July 31, 2000   NY Times

        THE PROTESTERS: Updated Refrains of the '60's as Dissenters Hit the Streets

        By FRANCIS X. CLINES

           PHILADELPHIA, July 30 --
            Devotees of lively political protest, a fading art in recent decades, had something to cheer
        for and against today as an eclectic, ragtag assortment of causes snaked and howled
        through the heart of this city, giving pause to Republican  conventioneers intent on        decorum.

        A rich assortment of several    thousand dissenters -- all of them   orderly, many rambunctious --
        dominated the eve of the  convention as marchers  consciously sought to revive  some old-time 60's rhythms and
        jingles, but with strategic        updating.

        "Hey, hey! Ho, ho!" began one  group, a generation removed  from the old "L.B.J." punch line,
        who bellowed a coda edited for    current events: "H.M.O. has got       to go!"

        "What do we want?" came one marching question. And the  answer ("Freedom!" in the old days) came back:
        "Health care!"

        For all the altered stakes, veteran witnesses of the  antiwar demonstrations of the 60's felt a pang of
        nostalgia. Particularly when guerrilla-theater   demonstrators capered past with large papier-mâché
        heads of piggish plutocrats and Darth Vader caricatures    of politicians. Chanting denunciations of corporate
        wealth and the two-party system, they happily rose to        the bait of a few fundamentalist Christian
        counterdemonstrators lobbing bullhorn taunts from the        sideline.

        "Hey, environmentalists, get a life!" boomed John   Franklin, wielding a printed billboard that judgment
        day was near. "God will take care of the trees, then   he'll take care of you on the Last Day, for all the
        clear-cutting of babies," he said, mixing the abortion     issue in for good measure.

        The marchers offered as good as they got, several  offering an obscene blend of gesture and advice. Mr.
       Franklin, a 58-year-old veteran of varied protests of the  60's, admitted later in an interview: "At least the kids
        are trying, scratching away, although they don't quite     have it. It's like watching a cartoon, but it's nostalgic.
        They're trying."

        Arms outstretched, Michelle Christedes intervened as a    peaceful parade monitor between the caustic Mr.
        Franklin and an unshaven young man in a sundress who    drew tension-tinged laughter in impishly shouting
        contentions about the sexuality of Jesus.

        But the peace was maintained. Other causes strutted by:   opposition to the death penalty, to sweatshops, to the
        antimissile defense movement and a score more, many  of them clearly pressed by crowds of galvanized young
        people.

        "I've been waiting for them a long time," said Ms.  Christedes, a 53-year-old psychology consultant who
        said she felt some of the fury and swagger of her youth    when she marched against the war in Vietnam as a
        Ph.D. candidate at the University of California at        Berkeley.

        "The old me generation sold out," she said, hoping for  better. Not all the evidence was encouraging. One
        young man, dressed melodramatically in the black garb  and red bandanna of the self-styled anarchists,
        brandished a bottle of Gatorade and a cell phone on his   way to the rhetorical ramparts.

        Safely beyond all sight and sound of the demonstrators,  Rand S. Larson, a convention delegate, sipped a rum
        and diet cola at a new oasis in town, the Ritz-Carlton        bar, which just opened in a palatial six-story marble
        bank building on Broad Street.

        "I've not seen any of the protest," said Mr. Larson, a  first-time delegate from Richmond, Vt., who sported a
        bright "V.I.P." tag atop his necklace of credentials. "I   don't really fear any trouble from the demonstrators,
        although my wife and 11-year-old son are coming down  and I hope they have a good, safe time," he said.

        Mr. Larson savored his drink after working for days to tamp down dissension as a member of the party
        platform committee. "We dealt with all the right issues   in a climate of respect," he insisted of a platform
        smooth as a runway for the candidates' landing.

        As a man strolled past the bar with one of the day's    least contentious T-shirts ("Dartmouth Fall Foliage
        Squash Tournament"), the Ritz's Sunday brunchers   seemed all gentled out and ready to convene, far
        removed from the dissenting crowd on the other side of    City Hall.

