THE OCCUPATION WILL BE ONLINE

An update on Monday’s attempted eviction of Occupy LA

by Tony Bartolone, Staff Writer

pLAywriting in the city

It’s 3:52 a.m. I am sitting on the corner of 1^st and Main staring at the CBS News van. The single light shooting from across the street makes it seem like a sunny afternoon, but the cold air and the fog slowly gathering tell a different story. Police helicopters and random political dialogues have become noise akin to a TV in the background while a man sleeps on his Lazy Boy. On Friday Mayor Villaraigosa ordered all the protesters currently camped out on the lawn to occupy elsewhere by one minute past midnight, which was nearly four hours ago. At this point, not a single protestor has left the occupation, and not a single arrest has been made.

The stand off has been quiet all night moving into morning. The police lined up blocking the streets, clubs in hand, helmets on head. Earlier the mood was tight, tense, and fear coalesced in the air. The anticipation was piling up, stacked in teetering towers waiting for the slightest breeze to send everybody’s desire for a better world tumbling down on us like flurry of billy clubs to the head. Now the medics are wandering around, aimlessly in boredom. Some people are singing “Give Peace a Chance” in the street. As soon as I walk over to them, screaming is heard, “They’re coming, they’re coming! The police are coming!”

The general public reaction to the protest is one of misunderstanding and confusion. Why are there so many camped out in front of City Hall? The reason is simple to relate to yet difficult to explain. Basically, these people feel as if they have lost their voice, and they’re screaming to make sure they still have one. This mass of humanity is underrepresented and tired of the corruption and lies happening in their country. Specifically, they are fighting bloated corporations that have too much power in government. These are some of the best-educated minds in Los Angeles. This large group is one of patriotic expression, one of subtle desperation, one of subdued anger. This assembly, above all, is one of peace.

Photo by Ernesto Arce

The LAPD has been extraneously cautious in their approach. People came expecting a riot, and thus far not so much as an unkind word has been spoken. There was electricity erupting from the streets. At times it felt like New Years Eve in Time Square, a celebration of a new day. The countdown to midnight happened, but the ball has yet to drop, Evel Knievel has yet to jump his motorcycle over fifty flaming cars, and old acquaintance have yet to be forgot.

It would be a safe bet to wager that every nine in ten people have some kind of photographic devise out and ready to shoot a scene of police brutality. I was nearly convinced that the Internet was making people stupid. The oversaturation of modern media was destroying our youth and our language. However, the power of the worldwide web as a potent tool for civil disobedience has now been demonstrated. If not for iPhones and youtube, the world would have never known of the innocent, peaceful protesters who were beaten or pepper sprayed for practicing their first amendment right as Americans.

As the movement moves on, there has been support shown from a variety of different channels. The most impressive means of support is that of Anonymous. Original appearing online in 2003 as “4chan”, and known also known as the 4chan Mafia, Anonymous is a group of computer hackers who dispense vigilante justice using what has come to be called hacktivism. The social defenders creatively use the weapons at their disposal to tip the scales toward the side of the people. In the recent past, they have targeted Sarah Palin, Scientology and the Egyptian Government. A now infamous viral video of UC Davis’ Lieutenant John Pike pepper spraying peaceful protestors was released on youtube. Shortly after, Anonymous released Lt. Pike’s home phone number, cell phone number and e-mail and encouraged people to contact him personally to express their anger.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yxmCGxCgos8&feature=share

It is this kind of contemporary counter-attack that has Mayor Villaraigosa and his LAPD afraid to advance. Further more, the protestors invited everybody in the LA area to come flood the streets as a strategic move that actually worked. People ran through the camp screaming, “Wake up, wake up! This is it! They’re coming, the police are coming.” A girl I knew, but had not yet seen, ran up to me in a panic. “If you’re not ready to get arrested, you better leave now.” She panted. “And if you have anything you don’t want taken away, like a sim card, I suggest you duct tape to your body.” And with that, she ran off. Ready to be arrested? How does one prepare for arrest? Well, apparently by duct taping your sim card to your skin.

