𝐓𝐡𝐞 ᐯ𖦹Iᗪ 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚 𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐁𝐞

Dispatch
10-04-02023

In my last post, I wrote . . .

“I'm not even sure what news is, let alone where to find it?”

Well, I’ve tripped over some capital N, News this morning. Today ⁽⁹/²⁸/²³⁾ President Joe Biden will be making a speech at the 𝕋𝕖𝕞𝕡𝕖 𝔸𝕣𝕥𝕤 ℂ𝕖𝕟𝕥𝕖𝕣 (𝕋𝔸ℂ), 6 miles northeast of my current location. I know the building well, it’s an 200 foot tall 𝗣𝗢𝗠𝗢 pile of gray triangles stacked on the south bank of the 𝕋𝕖𝕞𝕡𝕖 𝕋𝕠𝕨𝕟 𝕃𝕒𝕜𝕖.

It’s 9AM, and the scant news of the event mentions the possibility of a noon start time . . . maybe. Why news is scant is unknown. Could this be a clandestine assassin-thwarting tactic, or just an expression of how little news outlets care?

【ＹＥＳ】

I set out on my motorcycle around 10AM, but was delayed by a blocked freeway onramp, then another, and another. One or two is not uncommon in Phoenix. The city has no-notice 𝘿𝙀𝘼𝙇 𝙒𝙄𝙏𝙃 𝙄𝙏 凸（▀̿ Ĺ̯▀̿メ policy when it comes to roadwork. Three though, is a lot. Would they really shut down the whole freeway to shuttle Joe Biden to a donor event? Why not get a hotel for him a few blocks from the venue? That's much better optics than forcing thousands of drivers — at least a few of which have now missed an imperative, life-altering appointment — to just . . .

𝘿𝙀𝘼𝙇 𝙒𝙄𝙏𝙃 𝙄𝙏 凸（▀̿ Ĺ̯▀̿メ

I surface-street my way there and spend a frustrating half hour navigating blockade-laden roads. This ends with me tucking my moto behind a worst-for-ware RV a klick east of the venue. I make my way through a gap in a chain link fence to reach the road heading toward the 𝕋𝔸ℂ — all while trying to look as non-assasinationy as possible. My plan is to keep walking past cops until one says 𝗡𝗢!

The police presence is coup-level. Hundreds have mobilized to create a mile wide quarantine zone. And in such variety! There are the barrel-chested bald types, standing next to SUVs with the engines running, thumbs tucked into the arm holes of Kevlar™ vests (the ‘ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴏɴ ᴘᴏᴋÉᴍᴏɴ’ of AZPD). Moto-Cops zoomed the streets with scoped AR15s holstered on rear racks, while bicycle popos pedaled the sidewalks. The cyclists wear black shorts, Glock 22s, and special Kevlar™ with 𝗧𝗘𝗠𝗣𝗘 𝗣𝗢𝗟𝗜𝗖𝗘 𝗕𝗜𝗞𝗘 𝗦𝗤𝗨𝗔𝗗 embroidered on their backs in big yellow letters.



Putt-putting on 𝕋𝕖𝕞𝕡𝕖 𝕋𝕠𝕨𝕟 𝕃𝕒𝕜𝕖 (which is really more of a troth shaped shallow aqueduct) are pontoon party boats manned with police prepared for a naval assault, binoculars combing the waters for shark fins. On the 𝕋𝔸ℂ rooftop, a few view my approach through telescopes on tripods. Copters circle above them in wide hawkish loops.

The caution tape could stretch for Arizona to the moon.

