Fire Breathing Dragons and All

Walking past Madison Square Garden this afternoon with hundreds of thousands of protesters was like walking past a grave -- the day was full of people happily displaying their joviality and eccentricity, and then there they were: polo shirts, khakis, bulging stomachs and laminated necklaces. And the sense was not so much of hatred, even thought there were a few older people around me that just began yelling until their faces were red and their eyes were watering, like a baby screaming, but one of mourning, because even if there is a chance to put a halt to it, what is done is done. The moment after a joke told at a memorial service maybe, that makes everyone laugh and then in the silence that follows a much deeper sadness seeps in, that was the sadness in front of Madison Square Garden.

We turned the corner and waited for a friend under the Old Navy marquee on 34th Street. While waiting behind the barrier on the sidewalk, a scuffle appeared to break out to our left, people began running and the police cleared 34th Street completely and halted the march. It was strange, there was a bizarre smell, and then we saw a bunch of smoke wafting by from around the corner (in front of Madison Square Garden). There was no way to see what was happening, but all of a sudden the FOX News jumbotron across the street cut from some talking head to what was less than a block from us, the large paper mache dragon on fire. How strange that we were learning about what was going on around the corner at the same time some potato in Ohio was. Very strange, all this television business.

Later on the walk back downtown, there was some discussion from the marchers about what had happened. "I heard that a wagon was on fire," said one of the curious. "No," we said, "It was a dragon."

Indeed, the dragon we had passed only a short time before, its wings the breadth of the street, led by a fleshy product of post-punk wearing the tapestries of a sultan from the rococco and twirling a baton. Somewhere from beneath its wings London Calling was emanating. My friend Sara said that hearing the song gave her the chills - perhaps the icy hands of death were merely brushing by on their way to an inescapable grip around the neck of the monster.

It was a wonderful day, probably the only day of my life in which five strangers will ask to take my picture. And, that night, at the Downtown for Democracy event, the first person I saw upon opening the door to a bar was a sad and aged-looking Telly, from Kids. He looked so old, it was strange. Like all of that fuss, this movie depicting these delinquents and there he is, alive and well, with thinning hair. What was supposed to be so scary about that movie, if this is how we all end up anyway? Innocuous, and pale, quite ready to admit that an argyle sweater vest would complete the look - and probably make us so very happy besides.

Waiting for the subway on the way home a man came and played us a song on a trombone made entirely out of PVC piping. It was utterly charming, and the fog of drunken exhaustion and the creeping malaise that anticipates arriving home with a sigh cleared for one moment and everything was good.