On the 18th of October, Juan-Carlos Delgado set off from Portland, OR in a white Ford F150 4X4 via Interstate 84. Traveling through Eastern Oregon, Idaho, Montana, and eventually reaching North Dakota. It was his intention of observing and documenting the camp at the Standing Rock Reservation in Cannon Ball, ND. His stay was cut short by several missteps on his part, all of which are explained in his transcript below. The following is taken from journal entries, video reports, and audio recordings Mr. Delgado sent back to Portland, OR shortly after leaving the camp. He kindly asked that I transcribe and publish the report here as he is on an extended road trip traveling through 13 states in the western half of the USA searching for the reasons this election season has been so strange, the strangest ever as far as most can tell.
10/20/2016 - The unmuffled pickup truck tore down the two late highway with a terrible metallic ripping noise that stood out harshly in a pristinely beautiful place such as Cannon Ball, ND. It was headed in the direction of the Red Warrior Camp but did not turn at the small dirt road leading to it and instead sped past it at an alarming speed. I had been warned repeatedly about photographing the warrior camp without their explicit permission. Something rarely given unless a direct action was going on. These are the vanguard, the physical manifestation of what is otherwise a spiritual gathering. In fact, those who have gathered here to stop the pipeline from burrowing under one of their most sacred resources ask that I call them protectors and not protesters.
As I completed my check in at the media tent, I was given a list of actions/places that I was forbidden to photograph as well as a press badge. The list seemed excessive at first but the more time I spent walking around, the more I realized the very sensitive nature of what we are dealing with here. A re-opening of a wound that never healed for an entire nation of people. Indeed, tribes that had been completely alienated from each other now camped together side by side. Together in their cause and culture. I am in on their land, and in particular, sacred ground. Even as I sit here now, typing with gloves so my hands don’t go numb with cold, young men from one end of the camp raise their voices and scream into the night in their native tongue “Water is Life” and seconds later, voices from across the river bank explode in response completing the moment.
To say that the rights of the native people of the United States have not been respected so well in the past is at best, a gross underestimation. These folks know they got the shaft, mainly because they keep getting it. To ignore the plight of the Native American in 2016 should be horrid to us, it’s almost cliché to talk about what should only be described as the genocide of these people. We are talking about folks that have very little to begin with. The socio economic status statistics alone would make even the most staunch libertarian a bleeding heart liberal.
10/21/2016 - The exodus continued for several hours after darkness had fully engulfed the campsite. Endless headlights climbing up a hill to exit the camp and turn left towards the Standing Rock reservation. Where they are going is anyones guess, it is Friday night after all. From what I was told by a tall Native man asking for a ride at the makeshift security gate, there is a casino 10 miles up the road. This happened earlier in the day and may be completely unrelated. I’ve not seen much outlandish behavior, nearly everyone I have met has been extremely gracious. The pockets of resistance I run into are understandable. The press has not always been a friend to the Native American.
There are two distinct sections of the DAPL resistance movement here. The larger and more commonly understood section of the camp that resides on the land owned and operated by the Army Corps Of Engineers is a sprawling expanse of teepees, tents, trailers and trucks. A few converted busses and the occasional Subaru Outback dotted here and there for good measure. You would find it hard to walk through the camp without being offered food and everyone here happily responds to being greeted. These folks may be the most embracing people I have ever had the pleasure to meet. Story after story is eagerly told to me over offers of swamp tea and other indigenous edibles and drinkables. No one here pays for food and no one goes hungry.
Like many things for the Native Americans, the Red Warrior camp across the river is a study in contradictions. Located properly on the Standing Rock reservation, the Red Warrior camp does not allow video or photography of any kind. Even the slightest inclination of such actions by a journalist will land them in serious trouble. I found this out earlier today when I tried to introduce myself to a knife wearing guard at the gate to the camp. The situation escalated quickly as I had entered the camp completely unnoticed by a group of Native America men whom I assumed would have stopped me if there was an issue with my presence. Unfortunately for me, they were simply unobservant and my presence there was indeed not welcome.
