I guess it's because England had such a close encounter with fascism that there always seemed to be a small, visible contingent of anarchists prowling (loitering in) the streets. In America, we just have gyro carts.
After the Damian Marley & Nas show (pretty fantastic, by the by), the Lady and I stopped to take in the scenery, as the concert was held in a park situated on the Williamsburg waterfront overlooking the midtown skyline. Hundreds of people were strolling past without regard, but there may have been a few dozen, alongside the Lady and I stood enjoying the picturesque. I gripped her hips, looked strikingly into her eyes, and --- was interrupted by the whine of a douche-bag with a holster and no gun.
Little did we know, along the perimeter, there stood on guard a few pathetic looking mercenaries employed by the security agency "Strike Force". These thick middle-aged bald men and women in tan polo shirts armed with mag lights were about as imposing as a bar caddy's ass crack.
Or so we thought.
"Move along people, the park is closed. Move along." One called, before the picture-takers could raise even twenty followers.
Then another. "Let's go, move it people. Park's closed." Like a gander of geese, one began and the others quacked alongside him.
"Come on, move along. Let's go. Come on."
Most of us stayed, even more joined to take in the scene. They stepped forward. They waved their maglights at us, as though we were a bunch of nocturnal rodents. They stepped forward some more, yelling all the while. A cute looking Asian girl set herself up for a nice panoramic, and the guard, with no mercy, flooded her lens with photons. "MOVE ALONG!"
She walked away, moping and probably ashamed.
They maintained a steady encroachment. Scaring away couple by couple with the threat of, uhh, force (?) and/or a strike combined with force (?). By this time my Lady was clinging to my fatigues and chains, as I stood tall and repeatedly whispered, "Never let go."
"For the revolution," she whispered back. The beams came brighter and brighter still.
They stopped four feet away from us. They were surely trained for about 3 hours on how to handle dissidents such as we. It appears that this called for an abundance of passive aggressive whistling.
We turned away, mildly amused and mostly saddened by their
"Keep the whistlin' coming Frank, it's perfect. Perfect."
Yes, I was ashamed as we made our way to the exit and waited in a sea of people that were forced to leave as quickly as possible and thus jam up the exit instead of taking their time. I was ashamed because I didn't want to be made an example of, because I hadn't eaten dinner and didn't want to get, um, mag-whipped by some asshole with a iron-on badge.