“Head Towards Lake Michigan, Sleep on the Beach, Try Not to Get Arrested”

I ran like a banshee up a upscale Chicago street whose tendrils ended in Lake Michigan.  Ragged storm clouds swept in from the Mid-West waters, dark and ominous.  The church where I’d left my backpack was set to close its doors at 10 PM.  All day, I’d been protesting downtown as part of the storm which became NATO/G8 Summit with Occupy LA.  We occupied Rahm Emanuel’s house and participated in a FTP march that Chicago will never forget.  “The worst out-of-town scum Chicago’s seen since ’68!” was what I read in the faces of cops sitting on long lines of horses.  “Please, Rahm, send us in on this one!”  They’d grip their reins until their hands turned white as ghosts, but they never got the order.  Occupiers are smart.  Even in distant cities from different occupations, occupiers don’t actually go over any property damage nor violence lines—but you wouldn’t know it from watching the Foxaganda Channel.  We’d taken three large tour buses there—60 revolutionaries—a ride the bus company will never forget.  Would they even take us back?  I couldn’t even begin to think of that 1744 miles from home with nothing on me but $40 and an “Imagine Fairness” sign.