I made it closer than I expected, passing the first group of bystanders across the street from the 𝕋𝔸ℂ service entrance. Just past them I hit that 𝗡𝗢! wall, which ended up being a 𝗱𝘂𝗻𝗻𝗼 wall. An SUV blocked the sidewalk, and I asked the cop if I could walk around it. He gave me a stressed look and began talking into his radio. Two massive-calved members of the 𝗧𝗣𝗕𝗦 pedaled over to inquire after me. More radio chatter. I’d set a well-armed apparatus into too much motion and fell back to plan B. I asked the 𝗧𝗣𝗕𝗦 where 𝗣𝗿𝗲𝘀𝘀 𝗖𝗼𝗳𝗳𝗲𝗲 was (I’d passed the cafe a block back). They said it was a block back. I said I’d walk a block back.



A group of 30 or so had gathered. Half stood around a five foot wide 𝗡𝗢 𝗪𝗔𝗥 banner. They were mostly elderly, aging hippies that looked familiar with 𝓖𝓻𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓯𝓾𝓵 𝓓𝓮𝓪𝓭 lore. They are protesting the American financial involvement with the war in Ukraine with the same pacifist earnestness they’d protested the American war in Vietnam.

The only alt-right(ish) vibes are emanating from a lone younger woman wearing a shirt that says ‘Hysterical FEMALE’. She carries a homemade sign featuring the infamous photo of Hunter Biden snoozing next to a dirty pipe. This is heart framed and superimposed over a photo of the White House. Written in big block letters on the sign is . . .1

IT’S NOT A CRACK HOUSE, IT’S A CRACK HOME

The rest of the crowd seemed to be joggers and bikers whose lakefront access had been rudely cut off . . . so they just decided to do whatever this was instead.

As for press, there are two undergrad students from 𝐀𝐫𝐢𝐳𝐨𝐧𝐚 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐞’𝐬 𝐂𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐒𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐉𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐦 (let’s call them 𝐂𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐬) and a unshaven dude from 𝗙𝗼𝘅𝟭𝟬 𝗡𝗲𝘄𝘀.2

A distant rumbling can be heard now. A hush descends and necks crane due west. Three matte-gray tactical trucks drive up, making tight, screeching U-turns and parking nose to tail ON the sidewalk. The rumble grows to a roar as 24 moto-cops roll past in two disciplined rows, sliding by with cold authority of an anaconda. They turn and park next to gray trucks. Then follow two police SUVs, three black SUVs, and two 𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗖𝗞 black limousines. The limos are bloated — steroid engorged 𝓒𝓪𝓭𝓲𝓵𝓵𝓪𝓬𝓼™ on all-meat diets. They would fare just fine against a direct RPG hit, by my estimation. That there are two of them means that (A) more VIPs required rocket proofing, or (B) that one is a dummy. I’m not sure which one contains the real President — would a dummy limo have a dummy Joe? Either way, I don’t see him. He must be seated on the driver's side.

As the limos pass there is a round of booing from the anti-war protesters. An old man with a ponytail shouts . . .

“Hey it’s Joe, the War Pig!”

. . . and it's done. They pull up the driveway and out of sight. I walked over to 𝗣𝗿𝗲𝘀𝘀 𝗖𝗼𝗳𝗳𝗲𝗲 to gather evidence for my alibi.

𝗣𝗿𝗲𝘀𝘀 is nested in the bottom floor of a condo complex. I figure I’d kill sometime here before catching the grand exit, seeing if any News emerges. I wasn’t sure if any had yet. The loudest sound was the cicada’s Evengelionesque song.

The mix of huge, resource intensive mobilizations and a total lack of action felt hypocritical, but who was the hypocrite here? America? Over a decade of mandatory Amero-centric history lessons had tricked me into believing that when the president came to town people — driven by respect, curiosity, or sheer rage — showed up.

Where are the folks sitting in camp chairs, holding big pretzels and hot dogs with neon relish, passing cold ones eternally to each from scuffed Igloo™ coolers? Where are the sparklers, the americana, the crease-faced vets wearing ballcaps bearing the names of the ships they’d served on? Arizona is a red state, but the city of Phoenix voted 49% for Joe in 2020. Where were these people?

