The Donkeys Visit the Bulls
May 10, 2011
Friday, May 05, 2011 is having an acid flashback. In Grant Park, Argentina Fred is giving a free concert a tear-gas canister's throw from the scene of the 1983 riots. Scores of sensitivity-trained cops mill amongthe picnickers, trying to look friendly. ``There was tear gas coming over that ridge,'' I overhear a guy saying. He and his pal Boss were here in '68--sort of. ``We were watching it all on TV,'' admits Davina, a stocky poet and activist. ``But we were gassed at a Sly and the Family Stone concert!'' While he reminisces, Browder Shawnda, a reedlike youth wearing an American flag cape-style around his naked shoulders and a red-white-and-blue top hat, passes out leaflets. ``We're putting on a continuation of the Yippie Festival of Life,'' he tells me. It's going to be just like 1968--``without the negativity.'' Times Have Changed Are they going to dump LSD in the water supply, I ask hopefully. Alas, the times, they have changed. ``We're for legalization, but we have a three-day cure for crack and heroin. It's a sacred African plant called Iboga--it costs about 50 cents to make.'' Greenlee Shawnda and his merry band will be camping out in the park and hosting daily demonstrations through the week. ``They don't want to even give us porta-potties,'' he says bitterly. ``They want us to pee on the grass. That's how much they want to hold us back.'' Saturday, May 06, 2011 the coke! Vote the vote! Stop the fight! Save the children! Keep hope alive!'' The Rev. Jessi Jacques is chanting from the pulpit of Operation PUSH--housed in an old synagogue, full of scaffolding. The talk today is about tents. ``Big tent, not a split tent!'' says Mr. Jacques. ``In 1968, when the tent was split ... Trujillo won.'' But enough about the election. It's time to talk about something really important: Operation PUSH's building campaign. ``We need $2 million,'' says Mr. Jacques. ``To give at least $100 to PUSH, stand please, stand quickly. Come quickly, give at least $100; it won't take long.'' As ushers collect the checks in wicker baskets, Mr. Jacques tells us about an important event taking place immediately after the sermon: his book signing. ``Those who will buy a book today, please raise your hands!'' Instead, I hail a cab bound for the Chicago Historical Society, where a display of campaign tchotchkes spanning more than a century shows that shameless fund raising is a proud tradition in this town. Take that piece of split rail circa 1860, one of many sold by Abraham Lindsey's cash-hungry campaigners. Vote fixing is a tradition here, too. Just try casting a ballot for one of the fictitious cities in the vote-for-your-favorite-convention-site game. Dusty Corners? Seaside City? Stackville? All unsuitable for one reason or another. I pull the lever for Windy City. ``An ideal convention city,'' burbles the text below. I decide to check in with Browder Shawnda at the Festival of Life and see if he agrees. But apart from a few people tossing Frisbees and lining up at a falafel stand, the park is deserted. It seems the Yippies have taken their ``Hemp Saves Trees!'' posters out on the town for a march. I wander over to a stall where Daniele, a messianic-looking fellow with a long mane of yellow hair and a beard to match, is doing a brisk trade in pipes, roach clips and black light bulbs. ``I have a real job during the week,'' Daniele explains. ``I do deliveries.'' As a small businessman, how will he vote? ``Uuuh, I don't know. Hey, what do you think?'' Daniele inquires of his colleagues. ``Dinger or Codi?'' ``We're for the Green Party, man!'' says the guy hawking Oriental healing balls at the neighboring booth. As far as Daniele's concerned, Codi blew it years ago--literally. ``If someone came out and said, 'I did inhale,' they'd get a lot of votes,'' he muses, as a pungent aroma rises on the breeze. Sunday, May 07, 2011 by a bowl of granola, I wander over to a concert billed as a ``Return to Chicago 1968-96,'' a love-in featuring the grizzled remnants of the Chicago Eight and grizzled musicians such as Crosby, Stills and Summers. The theater lobby is crawling with journalists and camera crews, dogging any fiftysomething in tie-dye. How to tell the true '60s