I walked up the steps to the main entrance of city hall trying to get a good view of the action in the streets. A man was yelling, “If it weren’t for those people on the street, it would be us getting moved!” Four officers in full riot gear were standing right behind me. The horror was mounting, but nobody was moving. Then the voice of the LAPD boomed from a PA system. “You must move out of the intersections and on to the sidewalk. This includes the media. It is not our intention to remove people from the park at this time. If you do not move, we will be forced to make arrests and use other means of force to get you to clear the intersections. Other means of force meaning weapons. You have five minutes to move.” They added on a two-minute warning, and the crowd moved onto the sidewalk. There was definitely fear among the protest, no question about that. But that fear was conquered by solidarity.

Walking away from City Hall, standing on a corner, there was a cop with his helmet in his hand waiting to cross Temple Street. The opportunity could not be missed. “Can I ask you a question?” His attention turned toward me as he nodded slightly. “How do you feel about the protest?” He looked at me like a man looks at a bear trap. “I don’t discuss politics.” He politely stated. It was tempting to push the issue, but there was really nothing else to say. There was conflict in his eyes and animosity on his breath. And that’s when it really hit; we’re all just people doing the best we can. As the liquid orange pushed the night out of the sky, the light turned. I wished him a good day, he wished me the same, and we walked our separate ways.

Tony Bartolone is a community college drop out. He honed his craft at Cerritos College where he did nearly twenty plays, won several theatre and writing awards and made some best friends with whom he started two theatre companies.  You can not see him in the season finale of It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia because his scene was cut. And his TV pilot has been thrown in the trash by some of todays most influential television producers. “At the end of the day, nobody is any better than a punk rock love song.” Tony also writes for The Huffington Post and The LA Theatre Review.

Occupy Art

by Tony Bartolone, Staff Writer

pLAywriting in the city

As I walked through downtown Los Angeles, I looked up at all the monstrous structures of steel and stone feeling somewhat small. I looked around to see the homeless at the heels of all those giants of finance. That is what America has become, a sea of poor drowning while the rich pirates hijack our country. I walked past all the bank buildings, and felt the cold sting of the night, knowing that people would be sleeping in that same cold. However, it was not just the homeless that would sleep without houses. There were all those camped out by city hall. Protesting what has become the accepted method, angered at the thought of government by the few. And then there were us. The artists marching in support of all those that had been living on the lawn for forty-four days.

I arrived to a less than overwhelming number of people ready to walk in protest on November 14th. Where were all those actresses I’ve met at parties, all those supposed producers, all the painters and musicians? I started feeling even smaller. I was asked if I would hold a painting while we marched. “Sure.” I said. And I lifted one side of a painting of a cartoon pig, rabid with power and a word bubble that read, “Greed kills!” Those with guitars (plus one with a banjo and another with a ukulele) started playing old protest songs, and we started walking. We tailed a cop car weaving in and out of parked cars, and all were instructed to stay on the sidewalk as to not upset the police.

I started to wonder if what we were doing was of any consequence at all. I started doubting the entire occupation. With my arms tiring from hoisting that animated hog above my head, I felt like this was all a waste of time. Then as we neared city hall, the coldness of the night was replaced with something else. There was an undefined electricity in the air. A wave of energy was radiating from the tents pitched on every square inch of the city hall lawn. Something shot through me so profound and exciting I can only describe it as freedom. And I felt every human being there united as one entity, in solidarity.

Photo by Ted Fisher

Performances were kicked off with a beatnik poem. A large drum came out of a colorful case and there sat an old man who I had recognized as an unrecognizable icon. That man was John Densmore, who played drums for The Doors. Instantly every night of high school came flooding back to me. So many late nights spent with Jim Morrison screaming in my head. And before me was the very man who supplied the percussion for all those adolescent evenings. As soon as his bare hand beat down on that beatnik drum… Ba-boom! All my doubts were dashed and gently blown away in the breeze.