Having assured the angry man, and his incredibly scary knife, that I was as eager to leave as he was to have me go, I hurried myself down the mile long dirt path leading away from the Red Warrior camp towards the highway. I would have found it curious that the members of this camp were so resistant to the press had I not already walked through their camp. What I saw, and without going into detail, was the beginnings of the solidification of a long term occupation. The start of a long game of chicken with the Federal Government, the State of North Dakota, and the power brokers behind DAPL. The oil companies should not be afraid of what is here now, they should be afraid of those who stay behind once we all leave.
10/22/2016 The 6 am wake up call to prayer for the young men being sent out to the rising sun in support of the DAPL Resistance caught me just a bit off guard. I stumbled out into the freezing early morning air with my camera bag and back pack. I had on what I had worn to bed that night, thermal underwear and sweats. It had still been a cold night.
I quickly learned that earlier in the morning (several hours) members of the Red Warrior camp executed a direct action by locking themselves to the construction equipment at the DAPL construction site. The men utilized sleeves made out of pipe to make removing them more difficult. The police have to have them cut out in a very time consuming process. It’s an effective and extreme way of protesting not for the faint of heart. Of all the things these folks are short on, heart is not one of them.
The real urgency here is that the oil pipeline will run a particularly dirty type of oil called super crude oil and as of this report, is now only about 5 miles off the reservation. They Native Americans know they don’t have the upper hand in all this. The fact that the mostly Caucasian city of Bismarck did not want this very pipeline running through their water supply only serves to show where the state of North Dakota seemingly places it’s priorities. The police act unsure and yet determined to show force often when dealing with the Native Americans. Initially, almost baiting them by parking their vehicles up on a hill in a roadblock formation only to move back as the Native Americans approach them. Ultimately the police back up into a defensive position and wait for the go ahead to lunge forward and start arresting as many of the DAPL Resistance members as they can.
Today, between 80-100 DAPL Resistance members were arrested and several were injured by the arresting officers. An ambulance was seen leaving the demonstration but specifics have not been released as to why it was there in the first place. As I walked behind the DAPL Resistance march to and from the construction site, I observed two helicopters, a plane, and a drone following us. The helicopter would fly alarmingly close to the Native Americans as they marched in what appeared to me to be a act of intimidation. Almost immediately after starting the march, an emergency alert was sent out by the local authorities. The alert, that sounded exactly like an amber alert, let the entire community know that a protest was blocking the highway and that the police had closed the roads. The DAPL Resistance members were essentially trapped, as was I.
Technically, I was trespassing. The Native Americans claim to have the right to be on that land as it is their ancient ancestral burial grounds. However, that did not stop DAPL from beginning construction of the oil pipeline on that very land now owned by the Army Corps of Engineers. By the time I had hiked back from the construction site to my truck, the roads were open again and I was glad to be headed back to base camp. That cup of instant coffee never tasted so good.
10/23/2016 - By far today was the most intense day yet. On the heals of Saturday morning’s direct action came the shut down of the entrance and exits to the DAPL resistance camp without prior approval. I was stopped on my way back from the adjacent camp across the Cannon Ball River. The man who approached me was not someone I had met there before. He seemed a bit different, like he was prepared for conflict and in fact, had a hard time avoiding it. Interestingly, at this point, paramilitary style clothing was worn by some but not the Native Americans. These were outsiders, bearded white men with knives and wearing tans only awarded to those who have met the sun at its hottest and kept going. Men who understood checkpoints and the organizational structure to make them effective. I’ve seen these men before at other conflicts here in the USA. This is the first time I’ve seen them have to activate in this way. A surprisingly well oiled machine considering it’s running on broken down spare parts compared to law enforcement agencies. My first defense is to be assertive but nice. Honestly, this either goes over well or confuses the hell out of them. This time it went well. So well that I sat with those same guards for several hours following that incident. They were all anticipating an event that would not happen until a few days after that. However, the only thing they were wrong about was the timing.
As I bundled up under two sleeping bags and a blanket later that night, the normal drumming coming from the center of the camp did not stop at its regular hour. It went late into the night. Even more alarming was the volume and speed of the drumming. The singing was higher pitched and human voices participated in the rhythmic symphony much more frequently. It sounded like a (barely) restrained force, a rattle snake warning you that if you come closer, it meant trouble. These were the drums of war. The deep bass resonated as if it came from the underground, the earth a willing bandmate. I drifted off to sleep at some point early in the morning hours. I don’t remember exactly when, and it was not easy sleep.
