I Saw Her In The Anti-War Demonstration

Spoiler alert: I am a hater. Case in point:

I went to the UFPJ rally (rally? stroll) yesterday with my friends. We dutifully trudged around the mid east side and gaped at the gorgeous, objectivist, clearly pro-war sky scrapers. Also, we were handed yellow stickers and sometimes poetry, too.

Demonstrations are important for a host of reasons, and because I'm not a white boy in a keffiyeh trying to sell you a smallish news-pamphlet for fifty cents I won't go into them here, but one reason I enjoy them is because there are signs. And crazy people. And a ton of crazy people with signs.

The problem was, yesterday, that the crazies? That was everyone. There was no rally, actually, no speakers, nothing. The most highly organized aspect was the bull-horned UFPJ volunteers (who, it was pointed out, are all between the critical and traditionally radical ages of forty three and fifty eight) asking for money and giving the occasional shout out to Judson Memorial Church. West VillAGE!

I was talking to someone who works for Democracy Now! (or, so sayeth my boyfriend and I with the greatest of affection, Democracy, uh, Someday! Democracy Eventually! Democracy Last Week!) and she'd been on the phone with the UFPJ people all week trying to find out when the demonstration's press conference would be.

Some woman kept picking up and saying that she really wasn't the person to talk to about the thing, and by 3pm on Friday there still wasn't a firm plan. All there was, in fact, was...a walk. A walk around Bryant Park and then to the UN park and then: a festival. A, uh, festival? Like when I went to Bonnaroo in high school and had sex in a tent? Yep. I was expecting no shirts and body paint, but it was my spring break, so I was slightly biased.

Anyway, I wish I were still an activist. I wish the activists who are still active would at least, like, give Al Sharpton a call.