 

It was in the 1960’s that the world came together. When the counter culture rose up in peaceful protest to expand the minds of the general public. And bands like The Doors supplied the soundtrack to the movement. Musicians and writers stood up and lead the charge. I had never seen anything like this revolt in my lifetime, outside of documentaries. I had seen my generation stand idly by and watch our country be ceased by billionaires. But not anymore. It was truly inspiring to see all the artists there, as they were all artists. Art is defined by expression. And protest is nothing more than pure, passionate expression. Whether it was the young woman who sat with typewriter next to a sign that read, “Free poems!” or the man with a balloon hat (who called himself “The Juan Percent”) dancing and shouting or those quiet in their tents with signs posted outside.

This was a huge platform for artistic expression. It was a freak show unlike any other. The disenfranchised demanding a voice, which is what art is. Everything from the absurd to the prurient to the angry, it was performance at it’s core. On the Westside of City Hall, on a hill there were individual signs with individual messages on them, organized to make a massive star-spangled banner. All these unique voices coming together to make an impact on our world, to make a change, to make America.

I observed a yoga class at the foot of the steps of the main entrance of the public structure. Then a workshop for general assembly. This is protest in our modern age. I attended the G.A. as a subtle observer. And it was innately theatrical. From the hand signals to the public speakers. This entire protest was theatre.

Photo by David Freid

At one point the meeting was interrupted by a man demanding to speak. He was told to wait his turn. Arguments broke out around the meeting. Money. They were arguing about money. Apparently some money (somewhere around between two and five grand) had been lost or stolen, and people were extremely angry and abrasive about it. What you need to understand is when a protest becomes this large it becomes a business. There’s money donated and allocated. And protestors, while well intentioned, are not always the best business people. They are thrown into it underprepared and overwhelmed. And organization is always a challenge with so many unpredictable variables.

The tension built as crowds began forming around screaming matches. Questions being shouted. Demands asserted. More and more attention was pulled from the G.A. and given to the surrounding face offs. A potential catastrophe was building. Suddenly, rogue groups were shouting, “Let him speak!” The assembly was turning wildly aggressive. While the emcee struggled fruitlessly to diffuse the situation, somebody unplugged the speakers rendering his microphone mute. And finally, they let the man speak.

T.C. Alexander took the stage and riled the lot. He made accusations of racism (which seemed completely unsubstantiated). He said “Brian” was the one to blame for the missing money. The crowd was littered with shrieks of “Let Brian speak!” Brian this and Brian that, everybody murmuring and arguing. Until eventually a man with long hair and long jacket walked to the microphone. Silence rushed over the crowd and the man spoke, “I am Brian.” He explained how he had the money in his backpack while they had a meeting to figure out what to do with the cash. And by the end of that meeting his backpack had vanished. “If you haven’t had your stuff stolen, then you’re not part of the community.” Brian plainly stated.

There was not yet a police report filed, which was a suspicious element of the story. Brian assured everyone he would file one first thing in the morning. But the mob was not pacified, and the tension intensified. A vicious riot was almost certainly about to erupt. And all the non-violent protest would be in vain. The police and the local government would have the grounds to shut it all down.  Then somehow, something remarkable happened. The anger and the aggression just gradually calmed down. The more belligerent members of the audience disbursed, and the tension dissipated like the smog breaking in the morning LA city streets. Non-violence prevailed, my faith in protest was restored, and it was one hell of a show.

 

Tony Bartolone is a community college drop out. He honed his craft at Cerritos College where he did nearly twenty plays, won several theatre and writing awards and made some best friends with whom he started two theatre companies.  You can not see him in the season finale of It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia because his scene was cut. And his TV pilot has been thrown in the trash by some of todays most influential television producers. “At the end of the day, nobody is any better than a punk rock love song.” Tony also writes for The Huffington Post and The LA Theatre Review.

Are the Occupy movements enough?