10/24/2016 - The morning started out with confusion and bad noises from all sides of my truck camper. I froze in my sleeping bag for a moment and then quickly reached for my shoes and hat. The door of the camper opened with a gentle snap as the frost broke away from it. I squinted and tried to focus on what was going on all around the camp. I saw nothing out the of ordinary and walked to the port-a-potty in a bit of confused state.
The morning progressed like any other, some seemed relieved that the authorities had not raided the camp in the middle of the night. Still, a sense of tension ran through the camp amongst the people who where charged with keeping it a safe place for everyone there. I made a cup of coffee and surveyed the scene. It seemed as if everything was going to be ok for a moment and thought that it seemed like a good time to head into town to refill my supply of water and find a strong wifi connection. Having been warned of road blocks going south that were passable, I drove to the front line heading north just a couple of miles from the camp to see if it looked the same. Upon my arrival, I was informed that the due to legal liability reasons of protesters blocking the road and delaying emergency vehicles, some of the organizers were asking people to return to the south camp as the north camp was still being set up at this time. I kept walking north trying to get some idea of how passible the highway was. From what I could see, there were no immediate police checkpoints visible. I got back into my truck and took what turned out to be a one way ride into Mandan.
Almost immediately I regretted my decision. What happened next was an eye opening 15 min look at how the hammer comes down in ND. See, that’s the thing about hammers, it does not matter how old or slow they are, they all work the same. I made the one critically bad move that anyone that has had bad run-ins with the police makes when questioned, I hesitated. In hindsight, police and military road blocks have always been an issue for me. Back in 2009 I had a similar incident in Sri Lanka, however, this one was far less intense. In this instance, I was pulled over and made aware that the road leading to the camp was closed until further notice due to protesters unlawfully trespassing and creating unsafe conditions. I informed the officer that I was with the press and asked if I would be let back in. The officer simply stated that if I returned to the camp I would be trespassing and that my information will be recorded to serve as prior warning. I drove off irritated and weighing the pros and cons of an arrest and vehicle impoundment. That day, as I sat in a Hardees in Mandan, ND, I saw the first inklings of a viral news story about Standing Rock. I felt a pang of relief. Say what you will about Millennials, they are the greatest consumers of actual hard news. I knew that at the very least the world would now know what happened in Cannon Ball, ND at the start of the cold season in this fateful, agonizingly long year of our lord, 2016.
07/20/2016 Fear and Loathing in Cleveland - 9:22am, First day in Cleveland @ Denny's...
Bad coffee and overly friendly staff, the perfect start to what already appears to be a helluva 48 hours. GOP delegates sit anxiously in brown leatherette booths discussing today's schedule, barely containing their working class anger. It hangs in the air like humidity. One woman, two booths down from me, berates a customer service rep at the Quicken Loans Arena for not having the exact time Mike Pence will be speaking tonight. "I have to catch a goddamn greyhound tonight, what don't you understand about that???" She blurts out in a particularly irritating tone. The CS rep sounds remarkably calm from what I can here from her flip phone speaker.
Not the best time I've spent hovering over a grand slam.
07/20/2016 Fear and Loathing in Cleveland: 11:41 AM -
Public Square (couple of blocks from RNC)...
Tempers are rising alongside the heat index. The typical liberal freak show is at max throttle complete with diaper clad grown men writhing on the ground. Make no mistake, these folks mean to raise the blood pressure of the Trump crowd. Swarthy looking men, with more than a weeks stubble and large American flags are surrounding the man babies now. I watch from a cafe window while drinking a local IPA. It seems the best course of action at this point.
07/20/2016 Fear and Loathing in Cleveland. 1:37pm @ public square -
Very bad vibes. Completely surrounded by cops on 3 sides and pro trump protesters on the 4th. Many death threats being uttered. Ugly times.
