Before the clock, while traffic light was red,
And NOW had either left, or waited for their
Gay friends to come, your host again beheld
That magic of arrival by parade.Cops whizz back and forth on motorcycles
As great beating sigh echoes down the street.
Shouts and whoops from the distance reach the ear
Four blocks off, and front of parade appears.Cheers roll steadily down from building walls
Echoing along the avenue, chasing
Cameramen into the asphalt breath.Dark cheer rises into understanding
& beast approaches, inexorable,
Inevitable as death, death that they
Remember and protest by their march, death
They scream to heaven: "SHAME SHAME SHAME SHAME SHAME!"Whistling whoops cut through the air, drums
beat, and booming chants shift form into
another word, hammering at the ear."NOW!"
Drum beat.
"NOW!"
Drum beat.
Before the gates to site/zone, a flying squad of cops on bicycles turns the corner, moves into the street between escorting motorcycles. Cross traffic is blocked, the last remaining cars swept from the intersection, and spectators directed back onto the sidewalk.
The volunteer host notices a couple of talk-show radio hosts from L.A. with earphones on their head. They have come out of their temporary studio - a 4th & K shop-window looking out over the zone. Two cops are urging them back to the curb, but they want to stay out in the street and tease their listeners with a blow-by-blow description of the AIDS parade marching down the street. Before this week is out, these two will have wandered into the zone, broadcasting live, giving their listeners - and sponsors - great joy. Several times they will be asked to leave. Tomorrow afternoon the more abrasive man will be hit with a pie in the face.
You are getting ahead of yourself.
Right. Back to the present. For now, the radio talkers are not aware that the chief of police - in a plain dark suit - is standing before the site/zone gate, only twenty feet behind them, watching his officers sweep the street. They miss out on a great sound bite. Be real, girl, they wouldn't like it - the chief is too moderate for them.
Whatever. The cops, however, all know the Chief is there. They're not stupid. Nor is he. This is a chance for the department to shine, as all those months of planning come to fullness. The protest march, with wild, devoted energy, surges onward to the site: zone: lot: camp: cage.
From two blocks off, led by a trio of motorcycles, the parade's head draws near. Whistles and shouts cut through the air. The chanting beast rolls forward like the edge of some flooding river, "WHAT ABOUT AIDS?! WHAT ABOUT AIDS?! WHAT ABOUT AIDS?!"
Twisted pillars of lemon & blood colored balloons float above the half-cleared street. Under that floating totem, masses of waving signs and arms, fists & faces press ever onward, onward, "WHAT ABOUT AIDS?! WHAT ABOUT AIDS?!" Cameras hurry forward to kneel before them - getting those thrilling low-angle shots - then scurry backwards like crabs before the advancing tide. The talk show guys are babbling into their mini-mikes. The sidewalks are packed with spectators. Volunteer host, waiting at the gate, begins to applaud with the waiting crowd. His heart rises into his throat. His eyes open wide, his ears strain for every little sound in the storm, his pen flies across the page, scribbling notes, impressions, sights, noises....
Tramp, tramp, tramp the feet, shrill shrill shrill the whistles, "SHAME! AIDS! SHAME!" the shouting voices. In perfect synchrony the marchers pour down the last block, sweep across the intersection, and swirl through the gates, flooding within the nine-foot high security fences, flowing across the parking lot toward the stage, shaking fists and waving signs at the Convention Center, denouncing that concrete & glass monster crouching there behind fences, beyond the railroad tracks, unreachable, ignorant.
Convention Center does not answer. Sits over there, silent, powerful, overwhelming. At its feet, beyond the multiple fences, across double sets of tracks, a few dozen tiny figures turn briefly to watch the protest flood pouring into the zone. Host wonders if their "white noise" generators can drown the outrage that echoes off concrete, glass, iron, asphalt. Probably the only thing they'll notice is the fact the Mr. Condom is here, with them, today.
Then a fresh burst of noise draws the host's attention back to the front gate. The second wave approaches down Fourth Avenue. Oh-oh. These guys look way more serious. A huge banner, carried by men with faces painted like skulls, stretches across the front of this second crowd. In great black letters on red, their massive pennant proclaims: 300,000 DEAD FROM AIDS - REPUBLICAN POLITICIANS HAVE BLOOD ON THEIR HANDS.
"SHAME SHAME SHAME SHAME SHAME SHAME...." Almost in unison with the chant, their feet march together into the gates of the protest zone.
So, thinks the host, this is Act Up. Seem pretty intense. Don't you think they have good reason to be intense? Don't you miss David, and Mark, and Dell's friend Bill?
Looks back along Fourth Avenue as the last of the marchers enter. The police are closing in behind, re-opening the street to traffic. The two talk-show guys stand on the corner, surrounded by spectators itching to be asked something, anything at all. The host can imagine the questions, "What do you think... now that you've seen...." Mmmm, Danial, too tame... surely they'll ask something a little more salacious than that. Come on, they've gotta SELL! They gotta COOK!
