I’m being interviewed by a guy who wants me to hit him. He’s an ambitious young filmmaker with a cell phone and a dream: to provoke me into a rage so he can immortalize on film the moment when I attack him. The only hitch in this fiendish plot is the fact that I already know it, and I’ve only known him for about twelve seconds. He seems blind to this though, likewise his talent for giving himself away. He’s like a misbegotten Machiavelli who manages to betray his intentions with the kind of speed and clarity that would make most dogs seem relatively mysterious on the subject of bacon.
On the other hand, when a setup looks too much like a setup, you’ve gotta figure it’s some kind of setup, just not the kind it looks like somebody’s trying to make it look like. Everybody knows that. The tricky part is figuring out what kind of trap could be waiting at the end of the double-double cross... And so far the only answer I’ve got is “none that’s worth the effort.”
So it’s either a setup by someone stupid hoping to trick someone even stupider, or an honest review by a critic who considers my art to be nothing more than vandalism. And also considers vandalism to be nothing less than murder.
Either way it’s a historic moment: after nine and a half months open-carrying free speech on the freeways with absolutely no consequence nor hassles from either civilians or the authorities, I am now feeling hassled. But when someone can spend nine and a half months posting over 1500 signs on 20 miles of freeway in a modern surveillance state (which, legal or not is still an aberration,) without once being detained or questioned by authorities? That, my friends is an amazing right to have, and it’s amazing that we all still have it. Because if as little as one tenth of one percent of us actually used it you can be damn sure a handful of assholes wouldn’t currently be taking all the rest of our rights away.
But at least for now you should consider it an honor to live in a country where a person can do that for nine and a half months entirely un-approached and unmolested. It was my honor to be that person, but no surprise my luck would end by being approached by a molester.
But I can’t say I don’t deserve it. Normally putting up 1500 signs is something I’d do between Seattle and San Diego, not Oakland and Richmond. That level of saturation goes way beyond art or even politics and into the realms of war. Especially when 90% of them are just like the one shown below.
The guy who basically just snarled at me had every right to. And he had every right to gloat because along with the partisan text, by constantly re-appearing my signs would broadcast another more irritating and possibly even more important message: “You can’t stop me.”
One thing that was evident to me and probably even more so to him was he wasn’t very physically intimidating. He was slender to medium build, about 23, with thin brown hair cut in a bowl-like manner that was unfortunate, but not nearly as bad as it could’ve been. That plus what seemed like a crooked smile gave him an impish appearance — childlike and at first glance might even be mistaken for friendly.
It was his skin more than anything that made him seem delicate: overly pale, unnaturally smooth and almost freakishly unblemished. He was an indoor cat, no doubt about it. His overall less-than-intimidating appearance made his theatrical display of hatred and disgust seem all the more suspicious and bizarre.
If you’re just tuning in, this is what you’ve missed:
Him: “Hey You! What’re you doing?”
Me: “Taking Pictures.”
Him (suddenly seething with hostility and contempt): “Are you the one who keeps putting all that shit up there?”
Me (indifferent): “One of them.”
Considering the hash of things he’d been making so far in just the few seconds we’d been acquainted, he managed to pull off the following rant remarkably well. It was overly hostile and contemptuous, which of course was for the sake of the film, but otherwise it sounded fairly sincere and spoken with the kind of authority that’s absolutely crucial to this form of oratory.
Him: “‘Cuz I don’t know whatever the fuck it is you think you’re doing but it’s just a bunch of motherfucking bullshit vandalism people are fucking sick and tired of looking at all your pussy faggot garbage cuz you’re gonna get your fucking ass kicked and you fucking better know that right?”
Bear in mind the wording is mostly guesswork on my part. His version had two more “vandalism”s in it, but it’s an unwieldy word that I couldn’t make work in rant format. (The fact that he could and I couldn’t turned out to be useful figuring some of this out later.) But all in all, a fine and relatively believable delivery and I’m sure there are people out there who might’ve responded by muttering “Why I oughta...” or “Oh yeah, we’ll just see about that!” while rolling up their sleeves, going out into the middle of the street and showing him a thing or two about what’s what. But I doubt it’s much of a percentage, and even without forewarning it certainly wouldn’t have included me. Apparently this fellow thought otherwise: that after such a dressing down my attack was not only inevitable but also so imminent it demanded evasive actions be taken immediately.
He began doing what I’ll just call “the dance.” It was a random series of steps and dodges, forwards, backwards and laterally. Rarely more than two steps in any direction, it was mostly fluid, but sometimes jerky on the laterals when he’d fake one way before moving the other. He kept his phone pointed at me with his eyes fixed to the screen, doing his best to keep me in frame despite all the extra motion. At first I found myself hoping — borderline desperately — that this was all for the sake of some cinematic effect. From where I stood on the sidewalk, still some thirty feet away, it just looked silly and incomprehensible. It didn’t appear to be threatening really, at least not in any conventional sense. But this is at least the third time I’ve found myself staring at this guy, wondering what the fuck he’s doing and thinking there’s no way it possibly be what I think it is. I think I recognize it as what you’re supposed to do to confuse some kind of predatory animal — something I must’ve seen as a child — and I’m not sure, but I think it was for an alligator or a bear.
But I know also that if you’re on a bicycle and being chased by a dog you’re supposed to slalom from side-to-side since they mirror the movements of whatever they’re chasing so lots of lateral motion helps by tiring them out.