07/21/2016 Fear and Loathing in Cleveland Day 2 - 1:58pm, Winking Lizard Bar -
I checked into my hotel around midnight last night. Woke the desk clerk who panicked and jumped up from his chair very awkwardly but relaxed when I shoved my reservation print-out in his face. I was not in a mood to be messed with. Limping, sunburnt, and exhausted from faux cheering and jeering alongside the staunch republicans that were huddled around a large, HD, television screen watching the convention speeches while I ate the largest (regular) sized sandwich ever. But then, Ted Cruz walked onstage.
I don't think I've seen a grown men and women froth at the mouth before but at the point these Republican zealots started shrieking the phrase "Say his name!!!" at the homely Texan on the HD screen, small amounts of spit formed at the edge of their twisted mouths. It was a sight to see, classic Americana 🇺🇸
Now, off to find more places to get sunburnt 👨🏽📸🌞
07/21/2016 Fear and Loathing in Cleveland Day 2 - 4:49pm, Rebol Cafe -
Very hot and humid, tempers seem raw. I was here 30 mins and a large brute of a police officer shoved me, hard. I was standing on one side of a yellow line that the police designated as a boundary point for media. I was at least a foot in from it but when the blue line wants to flex, it flexes. No use arguing with the rubes, they have no concept of civility when they are annoyed, you simply comply or suffer the pounding that follows the insubordination. It's no secret that the police view one side as far more dangerous than the other. They are correct in this, the side that thinks for itself the least is the easiest to work with, but for those that question... Well, they must be contained. Who knows if the murder of yet another unarmed black man at the hands of a cop is weighing on the minds of the police here. They can't let this get out of control. The corrections will be swift and without mercy.
07/21/2016 Fear and Loathing in Cleveland Day 2 - 10:28pm, Winking Lizard Tavern -
In a below average tavern now attempting to drown out the noise of the day. Unfortunately, Donald J Trump is screaming from 7 different television screens. Clusters of men, resembling slightly less sophisticated versions of Bevis and Butthead, slam their palms against the bar at the end of every sentence their leader utters. It's simply astonishing. Interestingly, they espouse the same views as the Bernie bros, albeit with just a slightly less poisonous hate. My guess is many of the Bernie Bros will vote for Trump. Misogynistic opportunist that saw a chance to use the vehicle of political change only because their opponent is a woman. They are the worst of men, a breed that just won't die out.
Having witnessed firsthand the type of people drawn to Trump, I fear not the greasy rube, but the educated white man. The hammer is falling and the scramble is on to see who will pay. We have deluded ourselves into thinking good intentions would ultimately win out. They won't. It is a zero sum game and progressives are loosing. Lord help us all. The "Law and Order" candidate is back, and he knows what Nixon did wrong. He won't make the same mistake.
Oregon is still the same loving place it was when I arrived so many years ago. Where so many of my family and friends are, the pace is slower, and the light just a little bit more luxurious. I arrived in Portland last Spring and left its green mountains, blue oceans, and stellar beer earlier this month to have a stint back in NYC. The contrast has been staggering on many levels but I'll just focus on the imagery for now. As I think back on the last several months I can appreciate that time and the new friends I made. Even more importantly, my family and my long standing friends are closer to me than they have ever been. What can I say? I even find love and companionship to be more my speed on the left coast. I truly love those people, that state, and the way of life. I guess I'll always be a West Coast guy and I'm ok with that! It is a special place and I'll always call it home.
