Narrowly Avoiding Arrest After "Greyhound Bus Station Mayhem," Or HOW I LEARNED TO STOP WORRYING ABOUT GLOBAL JUSTICE AND LOVE MCDONALDS!!!

Photo by John Hoff, September 4

So I promised in a previous blog post to reveal the super-secret tactical tricks I used to avoid getting arrested when police hit that peace march with everything--smoke, teargas, flash bangs, the works--right in front of the Greyhound Station on University Avenue...

Well, I'm not sure if I learned this trick from Abby Hoffman's writings, or figured it out on my own, or learned it from an old 1960s activist or WHAT, but here's what happened:

Yes, I WOULD Like Fries With That

I'm in front of the bus station, right? And the police start setting off green smoke, explosions, tear gas, advancing with horses...plus that particular part of University Avenue is like a corral; there are many fences around parking lots and so forth. It's not a perfect, boxed-in corral--there are certainly gaping holes, and lord knows I managed to get myself through one--but a group of a few thousand people in that area would be mostly corralled. Yup, This is where Carlos From Los Angeles led the march; right into a "meat grinder" of fences near the location where the police had a maximum numbers of forces.

The fact I'm trying to be a journalist appears to mean nothing. Journalists with big and powerful news organizations are being arrested, so what's a blogger? My self-defined boundaries of objectivity--not chanting, not waiving a sign--mean nothing in the face of mass arrests which sweep up all the fish in a net. If I'm "trash fish," they'll get around to tossing me over the side, but it won't be pleasant.

So here's a trick that works over and over when you're trying to GET THE (EXPLETIVE) OUT of a demonstration, because tear gas is going off, everybody is running, and you're slowly being surrounded and you've just realized your leadership is severely lacking, or everybody wouldn't be in this boat.

Turn yourself back into an everyday citizen.

No, really, it's easy. The citizens are already on the sidewalks nearby, wondering what is going on, and some of them will get gassed and arrested purely by ACCIDENT and they will be OUTRAGED because, after all, "they weren't doing anything." (Like expressing opposition to a war by waving a sign) The safest place to be a citizen is INSIDE A BUILDING, some kind of business establishment; the more wide open to the public, the better.

So magically transform yourself into a customer. This is easy if you aren't dressed in an outrageous protester costume--which, yes, includes unwashed, black hooded sweatshirts with "Rage Against The Machine" patches--or if you aren't carrying something like banners or a video camera, or wearing your scraggly Che beard, or if you lack the perpetually-righteous, politically-correct personality which practically screams: "I'm not only with this protest, I'm somewhere near the head of the march and how dare you use the sexist phrase 'you guys?'"

Shoving my camera into my backpack, and wearing a green t-shirt which was advocating nothing but a certain enthusiasm for the Florida Everglades, I approached the door of McDonalds but it was locked, and a security guard was behind it, taking his job VERY seriously because this was his big moment, the moment he makes the bold tactical decision to LOCK OUT ALL THE CUSTOMERS in order to save the business from crazed anarchists running wild in the streets. How many times will he tell THIS tale?

He said, through the glass, the business was CLOSED. I said, "I just want a cheeseburger." But nope, the business was closed.

I went around to the door on the OTHER side. I could hear explosions going off, but that was near Marion. Those who were still holding the march together--though it was just a mass retreat at this point--were heading back on Marion the way they came. Of course, that would be the way to Xcel and the Republicans and, also, back toward all the police forces which had formed up BEHIND them a few minutes ago.

Yes, retreating TOWARD the opposing forces. Even the French know better.

Thanks, Once Again, College Spanish Instructor

I was not a very good student of Spanish. I started out with Spanish as my minor, but I just dropped it. I didn't care for writing the words, endlessly conjugating verbs...I just wanted to SPEAK Spanish, and I wasn't worried about speaking it perfectly, either. I only wanted to be--and I'm serious, here--like my 8th Grade literary hero Conan The Barbarian, with a "rough and ready" grasp of other languages, enough to get by, enough to express one's desire for a beautiful woman or obtain food, enough to communicate basic ideas but not subtlies.

Who needs to be subtle when you're a barbarian, anyway?

The person at the other door was some kind of low-level clerk, who spoke practically no English at all except the word "Closed," which he kept saying with a big, apologetic smile. But I noticed he had a key in his hand. I just needed to work some "social engineering."

So I told him, in Spanish, I only wanted some cheeseburgers. I was only waiting for my bus when this CRAZY stuff started happening which I am not part of--look at me!--"Yo no estoy una parte de la REVOLUTION. Que loco!"

I told him I have identification. I pulled out my wallet to show him. He laughed and opened the door to let me inside. I walked up to the counter and began to wait in line behind somebody else, who was also standing there, waiting to be served. I pulled out my cell phone and hit the REDAIL button to speak to Charlene Gubash. I think she may have asked me if I was under arrest. At that moment I was not ONLY speaking to Gubash but trying to maintain my "ordinary citizen act."

"I'm trying to get home, honey," I said. "But there's some kind of protest snarling up everything and the No. 16 isn't going to be able to get through it. I'm at McDonalds. Not sure how long I'll be until this clears up."

She wanted to know what was going on...why was I talking like that?

"You might have to feed the cat. I could be stuck a while."

I looked up toward the menu. The clerk behind the counter gave the previous customer their order, tensely.