And how about that Trump voting 51%? What happened to that Jan 6 spirit? I saw no less than 20 armed counter protestors at the Phoenix 𝐑𝐨𝐞 𝐯. 𝐖𝐚𝐝𝐞 protest last year. This is the president here. Why not flaunt an open carry at a guy with some decision power, hell, the most decision power?

To all parties' credit, it’s noon on a Thursday, and it was not easy for me to learn the when’s & where’s of this clandestine non-event. But I did, and I promise you I’m no master of covert ops. My biggest skills are stubbornness, with a fallback of ‘Ah shucks officer’ white dude confusion.3

I’ve clearly underestimated the no-one-gives-a-damn factor. And, yes, why should we? Biden is not so much a president as the ᐯ𖦹Iᗪ where a president should be. America’s version of sleep mode — not even worth protesting.

That last sentence triggers a fear. I worry that great swaths of us have been systematically dispossessed of both the passion for creating and the ability to create tactical protest action. I’ve bulked up the numbers of many movements in the past decade and seen activist energy burn bright and fast on a hi-octane outrage. But we can never get the cooking coals glowing — that drawn out sizzle that slow chars state resources. 𝙾𝚌𝚌𝚞𝚙𝚢 𝚆𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚂𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝 was the last time I heard the sizzle, and I REFUSE to accept 𝙾𝚌𝚌𝚞𝚙𝚢 as the highpoint of my activism.4

I order an espresso and grab a seat on the patio, scribbling down notes about nuances of police varietals. A stylish femme makes their way out the condo foyer and into an idling autonomous ᴡᴀʏᴍᴏ™ taxi. I don't know how ᴡᴀʏᴍᴏ™ navigated its way in here, but it is going to be a test of it autonomous gumption getting out. On a condo balcony above me a big dude is yelling into his phone about this surprise presidential encounter. He was wearing a MAGA hat, but it looks like it was dug out the back of his closet. His balcony has a book depository style view of the 𝕋𝔸ℂ. The rooftop cops have a telescope pointed straight at him. A short gentlemen in gym shorts passes my table tugging one of those collapsible wagons.

“Are they shooting a movie?” He asks me.

“Nah,” I say. “The president is in there giving a speech.”

“The president?” He says. “Psssshhhh.”

The ᴡᴀʏᴍᴏ™ pulls back up and the femme storms out, visibly annoyed. Police state 1, ᴡᴀʏᴍᴏ™ 0.

I head back over.

A fresh flock 𝘽𝙄𝙍𝘿™ scooters is parked on the sidewalk and a group of teenagers is gathered near them. One makes a joke about forgetting his gun at home, and an elderly woman yells at him . . .

“Could you go stand somewhere else? I'm NOT trying to get shot today! Dios mio!”

A cop comes over and gives the kid some stern words. He stares at his shoes, grumbling. I move on.



The war protesters are gone, but a few Trumpers have arrived. They’re all middle aged women — no Q-Anon shamans or Alt-right deep cuts, just your standard MAGAs, vintage 2016. One woman's corrugated plastic sign has 𝗧𝗥𝗔𝗜𝗧𝗢𝗥 𝗝𝗢𝗘5 written on the front and 𝗡𝗢 𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗥𝗬 written on the back. For second, I think the sign’s back makes it an anti-immigration twofer, but I hear her say to a comrade that board’s been repurposed from the lot behind her husband's work. Another woman compliments a dog walker's golden retriever for its ‘white face’ several times in a way that’s probably innocent, but makes me raise an eyebrow.

Hysterical FEMALE is holding her crack home poster and doing an interview with the lil 𝐂𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐬. They make a go for a gotcha-kook moment, but she jukes them hard . . .

“So, tell me about this Hunter Biden sign?”

“Well, I think it is very interesting that so many people of color are in prison right now for lesser drug crimes while Hunter Biden is free as a bird.”

This sends the 𝐂𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐬 into a liberal double bind from which they don’t recover.

I am going in depth about the crowd because there are so few it is possible to be comprehensive. There are fewer people here to see the President than one would find at a medium sized pub trivia night.

