XPost: uk.media, U$ChargingStrandedU$Citizens, alt.politics.uk 
  
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 Ukulele Power 
  
 sent by Dan Scanlan - Oct 7, 2006 
  
 Ukulele Power 
  
 by Dan Scanlan 
  
 It was a quirk of fate. I was returning to the anti-war/anti-Bush/ 
 anti-John Doolittle pro-peace rally from an up-scale Raley's market 
 in El Dorado Hills CA, a market where seemingly desperate housewives 
 shop in stiletto high heels and sprayed-on factory-faded jeans. I was 
 a few moments late -- the police barricaded the main street where 
 Bush's armored black car would pass after his helicopter arrival and 
 the cops directed me instead to a more neutral parking area ("we 
 won't be giving tickets today" an officer said) where the Bush- 
 friendly automatons lined the nicely appointed and primly maintained 
 divided roadway, a roadway that was itself declared off-limits even 
 to pedestrian traffic just as I traversed it. 
  
 The police would not let me join my cohorts, protesters, at the 
 intersection. I could, however, go in the opposite direction if I 
 wished. That's where the local supporters were...families with 
 children, school kids and their teachers, aging rich Republicans. 
 Folks with polyester and American dreams in their cathode-ray burned 
 eyes. 
  
 I stood slightly apart from the large group in front of the 
 elementary school. There was one lonely newsman standing next to me. 
 After the four horribly thumping military choppers flew overhead -- 
 one with the President aboard, we don't get to know which 'cause 
 someone may want him dead -- a flurry of police motorcycles and every 
 overtime sucking sheriff car comes screaming by, followed eventually 
 by His Royal Highness', er, The President's black enameled armored 
 car. The gaggle of Bush enthusiasts waved excitedly as His Royal W 
 smirked through the inch-thick smoked glass window. I held aloft the 
 middle finger of my right hand. It felt good. 
  
 When the wargasm had passed, the newsman asked me, "How did that feel 
 seeing the Devil behind the window like that?" I asked him, "Will you 
 print my answer?" He laughed. That's the modus operandi of the front 
 line journalist -- the "yeah, right!" of journalism's defense 
 mechanism for being fuck-ups. 
  
 Since I had my banjo-ukulele with me, I turned to the loyal favorites 
 and began playing as briskly as I could Sousa's "Stars and Stripes 
 Forever". The television slurping gang, unused to live music, was 
 enthralled. I drew them unto me. Smiling into their smiling, ecstatic 
 faces, flourishing with panache one of my more energetic show-off 
 numbers. I had them in the palm of my hand, smiling faces, all. 
  
 Then I stopped. 
  
 "Oh it's a good thing," I intoned with my loudest, most arrogant 
 voice, "that this is America. If this were Iraq, all those children 
 would be dead now," waving my hand to the fresh young faces who had 
 just been enthralled by the President's presence. 
  
 The teachers gathered round the children and quickly herded them back 
 into the safety of the homeland security of the classroom, me 
 shouting "What will you tell them of the Magna Carta? Will you tear 
 the pages from their textbooks? How will you explain it?" 
  
 An older woman, an elder of the gaggle, said I was sick. I advised 
 her to turn off her television, that her information was bad. She 
 stormed off and her place was taken by a young woman who told me her 
 brother was in Iraq in the army at this very moment. I told her she 
 above all should be against this war and that she should go on the 
 internet and look up Delayed Stress Syndrome, that some psychiatrists 
 are saying that no American soldier can avoid it, that she learn what 
 she can do to help her brother when he returns. She stormed off. 
  
 I replayed Stars and Stripes Forever as I walked away. 
  
  
 - ------------------------------ 
  
 Message: 23 
 Date: Mon, 9 Oct 2006 16:08:25 -0400 (EDT) 
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