Newport, Oregon - Late Summer
Portland, OR - Kelsë
Nye Beach, OR
Portland, OR - Oregon Brewfest
Portland, OR - Melissa
Newport, OR - Summer Walkabout
Newport, OR - Oregon Coast Morning Frost
Portland, OR - St. Johns Bridge (Travis and Sara Engagement Shoot)
Newport, OR - Hands
Portland, OR - Two Very Smart Children
Newport, OR - Seaside Morning Walk
Newport, OR - Light That Makes Me Miss Slide Film
Harstine Island, WA - Father and Son Musicians
Portland, OR - Phat Maximus
Portland, OR - Ballon Payment
Or something like that. The month of December was not a typical one for this intrepid photographer. A lot happened, some of it good and some of it bad. Enough happened that I needed to take the month off from posting to this website and honestly, I did not feel like taking pictures for a good bit of December. I needed to find inspiration, my soul felt on edge and I needed to find some peace. Eventually, and thanks to my wonderful soon-to-be in-laws, I found it! I had to travel, literally, to the opposite side of the country to find it. California is where I was born, it's where my first memories live, and it's where I have always felt at home. Even when I had forgotten that I loved it there, all it took was a trip back to the Golden State and the love started flowing almost as quickly as I beelined to In'N'Out for a burger. The laid-back lifestyle in Southern California was never so obvious to me as it was this time. NYC has a heartbeat that can almost make you deaf to what goes on around you. So much is happening at once here that you take it all in but act like you don't care, and really you can't care because you live in NYC and that's just life here. Jesus Christ could come back to earth tomorrow and if he came to New York he would certainly make a splash, but no more so than the Broadway hit Aladdin, or the Cronut. But in Ventura County, just a short walk from the pier, the only heartbeat you notice is your own and how in sync you are with the gently crashing waves of the Pacific Ocean. The palm trees stand at attention and line the path up and down the beach while surfers disappear into the ocean to bum rides back on foaming swells. Is it all wine and roses? No, I know life can be hard anywhere. But there is something special about California, there must be. After all, it is where the world was first introduced to me!
They called it a Nor'easter and predicted either heavy rain, or six inches of snow. No middle ground, just pure wet shivering. But this time, and perhaps only this time, I was prepared. And no, not with warm clothes or anything practical like that. I had rushed out in the days prior to this wet weather event and I aimed to capture the colors of every season but winter. In yet another surprise, it seems some New Yorkers use the cold to display bright colors with thick coats and warm hats. Normally, I see a lot of black outfits in the city.
There is something strange happening in me as my relationship with this city evolves. I'm beginning to feel it's pulse. Not always, and many times I don't know what it means, but I can feel it. And with all the sadness and violence erupting around the country, its strange that I found peace looking at NYC through a viewfinder. I've even stopped wondering in what publication I will see my byline and image splashed across. I'm the publication, and these are my images.
The cold is knocking on the door. I can hear it on the other side and I'm just not ready. This guy is just fine in the mid-thirties, but any colder and we have a problem. It's not necessarily how gold it gets, it's the prolonged exposure to the cold that grinds my gears. What can I say? I was born in sunny Southern California on what (I assume) was a hot July day. Interestingly, and perhaps predictably, this blessing of being a warm weather child is causing me to slow down when it comes to shooting pictures now. Normally, this would be annoying to me, but I think I need it, and here is why: They say you should never meet your hero. This is to keep you from being disappointed in who they really are. Just normal, average (if lucky), everyday people or things that do or did extraordinary things. New York is a legendary, almost cliche, city to be a street photographer in. There are many of us here and it's not hard to find subject to shoot, but it's hard to shoot them in a way someone else hasn't. I've always wanted my images to invite viewers into creating their own narrative of the image. Just the fact that an image I took can do that to someone else is astonishing to me! Lately, it has been harder to create images that don't feel like parlor tricks. So, it's taking me longer, I'm taking my time, and really trying to take an analog approach to my shooting. Mostly, I just pretend that the FujiFilm X100s is a Leica M2. Set everything to manual and I don't look at images right after I take them. My SD card stays in my camera for a week or two but thats about as long as roll of film can last me during slow times. I do miss film, that would make me even more slow right now and, may be an option for the future. For now, I need to worry about more pressing maters. Like where to find a warm pair of shoes and gloves.
What can I say? I'm a sucker for a dirty political campaign. The nastier, the better. I love political season for the same reason I like watching a Tarantino film. You just know something terrible is going to happen and no, you can't do anything about it except sit back and enjoy the ride. I've seen some real good ones too. Swift boats, Kenya, WMD's, and don't even get me going on the stained blue dress. I'm often confronted by people of one political leaning and asked to defend my fondness for whomever it is I am entertained by at that given moment. People think I share the same political views and ideology of these charlatans we call our elected officials. The truth is that yeah, I can see where many of these villians/heros are coming from. Hell, if I squint my eyes and stand on one leg I might even agree with parts of what they say. But I don't call myself a D or and R, I've been burned way too many times to stick my neck out that far. I do, however, love a knock down, drag out, bloody nose, call your mom, fight. Perhaps it's because I have been burned that I like to watch one of these guys go home with their tail between their legs. Some people have the Kardashians, I have the GOP.