        Once outside, however, Joe Bramante, a freelance    Democrat from Derry, N.H., bearded delegates with a
        big, bluff hello, then asked, "So, how's the economy?"      Before Republicans could answer, Mr. Bramante spun
        a hand-printed sign on its stanchion: "I am Bill   Clinton's Number One Fan!" And he told each of them
        about the booming economy as they sought escape.

        Farther east in the city, tourists approaching the Liberty     Bell were distracted by a display of hundreds of pairs
        of shoes lined up as part of the Silent March    demonstration, the empty shoes representing the
        thousands killed annually with handguns. A barefoot,     grandmotherly woman walked stolidly past, bearing her
        own printed protest: "Too angry, too female to vote        Republican."

        The day's larger march of dissenters presented a    gathering of various causes, from NOW to the
        N.A.A.C.P., from folk-singing unionists to animal rights     demonstrators, under an umbrella label called Unity
        2000. Some self-proclaimed student anarchists    marched amiably with the larger parade, but they have
        hinted they may try to act up by midweek with some    hit-and-run street initiatives.

        "So far so good," said Police Commissioner John F.        Timoney, who has been darting between
        demonstrations as a member of the police bike patrol in     helmet, shorts and monogrammed "P.C." shirt. "But it's
        early and you never get cocky," he said, noting that     other marches potentially more troublesome begin on
        Monday. "We can work out deals, even if we don't   quite like the deals," the commissioner said in
        emphasizing flexibility as his chief weapon for getting     through convention week.

        This was demonstrated on Saturday evening as the     police quickly put aside confrontation and became
        escorts of an ad hoc march of 200 teenagers who    showed up on Chestnut Street loudly devoted to the
        cause of virginity. "Free sex kills!" they warned. "Honk   if you're a virgin!" they pleaded as restaurantgoers
        stared from sidewalk cafes for a passing moment        before turning back to their food.
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The Philadelphia Inquirer story Thousands protest; no one gets in trouble has three additional photos.

A few days later the demonstration got disruptive:

----------------------
Philadelphia Inquirer August 2, 2000

Sparking turmoil in downtown Philadelphia for several hours, hundreds of protesters launched a flurry of surprise blockades and protests yesterday, scuffling with police and creating the havoc that city officials had hoped to avoid during the Republican National Convention.

In the end, the convention was not affected and the disruptions were limited to Center City.

For most of the afternoon and into the night, a cacophony of wailing sirens and thumping helicopters pervaded Center City as small but aggressive bands of protesters rushed into streets and blocked traffic in a well-orchestrated assault that began about 2:30 p.m.

Police said as many as 285 people were taken into custody, including 75 people who were detained after a police raid on a West Philadelphia warehouse where they had been building protest props.

Most of those arrested were charged with misdemeanor offenses. Ten people were charged with felony assault on a police officer.

Protest organizers claimed last night that the number of people arrested was higher. Julie Davids of the R2K Network, the organizing committee for various protest groups, said more than 400 people were in custody. Most were being held at Holmesburg prison, where they were practicing "jail solidarity" and refusing to be released unless all protesters were released, she said.

Earlier, protest flyers fluttered along streets and onlookers watched in surprise as protesters created near-gridlock in Center City for most of the late afternoon. Thousands of police officers, many wearing riot helmets and some on horseback, fanned out to seal city blocks and redirect traffic around the protesters, who chanted for causes ranging from globalization to a new trial for death-row inmate Mumia Abu-Jamal.

Mayor Street, in a 9:45 p.m. press conference at City Hall, praised police officers' handling of the protests and said: "We will be open for business tomorrow, believe me."

He said "the overwhelming majority of activity" by protesters was conducted by outsiders "with no ties to Philadelphia."

"There never was a question about the readiness of the city and the Police Department," he added.

That readiness will be tested today, as protesters have vowed to continue the disruptive actions.

Yesterday's scattered skirmishes between police and protesters at one point even involved Police Commissioner John F. Timoney, who last night rammed his bicycle into protesters who were stomping on a car near Rittenhouse Square.

"I got banged up," Timoney said. "That's OK. I'll live."

Officer Raymond Felder was taken to Hahnemann University Hospital with a head injury he suffered when he was hit with the commissioner's bicycle during the fight, Timoney said.

