. I could hear the woman's voice get closer with the words- "Some say that I'm a dreamer..." The words were gracefully falling from her tongue. She had a good voice. The shirt, now over my head was bunched up at just above chest level. I began a struggle to pull the shirt down, but to the rhythm of the words, "But I'm not the only one," a mysterious pair of hands pulled the shirt into place for me. It took a split second to absorb what had happened. I looked to my right to mouth, "thank you" to the beautiful classic dirty blonde bob-haired Northern Californianette who beamed back with a sweet glow of charitable mischief in her eyes.

"I hope some day, you'll join us..."

Her velvet dark red mid-calf length coat, the extremities fluffed with white faux fur, reminded me of the Red Velvet cakes my mom used to make when I was a kid. I saw the coat and blonde bob hop from the wall and disappear into the gathering throng.

"And the world shall live as one."

My spirits lifted with this not only generous, but rather poetic gesture. It felt damn good to be alive. In this stuffy world of stuck up tightasses with no sense of fun, somehow, this well-scrubbed and probably well-heeled luftfrau in her late twenties who probably paints, sculpts, and interpretive dances in a Mission District warehouse on the auspices of some family trust fund gave me a great jolt of faith in humanity. Funny how it comes to you in an instant, melts away, but lingers. The lack of sleep, the bus ride, hours of standing and walking, barely eating- the hours upon hours of abuse at work, the daily grind, the general dry monotony of life in the 9 to 5 world, the general alienation and loneliness of our farce of a culture- that one moment burned away the dark clouds over my head, hints of sun rays peeking through the overall dissonance. Gosh, maybe there is something to this mortal coil.

Another traipse five blocks up market. Nothing new- a few buttons, mostly standardized from various organizations, the same stuff over and over again.

A cute little girl- maybe eight or nine - hands out leaflets for the next march on 2/15/2003, President's Day weekend. She wears a sweet, embarrassed, yet quite confident smile. Her air belies a nervous child. She is strong and self-assured. If she was dressed by her Marin or Sonoma County parents, they did a spectacular job. She moves with a slightly hesitant grace, wearing black heavy soled shoes, striped black and white tights, a la the wicked witch of the east. The black Mary Janes are buckled at just below the ankle. About an inch of the upper top foot, clothed in the striped footies of the tights is exposed. Continuing the wicked witch of the east theme, she wears a sparkling candy apple red pleated skirt that is knee length. The glitter alternates with silver, red, and a few hints of green. Her leather biker jacket is open, revealing a black T-shirt with large white letters bluntly declaring- NO WAR. Her cheeks are ruddied by the cold wind off the Pacific. Her eyes are clear and blue, intelligent. Her dirty blonde hair is tinted pink, and pulled back in an abrupt Olive Oyl pony tail. She is the poster child for the renegade spirit of the Bay Area. I could only pray for a camera to emerge from my hands for a moment so I could keep a pic of this child to cheer me on sad days.

I read the rest of Reny girl's flyer. At bottom in bold letters-

EMERGENCY ACTIONS-

If War breaks out, on first day of War, meet 5pm Powell and Market.
On Saturday after, Noon, UN Plaza, 7th and Market

Oddly, a mass mobilization is skedded on 2/15/03 in Sacto, at the Capitol one would think, even though Reny girl's flyer would not specify. I pass beyond Reny Child, and back to J. Herman Plaza.

There is a perfectly clear sky, with the usual blustery cold wind blasting up Market, making for no dearth of rosy-cheeked women. It was heavenly, reminding me of the old Bill Hicks phrase- all a man needs are warm scarves, hot cappuccino, and rosy-cheeked women, and all are for sale on the streets of New York City. In SF, the Phaedras on display are beyond the grasp physically and mentally, of this hick, but they are something to behold, walking art.

10:30am. The crowd in J. Herman Plaza barely has room to swarm. I overhear a woman say that the crowd goes all the way up Market to the Civic Center.

I purchase a red t-shirt from a member of the Young Socialists depicting Bush, Cheney, and Rumsfeld as skeletons compromising a rock band called "Axis of Evil." Being red and socialist and sold by a baby-faced Berkeley coed, I couldn't resist this purchase. My black bag was now getting stuffed- No Blood for Oil sticker, several buttons with bland, standardized NO WAR slogans, T-Shirts, copies of . The Socialist Worker, and about a dozen other free and fee publications. Unfortunately, I possess nothing with anything as innovative, or as witty as "War Inevitable? Draft SUV Drivers" or "Stop Mad Cowboy Disease." I wish I did and search frantically for something with one of these brash slogans.

