1. The Daily Routine, Alarm Clocks Are Satan In A Box, and The Bay Area’s Complex
I was torn violently from the gentle blanket of sleep by the piercing screech of the alarm, amplified to a staggering degree by the throbbing in my head. My eyes practically burned, and the walls screamed at me as I rolled onto my stomach, arms flailing wildly for the “off” button. There was no positive spin possible to make this scenario seem pleasant, and I refuse to extoll the virtues of an alarm clock screech; there is none. A wino beating pots and pans in your ear, graphically detailing his intentions to sodomize you would be preferable to the god-forsaken hell screech of an alarm clock.
That being said, perhaps it isn’t enough. I’ve slept through an alarm many times, and it’s genuinely surprising that this specific morning was an exception. Coming to terms with the hangover, I forced myself from bed to begin the standard morning ritual. Coffee, smoke, breakfast. Clockwork is healthy, and even the most crazed, manic individuals can benefit from a standard morning routine; a break from the chaotic hell of day-to-day living. Clothes on, shower taken, breakfast consumed, I made my way to the door. The sun slapped me in the face, though hung over or not, stepping out my door and facing the city has always been the equivalent of a kick to the balls. Then again, this is California, and even living in the country is intentionally exposing oneself to rampant pretention and the worst in people. I’m sure I’m no exception to this.
The Bay Area as a whole, while not as bad as Los Angeles, is a unique kind of pretention. It’s like a little slice of New York was pumped full of LSD-25 and smoked a lot of marijuana, now believing itself to hold every answer possible, do everything better in terms of the arts and politics, but is still too small to really make the impact that New York or Los Angeles can deliver. The Bay Area has a Little Man Complex, eager to drop gloves and fight for the sake of fighting. Hell, Oakland is routinely on the verge of tearing itself in half and declaring war on the entire country.
I was on my way to the most recent example of that rage. Oakland has so many protests a year, and eventually the names and causes simply blend together in your mind. Hell, it does the same in the minds of the protesters too; they’re still screaming about old issues in new demonstrations. I cannot figure out if they’re simply unwilling to let failed battles go or if they, too, cannot remember what the most recent fight was for. Did the old one even end? It’s hard to tell; people in these parts hold grudges. I only walk in this town, the public transit system is like a cage-fight on wheels and driving is simply impractical with traffic. Nonetheless, everything I need is within walking distance. Coffee, cigarettes, food, work. I took a right at the stoplight and walked a few blocks before I entered the local liquor store for another pack of cigarettes and hair-of-the dog.
My friend met me out front of the store. We had agreed to meet halfway between our places to walk to the protest together. We had both talked about attending for a while, him out of morbid curiosity and myself out of a desire to get a good story. His name is Charlie, and he bleeds what he calls “classic red.” I’ve never agreed with his assessment of his political views; in reality, Charlie’s a liberal unwilling to admit it because he thinks the Democrats are spineless. This is very true, but turning a blind eye, rather than leading by example, does not help our cause. Regardless of my cynicism, I’ve attended every uprising that’s passed through these parts. It’s practically a right of passage to be tear gassed or maced in this town. My friend drummed idly on his pockets as we walked. “How long have these people been camped out?”
I shrugged. “Long enough to cause the city to start complaining.”
“Just a bunch of white-kids playing homeless.”
This irritated me. Whenever these big protests come around, the media loves hyping it up like it’s all the spoiled and silver-spooned pissed off at the man and getting behind a cause they don’t understand or really have any investment in. This could not be further from the truth; Oakland has a wide range of pissed off demographics at all times. Race wars ended a long time ago in California; it’s the wealth gap that draws the true battle lines now. Nonetheless, when the police lose their head and shoot a kid on BART for not doing a damn thing, you don’t need to be poor or African-American to get riled up. When the suits are routinely swinging their sacks around at the expense of all else, even middle-class white American takes the bone. “No, it’s not just that. It’s everyone. There’s something inherently fucked about the system. Like the protest or not, at least they’re finally saying something.”
He smirked. “I think you just say that because the liberal media tells you.”
I smiled back. “And I think you just say that because you want to be kicked in the balls.