By Oscar Basulto, Guest Writer

pLAywriting in the city

Photo by Ernesto Arce

On Thursday morning, passengers on the westbound 720 bus, out of Downtown LA and headed to Westwood, reacted in three distinct ways to the driver’s announcement of a detour we would be taking to get around street closures on our normal route. The passengers were either angry, confused, or apathetic.  The exclusively angry ones immediately exited the bus. The exclusively confused ones, initiated an inner red-alert and in the following order, scrambled; intellectually, emotionally then physically to process the information they had just received. Some actually exited the bus before the last of the exclusively angry ones got off, but some anguished through this process and missed the initial exodus and were forced to await the next one, on the corner of First and Beaudry… their adventures were just beginning. Another confused group processed the detour under yellow-alert conditions and survived it just fine. The apathetic group just kept that 1000 yard stare.  The driver did not mention the cause of the street closures, but anyone who caught a whiff of the news that morning before leaving for work, knew that protesters were planning to occupy certain intersections and other areas of the Financial District to demonstrate “against economic inequality and the excesses of the financial system.” (REUTERS)

Photo by Ernesto Arce

It took a long time to get around the closures and I was overhearing a call the lady next to me was making, presumably to someone at her work, informing them she was going to be late.  She referred to “damn closures” and “fucking hippies” in her description of the situation.  And I thought, “shit.”  Though the intent of the action taken by protesters was in part to advocate for the working people on that bus, it looked like those working people appreciated it very little.  For most people, their immediate priority is to stay out of the poor house, especially those with mouths to feed.  The woman on the phone’s, day to day life is hard enough, we all know how it feels to get the day off to a bad start, and many also know how bad it can feel to be responsible for someone’s bad day.  We have reached a crossroads.  Camps are beginning to be dismantled and busloads of angry, confused and apathetic working people are roaming through hilly Downtown streets.  Are the bankers seeing a light at the end of the tunnel?  Not enough has been accomplished by the movement, because Occupy on its own, is not enough to bring true change.  How can it engage everyone?  It can’t because the 99% are as diverse as they are vast in number.  Who else is going to engage them?  With the multitudinous intelligences and abilities possessed by our species, any one of them can be used, through conscious effort, to do so.

I belong to a play reading group at East LA Rep. Earlier this year, we met one weekday evening to hear reports from two of our members, one who attended the TCG National Conference and one who attended the Director’s Lab West.  Their reports and our subsequent discussion centered around our collective and individual purposes as a group and as artists.  It led to each of us sharing why we are involved in the arts.  When it was my turn to share, I said was there that night because places like East LA Rep and Casa 0101 gave me a chance to become an artist.  It is an opportunity they extend to anyone truly committed, though resources are scarce.  I’ve seen tiny, timid, schoolgirls, transform into fire breathing, ass-kicking poets and slay their first audiences.  I’ve heard colleagues give testimony of the life saving role that art has played in their lives.  Art is a powerful tool, and artists can wield that tool to do extraordinary things in extraordinary times.  I will use this opportunity extended to me by the editorial staff of this blog, to openly commit myself to use my art to engage and advocate for the 99.  I will use it to tell stories inspired by the lives of the 99ers who are my friends and family, both present and passed.  The simple actions of writing and performing these stories are political acts and I hope to faithfully chronicle their experience. The intent is to inform upon this moment and galvanize those my art will engage.  My conscious efforts are mine alone, but are in solidarity with others and together, we are working to the same end.  And that is to get us all to rethink what is perceived to be just.  To take the reins of this historic moment and show how that the growing gap between rich and poor is really bad, and if left unaddressed in a conscious manner, it will lead to some really bad things.  That is my bottom line, as an artist, the fire lit under my creative ass, the stakes.  Not everyone in the 99 will be engaged by my art in the same way, some may take exception to what I put out there and that’s ok, because there are other artists who will engage those I do not.  There is plenty of art to go around and we can all live in the same time and space.  Just like there really are plenty of economic resources around for everyone, and we can all have enough to live comfortably in the same time and space.  Creating such a world is a tall order, this is true; some say, impossible, this is not true.  Who’s in?

Oscar Basulto is a native Angelino, raging Chicano pacifist, and theatre artist.  From the TV towers of Mount Wilson, he can look West and on a clear day see the entire geographic basin where he’s lived at least 90% of his life, a fact he both loves and does not love.