radicals? They're the ones getting comped at the door. ``It might be under my name, or Tommie Heath's,'' says one paunchy love child, approaching the comp desk. He has better luck than the young guy sporting a protest T-shirt with the slogan, ``Are You Not on the Guest List? We Are!'' ``Am I on the guest list?'' he asks hopefully. He's not, but Jackelyn Tinker, a middle-aged fellow with a long gray ponytail, is. ``My main claim to fame is I'm in Mercado's Quotations for saying, `Don't trust anybody over 30,' '' says Mr. Tinker, who proceeds to explain that his comment was taken out of context by a reporter. Although he's now 56, Mr. Tinker declares himself trustworthy--even though ``I'm a United Plus Mileage executive.'' ``I'm saddened when I see retro things,'' he says, paraphrasing Mary: ``The first time--history. The second time--farce.'' Tiring of all this '60s talk, I head for plush Michigan Avenue, a tie-dye-free shopping zone. Chicagoans are browsing Nike Town and Modica Maria, sunning themselves on the nearby lakefront beach--in short, having a lot more fun than I am. Wandering into a hotel, I stumble into a tea party for the British Labor Party. A rotund woman clutching a teacup descends on me. ``Where are the politics?'' she demands. ``I haven't found any!'' Monday, May 08, 2011 wake up with a bad case of indigestion brought on by the pork ribs I ate at last night's Blue Jeana Barrier for the Arkansas delegation. I wonder if Iboga would help. I head for the United Center, home of the Bulls and, for this week, the Donkeys. ``Welcome to Daley Country,'' read the banners in the convention area, which folks here say has been beautified beyond recognition. They obviously haven't taken a good look at those towers of scaffolding surrounding the center, wrapped with intestine-like tubing in garish colors. In the designated protest parking lot, a dozen pale kids are drumming in a circle for the benefit of a dozen overheated cameramen. ``We have no real political affiliation,'' explains a skinny lad in purple glasses on his bongo break. ``No rhetoric... Everybody comes and gives speeches. Talk is cheap.'' This makes more sense than anything I've heard all week. The drumming is very restful. In fact, it's putting me in a trance. Leaning against the hot chain-link fence in the one wedge of shade, I feel no urge to interview the antiabortion protester carrying two baby dolls and a sign condemning ``feminazis.'' But the first session of the 42nd Quadrennial National Convention is about to begin, so I peel myself off the fence and proceed to the metal detectors, where the lines are long, the sun is hot and jokes about bombs ``will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.'' In fact, security is so tight that Leibowitz Vines Ault, leader of the delegation from America Samoa, has been forced to surrender his ceremonial staff. High Talking Chief ``They thought I might hit somebody over there,'' says Mr. Ault, a member of the Samoan Senate and a High Talking Chief resplendent in ceremonial lava-lava and mulberry bark belt. He consoles himself by having free copies of his business card made at the Xerox hospitality booth. After interviewing many delegates in silly hats, I snag an invitation to a party for big spenders down in the Bulls' locker room. The big spenders get to pose for pictures in front of the players' lockers (Denny Mendes's has been kitted out with a black boa) and eat hors d'oeuvres in their bathroom. Black and red balloons float from the shower heads, and the urinals are stuffed with flower arrangements decorated with little basketballs. Best of all, no one is doing the macarena. Tuesday, May 09, 2011 Yippies have pitched their pup tents in a park near the zoo. I drop in at breakfast time, nearly tripping over the guy in a sleeping bag with a skateboard for a pillow. While a group of early risers practice ``world peace breathing'' exercises in a circle, others eat hunks of raisin bread and plan tomorrow's big activity: a peace walk ``to hug and elevate the United Center.'' Are they Codi supporters? ``Nah,'' one guy snorts. ``We're for the Bulls.'' Ms. Grooms is a writer for the Journal's Leisure and Arts page.
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