It has to be dogs, because now I’m finally taking the time to picture a giant bear anywhere in the vicinity the idea that breaking into some rinky-dink two-step was going to be some kind of ace-in-the-hole was actually pretty stupid. So I keep watching this guy dance around while I just stand there basically dumbfounded and I notice he’s added jumping to his repertoire, and while he’s still holding the phone, he’s no longer trying to compensate for his motions or even paying attention to what it’s filming. And finally pockets it to raise both arms in fists and begins shadowboxing. Finally it all comes together…
I’m not really a Led Zeppelin fan, at least by the standards of my generation, but I know a good song when I hear it, and Kashmir is a damn good song. It’s become what I hear in my head when the scales fall from my eyes: All will be revealed… It was the phone. The phone was like the sand covering the Rosetta Stone of his fists as well as the bounce-stepping and jumps that are so crucial to this particular dance. And finally a bit of eye-contact, for shadowboxing is a dance that probably more than any other is intended more for invitation than observation.
I returned the gesture by raising a fist in solidarity punctuated with a little swing in a Go get ‘em Tiger! display that was not at all what he was after, but did make for a nice farewell gesture. I began to walk away knowing it would never work.
”Hey, wait a minute! Where you going?”
Fuck. Knew it. “I’m sorry. You had more questions?”
”Yeah. Why do you put up those signs?”
“I’ve read the Mueller Report. And the first amendment. And I believe that citizens have a Duty to Warn.”
“That’s Vandalism.”
“Oh. Bummer.”
Since short form answers aren’t dissuading him, I take my time answering when he asks how I make the signs. I can get real pedantic if I have to, and trust me: you wouldn’t like me when I’m pedantic. But he struck back with a hard-hitting: “How come you’re such a fuckin’ Loser?”
I pause to reflect on the question because there are several ways it could be answered. I opt for “warm conviviality” and with a hearty, sagacious chuckle shake my head and confess “God, I wish I knew...” in the way one might say “Y’know, if I had a nickel for every time…”
This was followed by a few introductory observations on the nature and ubiquitousness of self-doubt and some of its possible applications from an evolutionary perspective, and long after the smile has run from his face, “You know, none less than the poet Virgil suffered a crisis of confidence towards the end of his life...” followed by an inspiring 90 second anecdote I cheerfully stretched out to four minutes. I don’t think anyone’s ever told a Virgil anecdote with as much simultaneous warmth and underlying menace. Ending with the sincerest hopes he’d remember it in times of crisis, and be able to draw from it the same comfort I had, I could’ve easily segued into any number of tales of personal challenges and attending reflections, but that would’ve been like re-bombing Hiroshima later on the same week. Instead I asked “Next question?” with the kind of cheerful enthusiasm that said: We’re on my turf now motherfucker — you wanna keep fucking with me, go right on ahead, because you’re about to enter a world of passive-aggressive hurt.
I knew his next question was just another invitation to punch him rather than serious psycho-linguistic inquiry, but it did raise some interesting questions regarding the influence of the Oedipal Complex as manifest in the lexicons of various homosexual subcultures. While I’m sure my pseudo-intellectual musings did little to answer his original question of why I talked like such a mother-fucking faggot, it taught him a valuable lesson regarding the importance of using precision in language.
You wouldn’t believe how long this went on, or that he was actually shocked when I finally told him I knew what he was trying to do. With the gloves officially off, he went into a six minute version of a song and dance that has no name but I’m sure you’ll recognize by the lyrics:
“Don’t you want to fight? Huh? Huh? Ya little pussy. What’s wrong you motherfuckin’ faggot. What kind of pussy are you? Fuckin’ loser. Ya fuckin’ pussy...? Don’t you want to fight? Huh? What’s wrong?”
Depending on how you parse things semantically, the number of direct provocations, insults, demands that I fight went into the hundreds. And I’m proud, I think, to say they all went unaddressed. In the end he was reduced to trying to steal my camera, the way bullies do, as if it’s actually some kind of game. So it would’ve been around his 15th attempt that he was almost successful, but I grabbed it back in no uncertain terms. In doing so, the camera glanced off either his cheek or jaw with roughly the same impact as a golf ball dropped from between 8 and 14 inches.
His eyes went wide at the sheer audacity of the affront, and he did what he could to proclaim his victimhood. But he was so exhausted from dancing around like he was Muhammed Ali and calling me a pussy, faggot, loser etc. so many times with nothing to show for it, I guess he really felt like he needed a win.
How I managed to finally ditch him is a funny story, but it’ll have to wait for next time. Next time I’ll get to the point of all this, because I really do have a decision to make, and I’d like your help. In the meantime I’ll just leave this as a teaser. That’s my picture, blocked out is my license plate, The Oakland PD Assault Division’s phone # and the case number from an actual complaint.
The case hasn’t been made active yet, or assigned a detective, and I’m pretty sure they intend to ignore it, and everyone I’ve spoken to says I should too. The reasons given are all based on self-preservation and having as little to do with a highly demonstrable lunatic as I possibly can. Likewise, that there’s nothing to be gained from it is also true, and trust me, doing nothing’s fine with me.
I can’t help but wonder though, even knowing everything you do, if given the choice between me or the lunatic who had to Massively lie to the cops, who would America want to be their President?
And God, if you knew how badly I want to see that complaint, because I can guarantee he didn’t mention anything about having film.