Deputy Police Commissioner Sylvester Johnson said protesters who were detained at the West Philadelphia warehouse had amassed pipes and chains and other materials to be used for blockades, a charge the protesters denied.

Johnson said the groups were "trying to lock down Center City . . . They're implementing their plan right now and we're implementing ours."

Police said they had infiltrated the group, but declined to elaborate.

There were only a few reports of serious injuries, including four police officers briefly hospitalized after a toxic substance was thrown in their faces.

Scars on city streets from the melee were obvious by evening. The steps in front of the District Attorney's Office were covered in red paint and the Municipal Services Building was spray-painted on every side with anarchy signs and "Free Mumia" slogans. By 7 p.m., clean-up crews were at work.

On the Benjamin Franklin Parkway, several city cars had been spray-painted and doused with orange paint, and their tires had been slashed. Many Dumpsters had been overturned, windows of at least 20 police cars had been smashed, and tires had been slashed on five police cars.

The outburst was far from spontaneous. Activists have said for weeks they were planning what they called "nonviolent direct action" somewhere in the city on the second and third days of the convention. They promised to continue their actions today.

Late yesterday, protesters said they would mount an illegal demonstration against the World Bank today at One Liberty Place, followed by demonstrations at the Federal Building and at a "major chemical corporation."

Eric Laursen of the R2K Network issued a statement about the protests. "Our lives are disrupted every day by the workings of the system that the Democratic and Republican parties represent," he said. ". . . This is our day to turn the tables on them and to disrupt the delegates' lives in somewhat the same way that our lives are disrupted."

With the ultimate aim being some disruption of the convention, activists have said they would not target the highly secure First Union Center, but would target the Center City hotels and restaurants where delegates are staying, eating and socializing this week.
 
 

One of the first encounters yesterday came about 2 p.m., when at least 50 police officers surrounded the West Philadelphia warehouse that activists have used to prepare puppets, props and other materials for use in the protests.

Police said they had gone to the warehouse to search for weapons and materials that might be used in disruptive protests. They also brought a bomb squad.

Speaking from inside the warehouse, the activists said they did not have weapons and were only preparing cardboard puppets for impromptu protests. At least one vanload of props had departed the building and another was waiting to leave when police arrived.

"These people are getting ready to do street theater," said Matthew Hart, one of the 75 activists inside the building. "They have no reason to arrest us. . . . This is just total harassment and intimidation, there's nothing to base it on."

The raid on the warehouse appeared to enrage some activists already deployed into the city, said a lawyer for the group.

"We're seeing the removal of the velvet glove over the iron hand," Stefan Presser, legal director of the American Civil Liberties Union, said. "We're seeing an effort to bottle up (activists) before they can get to the street."
 
 

Next, the blockades started appearing on city streets.

The multipronged protest started about 3 p.m. and seemed to shrink and grow in size during the afternoon, as isolated, roving groups ranging from about 50 to more than 1,000 surfaced without warning around Center City and blocked streets.

One of the largest appeared at the intersections of Broad and Spruce Streets, where up to 300 people marched into the street, with arms linked, and blocked the traffic while chanting: "Abolish the World Bank," and "More power to the people."

About the same time, at least 100 protesters from different groups blocked the 16th Street entrance to Interstate 676. At one point they stretched wire around the entrance to the ramp so that no car could get on the highway.

Hundreds of officers dashed from spot to spot around the city as they played a game of cat-and-mouse with protesters that at turns appeared both tense and cordial.

The running melee on the street included a group of black-clad youths with black bandannas over their faces, who dashed around the Logan Circle area, frightening delegates who were coming out of the Four Seasons Hotel.
 
 

According to activists speaking on condition of anonymity, the actions were carried out by isolated cells of activists operating autonomously but under the coordination of a central, secretly located dispatch center, using a cobbled-together collection of mobile phones and walkie-talkies.

Protest organizers assessing the day's events last night conceded that police action was better than that at Washington in the spring and in Seattle last year, where police used tear gas.

Timoney said his officers were ready: "We knew this was going to happen. This is a game."