11:00am. I'm now a block west of J. Herman Plaza. Helicopters circle overhead surveying the crowd. The cops say 55,000. Organizers say 200,000 minimum, the latter much closer to reality. I've been in Stadia packed with over 80,000 people. This densely packed crowd stretching for fourteen blocks made the stadia crowds look like mere gaggles. Over 200,000 was a very safe estimate.

11:15am. Even more packed, believe it or not, now fifteen minutes past scheduled start time. But there's no room to march despite the roar of 200,000 people chanting "March! March! March!" Funneling 200,000 people into Civic Center Plaza will be no mean feat this day.

Noon. Still no movement. The whole affair has become people standing around looking at each other. Despite prime conditions for restlessness and outright mayhem, the crowd is mellow and quite cheerful. Marijuana smoke wafts through the street. "Ah.. the smell of freedom!" declares a man to my right.

12:30pm. Finally, movement, and a big cheer. For the past hour and a half, spontaneous cheers have ridden in waves up and down the crowd, echoing through the urban canyon. With movement, it all becomes a big parade. Those perched on streetlamps, overhead streetsign posts, newspaper vending machines, and other perches are watched as much as they watch the marchers. This is a parade interactive

Performance art abounds. Many artists make statements about the war, others just use the occasion to expose their endeavors to a huge semi-captive audience. At Market and Fremont, a stilted Uncle Sam has gagged and bound Lady Liberty, also stilted, to a lampost. He slaps her with a handkerchief and beats her with a horsewhip. I heard later that Uncle Sam was feeding gasoline to a non-stilted George W. Bush on the street below him. With the crowd around me, I completely missed GWB.

There are Marching Bands galore.

The crowd had become so large and packed that it had spilled about a block onto most of the side streets along Market. Southward on Fremont, a brass band of about fifty members struck up "When the Saints Go Marching In," followed by "We Shall Overcome."

A fracas of snare and bass drum starts to my right. A line of big marching band top hats swiftly cuts through the crowd like a lava river down a muddy mountainside. The big hats are worn by baton twirlers who double as a dancing drill team. They wear slutty maroon satin one piece bikini outfits with black fishnet stockings, line down the back of the leg and all. Behind the twenty or so drill teamettes are about ten more identically garbed women carrying banners with some rather fascistic looking eagles on them. I cut over through the crowd about 50 feet to get a good look at the spectacle. The women are in heavy make-up, not particularly attractive, but sexy in a weird campy way. Some of them may or may not be men. From the flags and the amped-up Aryan ironic hipness, I'm not sure if I'm on the set of methed-up Cabaret or of if Willy Loman has flown to the dark side of the moon. Behind the thirty or so drill teamettes and flag girls are about 20 people on drums, trumpet, and trombone. The bass drums say "Extra Action Marching Band, Oakland, CA."

EAMB's sound is very down and incredibly dirty- New Orleans fat meets SF pomo self-consciousness with loads of cusp-of-porn burlesque to spare. These are the kids who were smoking pot under the bleachers at halftime at high school football games, laughing at the Marching Band, coming up with wild ideas to make the convention, uh, interesting. They've now taken this wholesome American tradition and subverted it with so many twists that Jacques Derrida would be challenged to wrap his semiotic nomenclature around it. A good academic with enough coffee could milk this group for not only a good book, but possibly an encyclopedia. The forces at play in EAMB's performance has kept this feeble mind busy for two weeks, and will most likely continue to do so for months to come. Naked exhibitionism/self-promotion and way out of context, this? Yeah, definitely. Fascinating nonetheless? Hell yes. EAMB are chronic teenagers binging on not only their, but all of hyper-repressed America's chronic teenage fevered sex dreams, hypersexualizing a milieu mostly confined to middle-class suburban teens. It begs analysis. It lies there and says, "Fuck me," but it's on top and ain't stopping.

But screw the intellectualizing, pseudo to the hilt as it is. Asking repeatedly, why, why, why? and plastering every analytical label on it only obscures the pure visceral pleasure of it all. EAMB goes right to the base chakra-> down and dirty, but smart; psychologist as dominatrix; the smart person's id.

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BJR