Occupied

The Occupy protestors were in D.C this past weekend, but there were insufficient numbers to do more than occupy part of a small park near the agency where I work. I saw one of their flyers yesterday, which (1) disingenuously mischaracterized the constituent elements of the movement, as well as its genuine level of support (you represent 99% of the populace? And almost all of you are white?), and (2) pompously called for “general assemblies” at noon and 6 pm “indefinitely”.

If they were really concerned about the overlap of business and politics - and weren’t such complete ignoramuses - they’d start out their day at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue protesting Wall Street’s donations to the current White House occupant in the 2008 presidential campaign, and the reciprocation of that support in stimulus cash and soft, government-backed loans to failing crony businesses. Then they’d head over to Congress and burn Rep. Barney Frank in effigy, since he’s one of the principal architects of the financing and regulatory framework that destroyed the U.S. housing market.

But, no, for these neo-hippies, communist agitators, “progressive” hucksters, students-in-perpetuity, AWOL busboys qua artistes, nouveau panhandlers, manifesto scribblers, Gaiadolaters – in short, the rank and file of the imbecilariat - the enemy will forevermore be some cartoon version of capitalism. The irony, of course, is that if their totalitarian dreams ever come true, they’ll be the first ones shot. When the dark night of left-wing fascism finally descends, there will at least be that small consolation.

Follow-up: I went over to McPherson Park this afternoon and saw a “crowd” numbering perhaps a dozen people (maybe fewer; it’s not always easy to tell the difference between the homeless and the clueless). Featured prominently, on a sagging bench, were two extraordinarily obese proletarians, sporting scraggly beards and tattooed sugar gliders (one was flashing a bit of uncouth butt-crack). There were also a few women of the butch-haircut class who had taken their denim granny dresses out of moth balls; they milled around aimlessly, frightening the pigeons. Revolutions are never pretty, but I cannot recall one quite as unlovely as this.