"Can I get a Number 2, please?" I asked.

"Numero dos?" asked the clerk.

"Si, gracias, numero dos," I said, smiling. The clerk had an odd look on her face. SHE KNEW. But she wasn't going to tattle.

I turned off my phone.

"It's crazy out there," I muttered. I could hear a conversation taking place--WHY HAD PEOPLE BEEN ALLOWED IN? But what was McDonalds going to do? Were they going to force customers out of the doors and into danger? LAWSUIT, baby.

That's The Smell Of Money

As I got my meal and walked over to a corner to eat it--a corner where I could keep both doors under observation, and hear the sounds of the street, even though the windows had some kind of stupid advertising plastered all over them--who should I see but "Marshall Jim," the friendly young man I met Sunday night camping in front of the jail, and later at the jail support camp where he waited with a plate of food for a comrade, and now here he was AGAIN.

Seriously, I don't know the guy. I'm not making this up. We just keep running into each other.

"Marshall Jim" gave me a wink. I winked back. I walked over to check the door of the restroom. It was locked. Good to know.

I sat down and began to lustily consume my meal. We sat for a while without talking to each other, until things started to seem cool. Jim asked me how I was on this fine evening and I said I was good, how was he? Jim replied he was just "patronizing this fine establishment."

I gestured with one of my fries. Yes, I said, a lot of people don't know the potatoes for McDonalds French fries are processed in Grand Forks, North Dakota, by J.R. Simplot. The Simplot facility makes the air reek near the campus but you know what I say? THAT'S THE SMELL OF MONEY, that's what I say.

Despite talking like this, we stayed away from each other for a while. I tensed up quite a bit when I saw police boots and a flashlight walk just outside the window, where the window wasn't covered over, but nobody came inside to arrest stray protesters or bloggers. After a while, Jim came over to chat and so did his two cool friends, pictured above. We had kept our conversation quiet. The first thing Jim told me was he heard me speaking Spanish outside the door and, wow, that was some Spanish. I told him a second language is SO USEFUL, but particularly Spanish.

At some point I talked to Gubash and learned their cameraman had gotten into the middle of something, and couldn't be extracted at the moment. Gubash was wanting that tape, badly. I told her, quietly, "I think I've got like 20 seconds of people running and green smoke rising behind them, but that's about it. I'll give it to you if you need it, though." Gubash thanked me, but she figured she'd be getting her tape.

I hoped she'd be getting her crew back, too. I related this story later that night to a young protester, and he went into funny routine, imitating an NBC producer:

"Oh, yeah, you did a great job. You're solid, man. And we're going to get you out of jail eventually, don't you worry. But what I'm really wanting right now...the tape. (Fingers wiggling, eagerly, like an excited squid) I need the tape. You've got the tape, right? Tell me you've got the tape. Your hands are cuffed behind you? How are you holding your cell phone? Can you swivel around and reach the tape? Can you get your MOUTH on it, possibly, and hold on to it while I send somebody?"

Whiskey For Myself, Juice For My Camera

I left McDonalds, nodded to the officer outside, and proceeded to walk down University, toward campus. From other individuals on the street--people who had been in the March To Hell, but somehow bailed out--I learned a huge group was being detained on Marion, a few blocks from the McDonalds. Just like in Seattle in 1999, when I managed to get into the Labor Temple with a handful of other folks, I'd bailed exactly two blocks before the march was surrounded. How do I keep doing it?

One of the protesters I met on the street told me, "They didn't WANT to get arrested. They got surrounded and had the (expletive) gassed out of them. All they could do was sit down and put their hands in the air. They're processing them. There are so many, it's taking forever."

Exactly what I suspected and why I am so critical of Carlos From Los Angeles, who was leading the march: these marchers weren't offering themselves up for martrydom. They wanted to MARCH. So literally marching in a circle, disoriented, while the police closed in from every side? What was THAT?

I got to a swanky Asian bar--I'm going there again!--where I ordered a Bloody Mary and a side order of juice FOR MY CAMERA. Yes, the manager was kind enough to let me use an electrical outlet, which allowed me to confirm I had a few dramatic seconds of tape, slightly more than I had with the Mickey's diner incident, which wasn't much. I'm not a videographer by nature. I'm more interested in capturing the stories in words.

A basketball game was playing on the television. I convinced the bartender to switch the channel to news coverage, and proceeded to watch part of John McCain's acceptance speech. It didn't take long before a protester broke in, waving a banner.

Ha! The protesters won. Despite the meandering March To A Meat Grinder, despite the overwhelming police forces arrayed against them, the protesters won. At the very moment John McCain was speaking from the podium, protesters who got gassed at the Greyhound bus station were being "processed" for arrest in front of journalists from all over the world. Thus the prized spectacle the Republicans were trying to create became a tug-of-war, with protesters frequently and effectively stealing the spectacle even at the crowning moment: John McCain's speech, which became Heckle Fest 2008.

No, many of these young protesters hadn't WANTED to be arrested. The vast majority were being arrested for the very first time, at least on Thursday, September 4. But finding themselves taken prisoner, they held their heads up high and did not let down the cause or their comrades.

The vast majority of people arrested on Thursday night were out of jail in a few hours. Hey, this is Minnesota, Land of 10,000 Lakes, so "catch and release."