Protestors Protest Lack of Protest
Washington, DC. May – Morning rush at the Jak n’ Jo
finds Jason handing over another latte to a customer in a hurry. “I thought Iraq
was my big break. Instead I’m back at the Jak,” says Jason.
Nearby at KopyKat, Melanie makes change for a customer using the super
scanner. “Iraq was my brass ring,” she says quietly. “I’m
not going to pretend it doesn’t hurt.” Melanie and Jason are part of the newest Lost Generation, wondering what might have been if the war had dragged on. “A really nasty war can fast- track a talented protester to the big time. I started out painting Hitler mustaches on George Bush pictures. I’d just moved up to writing protest chants when Saddam’s statue hit the ground,” Melanie complained, brushing toner from her hands.
Brandon, a graduate student in political science, is nostalgic remembering the months leading up to the U.S. attack. “I was climbing the ladder, mixing blood-simulating paint, eventually Googling secrets of the Trilateral Commission.” Applying now for a summer stint at Pacifica Radio, Brandon says the quick victory over Iraq left him sour. Touching his thumb to his index finger, he blurts, “I was this far from identifying the people at Halliburton behind the whole thing.”
Brandon stops, looking off a moment in silent exasperation. “Saddam
is on the board you know. Non-voting maybe, using the pseudonym Uncle Zippy
maybe, disguising himself in a Homer Simpson mask at board meetings maybe,
but you can bet he makes his presence known.” His gaze fixed, Brandon
then leans forward. “Saddam nick-named his eldest son Uday abbu Halliburton
Hussein al Takrit.” He sits back. “Lot of people don’t
know that.” Asked why the end of the war should end his investigation, Brandon waved the topic off. “I’ve moved on. Now I’m figuring how the World Bank fits into all this, in case anyone’s asking. And you know it does.” Brandon wants to examine what he calls the Bank’s “complex layers of complicity.” Asked for detail he shoots out three fingers. “K-K-K.” Then, linking his index fingers, “Kissinger, Krispe - Kreme. The messenger and his vehicle. I’ve said too much.” Since the war, Jason, Melanie, and Brandon have joined a weekly support group that meets to exchange conspiracy theories, decry the end of civilization, and trades tips on hair dye. Brandon says a recent meeting turned ugly. “The bitter people said the old timers sold us a tall tale about a big career at a big school someplace, getting paid to re-confirm our own views and slap down students who questioned them. They call themselves Chomsky Chumpskies.”
“ It’s amazingly unfair,” said one group member giving his name only as Dr. Zhivago.
“The Vietnam people got this really gnarly war
and all the books and movies that came with it. 80s people got those juicy
intermediate range nukes in Europe. We get Iraqi 55 Most Wanted playing
cards.” Between stints as a freelance Hacky-Sack instructor, Dr. Zhivago says he plans to draw attention to what he calls “the plight of the unheard,” organizing a protest to protest the lack of issues to protest. “I’m calling it The March of Mimes.”
Jason and Melanie won’t be there. “Frankly, we’ve had it with the protest racket,” Melanie says shaking her head slowly. She’s teaming up with Jason to take their message from the street to the stage, relating their experience in a play called “Insectivore.”
Jason says the title cuts to the heart of their dilemma. “Basically, we’re left here to scavenge for bugs beneath rocks while giant reptiles continue to rule Earth.” Melanie says the play’s central point is, “that we’re all doomed to choke to death in a giant dust cloud.” Jason nods agreement. “We think we can get Michael Moore to play a T-Rex.”
Told of the “Insectivore” storyline, Bandon’s eyes light up. “Peter Sellers should play the lead. He’s actually Henry Kissinger. Meaning he’s still alive. Lot of people don’t know that.”