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Protesters With No Message Except, 'Let's Not Go Home'

        By NEIL STRAUSS

           LOS ANGELES,
            Aug. 15 -- In the    end, the confrontation    between young people  and the police that took
        place in the parking lot  outside the Democratic  National Convention on     Monday night came
        down to what it often  comes down to: a  standoff between police    officers who want to go
        home and young people  who don't want to go       home.

        Many of the young
        people who don't want
        to go home -- a group of indeterminate size that mingled with the  political or anarchistic
        groups outside the  Democratic convention  -- are a special kind of     protest group in
        themselves. They don't    have a formal      organization,    membership, posters or   agenda. But they are
        everywhere these days, causing all kinds of   problems, chiefly  because they don't want
        to go home and they     want to be entertained.

        They made headlines at  Woodstock '99 in  Rome, N.Y., last   summer, when the   festival ended
        unexpectedly early and   the former Air Force  base where it was held  erupted in arson and
        vandalism. Pundits  pointed the finger at factors from the heat to the high cost of bottled water to the lack of sanitation.
        But lurking behind it all was the restlessness of the young people who don't want to go home.

        In Los Angeles, the designated protest area where the  politically inflammatory rock and rap band Rage
        Against the Machine was setting up for a free concert  on Monday felt a lot like Woodstock '99. Before the
        music started, excitable rock fans were moshing and  body-surfing. When the music stopped at 7:24 p.m.
        after a 40-minute set, the audience simply turned its   attention to another stage: the fence separating the
        protest area from two rows of police officers in riot gear and, behind them, the convention itself.

        Soon at least a dozen in the crowd -- from bored rock  fans to self-proclaimed anarchists -- were lobbing
        glass bottles, smoke bombs and even a No Parking sign at the police. Eventually the police moved in with
        rubber bullets and pepper spray.

        For Mike Bigge, a 23-year-old Los Angeles resident,    the show had just begun when objects started flying. "I
        came for a good time, and now I'm having one," he said   as mounted police forced panicked protesters and rock
        fans out of the parking lot.

        Among those initially throwing projectiles was a  teenager in a black T-shirt who declined to give his
        name for fear of arrest.  He lighted a firecracker and threw it over the fence. Why? "Why not?" he said.

        Was there anything in particular he was protesting? "No," he said.

        Many of those interviewed before, during and after the confrontation harbored not a single political thought. "I
        don't really have an opinion on the convention," said   Alberto Freire, a 13-year-old Rage fan from Torrance,
        Calif., before the disturbance began.

        There were as many video and still cameras held in the air during the Rage show as protest posters. Several
        camera-carrying fans who showed up for the concert  said they were not there to convey a message to the
        Democratic Party but to gather content for their Internet sites.

        If the convention in the hall is mostly a political show for television, the message of the medium applies to
        controlling crowds at concerts as well: put the police and a good rock band outside, and the crowd will
        watch the band. But when the band wraps up early, the crowd's attention will turn to whatever sideshow
        remains: the police. On Monday, it was between acts -- after Rage's performance and before the following
        group, a Latin jam band called Ozomatli -- that   audience members started provoking the police.

        When Ozomatli started performing, the crowd at the  fence started to drift over to the stage to see which
        show was more entertaining. But it was too late. During  Ozomatli's second song, a police commander walked
        on stage and announced that the gathering had been declared unlawful and that the crowd had 15 minutes to
        disperse. People lingered.

        It was then that the police commander tried something  ingenious: he told Ozomatli to make music and lead the
        crowd out of the parking lot Pied Piper-style, according  to Bubba Cervantes, the band's security guard. Band
        members picked up drums and started playing, and the crowd gathered in a circle around them. Then, the band
        began marching the group, comprising almost all of the several hundred protesters who remained, toward the
        North exit of the parking lot.

        But before they could reach the exit, as the time limit expired, mayhem broke out and the police fired pepper
        spray, beanbags, and rubber bullets, turning the march   into a stampede.

A Web Site on how music can communicate information to its listeners was prepared by Laura Miyoshi Rodan for  last spring's Sociology of Communication class. It has links to many politically oriented musical groups.