I can't seem to wrap my brain around all that I see and hear each day. Listening to the talk on the subway, in the small eateries I have my lunch at, and around the water cooler at work can be rather perplexing. Couple that with taking a trip upstate, and consider my mind blown. There is, in fact, many different versions of New York City. Kind of like alternate universes, except that you know the other ones exist, but you either don't want to travel to them, or you can't. People with privileged backgrounds come here and "make it" while those that were already on the margins just survive and grow more and more tired as the endless days roll by. This is not a city to grow old in if you are not well taken care of. Tourists come here to feel like they are part of something bigger than they are, and for a brief weekend, they can be. Stories of the time they visited the Big Apple will be told for years to come and paint a picture for those who can not make the journey. Perhaps they are the most lucky, New York is a fantasy to them, and fantasies are always fun to think about. This city and I are still getting to know each other. It is an uneasy courtship, neither one trusting in the other just yet. Getting out of the city was helpful, I missed the fresh air and open spaces. I can't quite tell if I missed NYC, I want to tell myself I didn't. But something about all the color and peace that I found two hours up the Hudson, well… It may have been just slightly, too quaint. I'm still a west coast guy at heart but something about a gritty landscape, it just speaks to me.
Enormous buildings stand tall on both sides of the narrow street, pretentiously looking down on the tourists that come to take photos in front of doorways that lead to a world they will never be a part of. Behind the gates, guard booths, and armed police, the engine that is Wall St. burns fuel at an alarming rate. Like a run away freight train, traders on the floor of the NYSE can only guess at what lies around the next bend, and with that much horsepower screaming along a narrow track, well… They don't call it a train wreck for nothing. Oblivious to all this is the average working person. Too concerned with paying rent, buying food, and just simply surviving, we trust that these "business men" who exist behind closed doors of leering skyscrapers have our backs. It's a staggering trust that is constantly broken and then forgiven. As I wander around Wall St. on my lunch break, I run across a 1.6 million dollar Ferrari parked near the steps of the NYSE, along with a handful of other extremely high-end cars. I'm very happy when I see a vehicle like this with a race car driver behind the wheel, using every ounce of driving expertise he has to keep the massive amount of power on the road, but in the hands of a banker, its just perverse. Like a pure bred Weimaraner in a dog fight at Michael Vick's house. Who knows? Perhaps I'm jaded. Perhaps I've made too many mistakes and now I'm bitter that this world of fast cars, luxury suites, and more money than should be legal is not my reality. Truth be told, I'd be happy with just a living wage, a reliable car, and enough money for a few pints and dinner with my lady. That just sounds like crazy talk these days.
Time passes quickly when in the midst of an emotional seizure, and I could tell this was going to be a bad one that would send me into a tailspin. I knew the fear was coming on when I started asking myself deep questions while traveling on the subway. Flanked by strangers staring blankly into space (and one homeless man who soiled himself then subsequently fell asleep in his own mess), I began wondering what this was all about. Living in New York is not easy, pleasant, or even profitable for a guy like me. Was I being punished here? Was this the GOP playing games with me? Some kind of messed up Truman Show as revenge for the incident in Nevada during the last Republican Primary? How long would I have to pay for my poor judgement of mixing shrimp empanadas, dangerously large amounts of cerveza preparada, and Mitt Romney? These questions bothered me until I reached my stop at Fulton Street on the 2 train. I walked to my day job in a bit of a haze, squinting in the sun and craving good coffee. When I reached the elevator bank in my office building I punched the number 23 to get up to the call center I was tethered to for 8 hours a day. This is not where I pictured myself at this point. But, to be fair, I've rarely been where I pictured myself and I was getting used to it. It's actually why I take pictures, to prove to myself that I actually was somewhere. I tell myself it's so that other people know where I have been, and that perhaps in some way that will bring awareness, joy, concern, or change to a certain place or issue. I tell myself that all the time but I don't know if that's true, I think I just need proof that I exist. It's a compulsion, an addiction and I love it. It may be a vice, but it's mine.