Back within the zone, host overhears med-tech Brian ask a cop, "Where'd they march from?"
"Pantoja Park."
Click. The red light turns green. Once again the police have delivered a crowd with perfect timing; within the very minute of arrival, the traffic light snaps green and microphones switch on.
An angry woman is speaking. Her voice booms across the heads of hundreds gathered in the zone, and Danial wishes again he had a tape recorder hooked into the microphones. What a fantastic....
No. No, this is writing. This is my work. Arbeit macht frei. Spricht macht frei. You better be careful with those words, fool.
I AM FRUSTRATED HAVING TO SPEAK IN THIS CAMP! THIS DISGUSTING CONCENTRATION CAMP!
See, I'm not the only one who feels the presence of the nine-foot fence and unlocked gates. You think you understand concentration camps, just because your ex-wife's distant cousins in Europe were wiped out? You think you understand AIDS because ONE Friend of yours and one acquaintance have suffered and died? You fool, you stupid jester, you have NO IDEA how fortunate you have been! Piss off! You're supposed to be on my side! I'm writing you!
I WANT TO TELL YOU I AM RATHER DISAPPOINTED BY THE CLINTON AND GORE SIGNS I SEE IN THIS CROWD. CLINTON AND GORE ARE NOT MUCH BETTER THAN BOB DOLE AND JACK KEMP! THERE ARE TIMES WHEN WE HAVE TO FACE THE TRUTH: PEOPLE IN POWER ONLY WANT TO RETAIN POWER AND KILL THE REST OF US!
Whoa.... Just a little radical, woman. Just a lot radical, you mean. Heh heh heh. What's so damn funny? Hee hee... a parking LOT radical.
Honestly, Danialle, girl, there are times when I am ashamed to admit I know you.
Well, aren't we a little bitch tonight! Mmmm who's that cute man who's at the microphone now?
YESTERDAY WE HEARD THE REPUBLICAN PARTY DESCRIBED AS THE PARTY OF COMPASSION?! THEY HAVE GUTTED MEDICARE! THEY HAVE KILLED HEALTHCARE! AND THEY HAVE INTRODUCED PUNITIVE MEASURE AFTER PUNITIVE MEASURE AGAINST PEOPLE WITH AIDS....
Bitch? You call me a bitch? You watch out who you be calling names, girl!
And you, girl, you watch out who you be calling a girl! I'm more man than you'll ever be!
Mmmm get her... um, sorry, I mean get him! Senor Don Chingon - ya basta cabron joto!
AND I AM TIRED OF HEARING MY QUEER BROTHERS AND SISTERS TRASH THE LOG CABIN GAYS INSIDE THE REPUBLICAN PARTY - I SAY WE NEED LOG CABIN REPUBLICANS ON THE INSIDE TO SUFFER THE WORK THAT WE CANNOT DO... BUT WE MUST DEMAND FROM THEM JUSTICE, MEDICINE, AND HEALTH CARE FOR ALL AMERICANS!
"Excuse me?""Sure... what can I do for you?"
"Are you with the media?"
"No... my notebook, you mean? I'm just keeping a journal, for my web page... on the internet."
"Oh." The man's face is painted white. He stands with another painted face, holding a sign between them.
"I like your face paint. It's... cool."
The man scowls. "I'm supposed to be a skull. Death."
"Oh...."
"You wouldn't think it COOL if dozens of your friends died in your arms, wasting away, not even able to eat enough to stay alive, and if you had to listen to damn Republican propaganda every night on TV until...."
"I... I'm sorry. I've lost a couple friends too. I admit, not many. But even one is too many."
"Damn Right!"
A woman is at the microphone. WE WANT HONESTY ABOUT SEXUALITY, WE WANT CONDOMS AND NEEDLE EXCHANGES... WE WANT ACTION ON AIDS AND WE WANT IT NOW!
A great cheer rises up from the crowd.
BOB DOLE HASN'T EVEN READ THE PLATFORM WHICH SAYS ENOUGH MONEY HAS ALREADY BEEN SPENT ON AIDS... WELL, BOB DOLE, IT'S TIME TO GET SOME BALLS AND FIGHT THE RIGHT!
Laughter, cheers. Host retreats back to the sign-in tent.
Notice the light is red? And the microphones are still on?
Yeh. Looks like the two groups joined together as one.
Yep. And, Danialle?
What?
Also notice the sign-in for these two times - it says "Voices" - not HACES.
Heh. The jackass lady in red should take a lesson from these people. She's got back-to-back Democrat hours. Maybe she should ask to have the microphones left on between her times.
CONNIE NORMAN WOULD SAY - FUCK FINDING LIFE ON MARS! SPEND THOSE MILLIONS ON SAVING LIFE ON EARTH!
Of course, the "Table" of Contents remains available.