The LaRouche cult were out on the street today. The kids had their DIY-postered table set up on the busy NE corner of 45th and the Ave, right under my bank. As it turns out, I had to do some banking today. When I was walking into the bank, one LaRouchie was following a middle-aged man, trying to make him stop and engage by proposing undoubtedly thought-provoking insights. The man demonstrated iron resolve, refusing to have his forward motion impeded by empassioned LaFacts.
As I was banking, it struck me that today might be a good day to perhaps engage the kids a bit instead of brushing them off completely. “You’ll be sorry,” I thought, figuring that I’d be followed all the way to campus. But, what the hell; I was bit cranky: I had been having a hard time leaving the haus today and, one aborted go later, finally made it off my porch. Thus, I prepared a slightly aloof demeanor and mustered a few glib criticisms of Old Lyndon.
Sure enough, the light caught me and there I was in a gauntlet of LaRouche followers. After what seemed like a few seconds, they finally latched onto me. I was a bit disappointed; they were less aggressive than normal. Finally, though, they latched onto a conversational entry point… something about my (short) skirt. Two of them seemed to have a brief conversation around me. Did my entirely black outfit make me seem inaccessible? The Shivering One finally said, to me, that she felt cold just looking at me. A few seconds later: “But on a more serious note, have you been paying attention to the economy lately?”
(The light at 45th is long.)
“Are you concerned about the future la dah dah blah la la?”
“Yes, yes I am.”
She reached for a prepared packet of literature from the card table.
“Oh, I’m not interested.”
She just gave up. Gave up! I was expecting the standard in-your-face style. Instead, I got no lip about my commitment to something or my concern about something else or about being a sheep or a goat or a llama or some other placid animal.
At the very moment — yes, the light was still red — a young woman across the way started to look very worked up as she look in the direction of our corner. She had a blonde, asymetric bowl cut and wore a short skirt, black suspender-stockings with runs in them, and knee-high black boots. She yelled “you asshole” a number of times in our general direction while looking as if she were going to burst a few blood vessels.
Everybody was very confused, looking around to see whether anyone had acknowledged the greeting.
“That’s not for you, is it?” asked the LaRouche girl.
Well played, Shivering One!
As the light finally changed, Ms. Anthropy wound up like a cat winds up its hind legs before pouncing and marched determinedly in a straight line across the street. She made no eye contact nor any further ejaculations. She continued past the LaGauntlet and disappeared into the sidewalk crowd.
Was this her strategy to avoid First Contact with the forces of Lyndon? Was she mad at the bank perhaps? Maybe it was for me after all; she was perhaps angry at having her outfit bested? One thing’s for certain, though: Ms. Anthropy was certainly no docile mammal of the New World Order.