The Antisocial Socialist

Well, springheel_jack declared it poem-writing day, but y'all probably don't want to see me write a poem. Think Vogon. So in lieu of that I present to you something that verges on found poetry, really. This was from a meeting of an unnamed group that I missed awhile back. They made this agenda without me, but I think it's stuff that we can all agree on.

( OMG TOP SEKRIT )

So yeah, that's what we're up to. In case you were wondering.

It's a wonder that I made it through last night sober and still a leftist. N. and I got the foolish idea to show up at a War Resisters benefit concert. (N., by the way, is the guy who called me a "tofu-futon folkie" for preferring Phil Ochs to Bob Dylan.) Anyway, we figured it might be a bit snicker-worthy, but nothing could have prepared us for the horrors that awaited us in the back room of the Oasis.

Two of the three IS triplets greeted us at the door. Inside, it was solidly IS. It was the sort of scene that people in conservatism envision when they think of the radical left -- half old hippies, half young wannabe Marxists, and a girl with long, flowing blond hair and a guitar singing old labour songs earnestly into the microphone. (I like old labour songs, by the way. They're really hard to bungle. I was sort of impressed.) We sat in the back and I tried to stop N. from drawing too much attention to the fact that we weren't taking this very seriously.

And the old labour songs were the highlights of the evening, musically speaking. At least they have good lyrics. The same could not be said for original compositions ("I wrote this song about Cindy Sheehan!"). I felt a sudden, crushing horror -- is no one writing good folk music anymore? All of the new political songs that I like are hip hop. Not that there's anything wrong with hip hop, but I'm a big fan of spontaneous sing-a-longs and hip hop, being reliant on the talent of the performer, doesn't lend itself well to sing-a-longs.

True to form, songbooks were circulated. I was stunned to see that almost all of the songs were Wobbly songs and almost all of the graphics they used were Wobbly graphics. I was ready to be severely pissed at the IS for appropriating Wobbly culture before I spotted a lone Wobbly, "Fellow Worker," sporting an IWW hat and buttons. (Subtlety is not anyone's strong point.) So I guess she did the songbook. Fair enough. Meeting her was probably the only good thing to come out of the whole experience, although she was less friendly than most of the Wobblies I've met.

They were selling a CD called -- get this -- Peace Not War. Now, I like a lot of the artists on that, but it epitomizes the sort of thing that I hate about the anti-war movement, such that it is. This is not the '60s. Iraq is not Vietnam. Putting a white headband over your hippie hair and painting peace symbols on your cheeks didn't defeat US imperialism then and it's sure as hell not going to do it now. It's kind of embarrassing, and it's hardly a way to confront the complex geopolitics of Iraq and the Middle East.

All of those songs are still relevant today, but the difference is that when they were written, they weren't to be sung with a pacifist, liberal sensibility. These are, at their root, songs about anger and outrage and passion. They are meant to be fluid and adaptive, but what I heard instead was all of the vibrancy and fire replaced by moderation and political correctness.

( Cut for song lyrics, and some analysis. )

Anyway, I did manage to stick to cranberry and orange juice, despite the fact that this tempted me to fall off the wagon more than the offer of free sake shots on Thursday. I somehow woke up feeling very hungover regardless.

Today was interesting. It started out with mana'eesh, coffee, and tea at Ayeda's place and the idea that we were going to have an Al-Awda contingent at the demo. Well, that worked out well. We got there and everyone ran into everyone else's friends and we pretty much scattered. There were Trot speeches, but who wants to pay attention to those? There was gossip to exchange and a sighting of what we suspected were National Bolsheviks -- these were quickly photographed for posterity and expunged from the demo.

And then it was on to the marching and chanting. You all might have gathered this by now, but I really hate demos. The only reason I show up at all is to see my friends and snark about how ridiculous everyone looks. I have to say, there were a lot more Dos than Don'ts this time around...at least when it came to fashion sense. The chants were as lame as ever. Someone started up a round of "What do we want? PEACE! When do we want it? NOW!" (Which sounded, by the way, like they were shouting for Peace Now...ugh.)



Chris and I responded with: "What do we want? CLASS WAR! When do we want it? NOW!" but none of these supposed Trots (or people carrying Trot signs) wanted to join in. Bah. Asad wanted to know what kind of chants I did like, and I responded that chanting made me feel like a bloody zombie and I'd much rather people sang or did something more creative.


What's with these guys? They get points for the big spray-painted kraft paper banner, but not for the sign that makes no sense whatsover.

So without further ado and with apologies to VICE Magazine, I present Protest Dos and Don'ts.
Disclaimer: Complete flippancy lies ahead. I'm glad these folks came out to an anti-war demo. That's no excuse for bad fashion, though. Apologies if any of these people are your friends.

( Dos )

( Don'ts )

There's another, more serious entry coming. I started to write it here and then decided that it didn't belong in such a silly post. Let's just say that the day ended in a radically different way than it began. More later, I promise.