I was slumped on a stool, mouthing a $0.99 slice of cheese pizza at a NYC pizza joint, feeling eerily out of place. I was trying to shake off the bad vibes from the preceding hour's observation of the much anticipated "People's Climate March", a gathering of liberal white folk smelling of patchouli mixed with Axe Body Spray. Along with the scented environmentalists, marched scores of disenfranchised brown and black people that normally would not cross paths but had a common goal here. This was a record breaking gathering of human exclamation points marching through the already congested streets of Manhattan to demand change in the global climate. But to whom were they making their demands? How would they get their message there? The UN Climate Summit is still at least a day away and as far as I know, those in attendance are not swayed by working class moans. These are all heavy questions to answer on a Sunday morning after a breakfast of old fashioned oats with no psychedelic drugs or alcohol. The cops certainly had no patience for these beatniks of a past generation marching and chanting in off key voices. I watched in horror as two giant police officers came crashing down like a hammer on a skinny hippy simply for moving his bicycle too slowly past the intersection on his way to join the March. I'm not Fucking telling you again! Move your goddamn bike or I'll break it on your face!! The police man screeched in an oddly high pitched voice for a beast of his size. No, these officers were not your run of the mill, overly optimistic traffic cops from Portland, Ore. These were veterans of the NYC Police department, hardened from years of patrolling black and Latino neighbor hoods where THEY are the criminals. The yelps and screams from the greasy haired pensioner did nothing to stem the tide of blows from long wooden nightsticks, but it did clear the intersection.
I was told Leonardo DiCaprio was leading the march but I never saw him. Perhaps he was in disguise; I understand he is known to do that. Once, while in a self proclaimed Worlds Best Bagel shop, I swore I saw him in a fake beard and glasses making out with a dwarf woman in a corner booth. Sadly, I could not get past the line of impatient customers waiting for their boiled bread and lox to verify this. I keep returning to that shop in Brooklyn Heights but no dice.
I wandered out of the pizza shop not feeling any better but at least I was feeling less hungry. On the way to the Q train I ran into Superman selling knock-off handbags on the side of the road, and why the hell not? That makes sense, right? It's what Superman would be doing if he were real. No one would pay him to save the world, no one would care that he was pure good, and quite frankly, he would just be annoying with his self-righteous babbling. So how are 300,000 people marching for change really going to make a difference? Hell if I know. What I do know is that tomorrow, this may be talked about in some circles somewhere far from here. And with any luck, those people will tell others what happened in NYC today. It's all we can ask for.
It's been one month now and Gotham has yet to spit me back out. This city has taught me many things, some by choice, most by force. The one thing about New York is that you immediately know where you stand, and you better look up if you want to move in any direction. From the moment you arrive, New York starts kicking you in the balls while asking rudely what the hell are you going to do about it?
Hell, New York is proof that sin exists in this world. Where else can a 30 minute train ride take you from the height of world power, where the richest men live in the most outlandishly opulent homes, to the lowest forms of humanity, retching from the stink of their own heinous existence and eating from garbage cans? These aren't foreign looking individuals easily forgotten by flipping on the tube either. These are good, red-blooded Americans like you and I. But every now and then, when the mood is just right, these two worlds cross over into one another. Sure, it may be only to rape each other in a blood soaked orgy of wealth versus violence, but who am I to judge? These are the moments that make a blip on the local news, get talked about for a day or so, then forgotten for the rest of time. But in these moments you can make your mark, you can change the course of time. One crushing blow to someones income, or four rounds into the chest cavity will do that. It’s all quite easy if you live in New York.
9/11, Politicians, and Elmo
Me: So politics are kinda weird in the city, right? A real circus?
Old Cranky Reporter: You have no idea...
(Then, Gov. Andrew Cuomo walks by)
I'm gonna tell you three words that changed my life as a young man. You ready? I'm about to lay them on you. You fucking ready?!? Persistence Beats Resistance.
- Street Hustler outside Madison Square Garden
Oh… You are from Portland? And you just moved to New York? Why? Oh man! Well, welcome to the big city. Don't let the rats scare you.
- Front Desk Agent in Manhattan
