Hey all. This is my last post here at Medicine. I had a great time writing about dumb shit for the past 8 or so months. Thanks to John for giving me such a great experience in cyberspace.
I started a new site with Inigo, Jeff N, and a few others called Shiite Happens. (Below is the first post.) For now, it will be a political, arts, and culture blog with a young-ish voice, much like Medicine, but with more original video content. We’ll have a redesign and hopefully our own url soon. Please ignore the generic design for now. There won’t be any ads or commercial aspect and it will operate as a cooperative. We’re looking for writers, so give me a shout at wormetheperm {at} hotmail(.)com if you’d like to contribute.
Anyway, I’ve been out in Denver and Minneapolis for the Conventions with Inigo Gilmore, a filmmaker friend. And tomorrow we’re going moose hunting in Alaska. Despite our being robbed twice over the past two weeks, a video diary of the RNC was still able to be cut for Britain’s Channel 4. Note the shot of Inigo getting shot at by police (with rubber bullets of course) during a riot in St Paul.
Sarah Palin and the Re-Rise of the Republicans: An RNC Diary
1
I’m in Minneapolis, having arrived from Denver on Sunday night. With me: Inigo Gilmore, a British journalist and filmmaker who recently relocated to New York after a year’s stint in Bangkok for Channel 4 UK. That morning, we’d awoken to find our rented SUV had been broken in to, and someone had stolen the tapes from Obama’s stadium coronation. The video and still cameras were safe, but everything else—chargers, bags, tripod, batteries—gone.
So our arrival at the Republican Convention came without glory. Luckily we were staying at a nice loft in downtown St. Paul, just blocks from the Xcel Center. To forget about our Denver loss, we trekked across St. Paul’s quaint downtown looking for a bar. It’s 10m. The bars, which normally close at 2am, are supposedly open until 4am all week, but few people are out.
“The thing about St Paul is that it’s only a few hundred thousand people,” says the local who’s guiding us. “It may be the smallest city to ever hold a national Convention.”
We stop at a dive-y bar on 7th Ave, St Paul’s pedestrian mall. Neon beer signs dangle on the windows. Dart boards and pool tables are visible inside. Sitting outside, we realize 20 or so Texas delegates surround us. Clustered around two pitcher strewn tables, the Texans meet every cliche: loud, foul mouthed, cross bearing, light beer loving, and cigar chomping. They wear orthopedic shoes, unrevealing dresses, snakeskin, denim…
Our next stop was another bar filled with boozing Texas delegates. Third stop: booze, Texans. Later, we even stumble on a hotel with a sign reading, “WELCOME TEXAS DELEGATION! Crowne Plaza Hotel…”
Aside from cowboy hats and generic clothing, what else did these Texans have in common? A shockingly passionate love for Ron Paul and his post-libetarianism. Few of the Texans we meet even like John McCain.
“We support McCain because we are Republicans,” one says. “But Ron Paul is beyond partisian politics.” Then comes a detailed Paul “Revolution”-ary spiel, which I block out. Yet as Convention eve came to a close, the Paul insurgency made clear that this year’s GOP was indeed a fractured party.
2
Monday. The Twin Cities got hit by twin bombshells. First, due to Hurricane Gustav, day one of the Convention was canceled, meaning no President Bush. Second, Sarah Palin, the dark horse Alaskan Governor McCain chose for VP, has a 17-year-old pregnant daughter. Some Convention so far, eh GOP? No opening night and so much for the whole family values and no sex before marriage thing.
Around noon we hear about a anti-war protest. Venturing from the loft, on 4th Street, up a block or two, we quickly realize this is no mere protest. On a street corner stood fifty plus cops in full riot gear—helmets, bulging pads, gas masks, sticks and tazers at the ready. The police surround about twenty black-clad, masked anarchists. The anarchos are backed against a building and all have their hands up, but they yell to the few onlookers and journalists on hand.
“We did nothing!” one kid in googles yells.
“These are our streets!” they chant.
A few blocks away we spot a beat-up blue Volvo blocking a major intersection connecting St Paul to the highway that leads to Minneapolis. About two dozen cops cordon the area. Inside the car I see a black clad youth chained to the steering wheel. A big yellow forklift arrives. I hear a buzzsaw. The cops are cutting the anarchist out of the car. Once he’s been removed and arrested, the forklift removes the car and dumps it on a grass lot.
Pushing further downtown we cross paths with about two hundred “direct action” folks. They even have a trance/techno soundtrack (c/o a red wagon with a stereo and “Funk the War” signs). But the mostly black wearing bandana crew seem confused as to where they’re headed.
“C’mon, this way,” yells one.
“No, this way,” shouts another, who eventually wins out.
But the confusion ends when it comes to the marchers’ intent. These folks want nothing short of destruction of the capatilist state. I’ve witnessed a few dozen riots in my day—mostly sports related—but I’ve never seen such a long, uncontested orgy of smashed windows, popped tires, trash can flipping, road blocking, and wreckage. Inigo captures a long shot of people running up the road by a big Macy’s, where a black woman sits on a bench smiling, Macy bags at her feet. Just then, two anarchists charge from behind with a metal grate. It takes a few tries, but they smash the windows.
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