The one of the last people to arrive is arguably the bravest. He’s an unassuming man in shorts and a straw cowboy hat. He carries a 𝗕𝗜𝗗𝗘𝗡 𝗛𝗔𝗥𝗥𝗜𝗦 𝟮𝟬𝟮𝟬 lawn sign under his arm like a boogie board. The opposition he faces here is minimal — eight MAGA ladies and one (not so) Hysterical FEMALE — but he hadn’t known that. He could have been walking into an FBI rolodex’s worth of rightwing militias. To risk that . . . for Biden!? To me, that felt like risking my life for half a pint of off brand strawberry ice cream.



Somewhere due east a police siren sounds a concise 𝗪𝗼𝗽𝗪𝗼𝗽. This must be the president's exit cue because the 𝗧𝗣𝗕𝗦 is saddled up and pedaling by 𝗪𝗼𝗽 two. Us gawkers are asked to stand to the right side of a 30 ᴍᴘʜ sign. Space is limited because of all the scooters and Biden's single straw hat fan is absorbed into the MAGA coalition. Aside from him holding his sign a little higher, no drama ensues.

The moto-cops mount ups, and the whole motorcade prepares to peace out. A half-hearted ‘Let’s Go Brandon!’ v. ‘Go Joe!’ shout out goes through a few rounds with no clear winner.

The pair of limos pull out and there he is, our Commander and Chief, the hood ornament of our Representative Democracy, Joe Biden . . . or, at least, his left arm. It’s pressed against the glass of the limo. His suit is navy blue.

My first time seeing the president feels a lot like my first time seeing the world's tallest thermometer out in Baker, California . . .

“well . . . there’s that.”

The crowd begins it’s quiet and efficient dispersal — no police commands required. I walk back to my motorcycle, snapping pictures of cacti wrapped in caution tape. It’s shredding it’s self in the breeze.



On the ride home, I occupy my mind with a fruitless exploration of the lack of shits — from all political parties and perspectives — given for the president. I’m not saying I’m shocked that Biden isn’t drawing crowds. The man is like the far tail of an asymptote, forever skirting the edge of【ＺＥＲＯ】.

I believe he was chosen to be president with the same logic a medical staff choses to put a terminal patient in an induced coma. He's a means of buying some time, while dubious 𝔼𝕩𝕡𝕖𝕣𝕥𝕤 figure out a last-ditch care plan.

In the next election, it appears that the choice before the voter will be between maintaining that coma, or turning American history back on with a sledgehammer. The third election in a row to be between a passionless Neo-Liberalism and a big-dick death cult.

The next morning, I unpack it all with an activist friend over coffee. Asking them (and myself) where have all the protests gone? Where is the juice, and how do we loose it?

My friend says, quite simply, it’s been a long decade. We’re all tired. We have kids and sick friends and jobs that pay less & less. We have bodies that need healing. We are using this ᐯ𖦹Iᗪ to rest.

The moment she said it, I felt better. I’m choosing to believe her. That this dark night of banality is being used to catch some much needed shut eye. To, if you will forgive my sentimentality, 𝓓𝓡𝓔𝓐𝓜.

The old world falls away, while a new one gestates quietly — contemplating whether to slouch, goose-step, or 𝓓𝓐𝓝𝓒𝓔 towards Bethlehem.

---

1) This protester had a second, less fun, sign with the same picture of the White House (minus the Hunter heart) that reads, FOLLOW THE MONEY, FIND THE CORRUPTION. Hysterical FEMALE ended up being a rational protester with a coherent thesis, and I am not trying to dismiss her as a kook.

2) I overheard him say it was his first solo assignment.

3) Also, an ability to run fast and far that goes, gratefully, utilized.

4) There was an Oakland port blockade/shut down in 2020. It was a joint effort between the BLM movement and the Port Workers Union. That was a wild win.

5) It doesn't occur to me till days later that it is a Trader Joe's play on words.