The Morning After: Fear, Loathing And The Invisible Economy That Produces It
“History is hard to know, because of all the hired bullshit, but even without being sure of “history” it seems entirely reasonable to think that every now and then the energy of a whole generation comes to a head in a long fine flash, for reasons that nobody really understands at the time—and which never explain, in retrospect, what actually happened.”
Hunter S. Thompson,
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
Last night, around 10 pm, I heard there was another “Not My President” anti-Trump protest at Trump Tower, and headed down. I arrived at 57th and 5th, where the street was blocked off—guarded by cops in varying degrees of protective garb, some of them so swaddled and helmeted they could barely walk. An NYPD cop was manning the barricade, checking ID, and allowing through people who could prove they lived in the building, from the corner. What remained of the protesters—about 200—were across the avenue, behind yet another barricade— with signs and chants, staying in one place, mostly interested in cars coming down 5th Avenue seeing their signs, and either honking or cursing.
The barricaded streets looked just like they do the night before Thanksgiving. The windows of Cartier, Saks, and Harry Winston sparkled all around us, like we were inside a jewel box. It was very cold. I looked at the barricade, and asked the officer, who was Latino, and exuded calm, what I would have to do to get to that corner. He explained I would have to walk to 6th Ave, and cut back across 56th street, which might be partially blocked, in which case I could try 55th.
Trump won the election early Wednesday morning, and today was Friday. I seem to be the only person who thinks something almost incomprehensible has happened in this country since that queasy moment around 2:30 am when all the TV people on the various networks stopped their endless swiping on those red and blue electoral maps and just sat agape, trying to wrap their actual mouths around the “shocking” result. It was as though they were vying for a few more moments, or even seconds, inside of which they could hide, stall, hold back the tidal wave of strangeness implicit in Donald Trump winning an election that the entire mass media had insisted he could not win and would not win. Then they finally gave in to it and sort of dumped us all into post-election shock-times, which is what we’re in now. To say that things got very dark and strange very fast would be an understatement.
Berkeley, of course, is where it began. Half the student body—about 1500 students– walked out of class by 8 am the next morning, and the faculty went with them. Partaking in class suddenly deemed unthinkable since everybody was experiencing such trauma. Then the narcissistic rage began—the screaming, chanting, raging, and “peaceful” protesting, which included smashing windows, storefronts, and people. “Not My President,” was the battle cry, along with the charmless, “Fuck Trump,” “Pussy Grabs Back,” and, for some reason, “Bitch.” American flags were burned, Mexican flags were flown and waved, along with vast red banners bearing the hammer and sickle—something called The Revolutionary Student Front. The elderly, the homeless, teenagers and even children were physically attacked in various parts of the country, caught on video—including a young boy whose mother expels him, sobbing, from his own home, because he said he liked Donald Trump.
I understood immediately that something truly malignant was afoot, whereas most of my “liberal” friends seemed to think there was nothing that alarming about the nature of these protests. It was said that they were all expressing “understandable” frustration. To me, they were the PC crowd, one minute—supposedly representing a kinder, more sensitive American dialogue about various issues. And then in a fingersnap…they went all ISIS on us.
In one video, there are hundreds of angry young people marching, the males swathed in “shemagh” scarves in red or black, their lithe bodies bristling with violence seeking an outlet. They looked truly menacing and scary, like terrorists. “Fucking piece of shit racist,” one of them spits at the person shooting the video. Why he was a racist for shooting the video is not clear. But suddenly everything in America was a “piece of shit racist,” probably including a Starbucks cup. Donald Trump puppets were burned in effigy. America had officially cracked. This was it.
“I’m doing a story,” I said, to the officer, “on the protests. My feeling is there is something off about it all.”
“Well, they’re paid to do this,” he said calmly, lifting the barricade to allow two people who showed him ID, into Trump Towers.
“Soros?” I said.
He nodded. “Yep.”
“I have read that, and I don’t doubt you. But do you know for a fact or do you just suspect?”
“I know for a fact,” he said.
“How do you know?” I asked.
“Intel,” he said.
“Ah. So you guys are briefed in the department?”
“Oh sure. It’s been going on for a long time. I’ve known it for 12 years. Soros pays for all the protests. These people, many of them, don’t even live here. They come in from other states.”
“So where do they sleep at night?”
“They put them in apartments that they rent for these purposes.”
“And you have to close off streets to accommodate them?”
“Soros has this plan to overtake the police force, and replace it with his own. Some kind of one world police force that they would control, after they have dismantled the police.”
My jaw dropped, literally. “I beg your pardon?”
“Yeah, it’s deep. Nobody understands what is behind all this.”
I clasped the rare butterfly of revelation he had just given me and placed it in an imaginary safe box, to take home and examine later.
“So they want to run their own police state, and yet they are calling Trump a fascist?”
“That’s about it, yeah.”
“It was the same with Occupy Wall Street. All those people were paid to be there.”
“What about Black Lives Matter?”
“That was a mixture of genuine street rage, which Soros took advantage of and put a lot of money into, to expand it. All the protests are funded by Soros. These people are professional protestors.”
“If truth be known, I carried some rather potent messianic fantasies with me from childhood.”
“To put it bluntly, I fancied myself as some kind of god, or economic reformer like Keynes, or even better, a scientist, like Einstein.”
George Soros, Underwriting Democracy
“Can I ask you a question?” I said to the officer. “Isn’t it illegal to fund street protests that force American taxpayers to pay for extra police forces, block off streets, and all this?”
“You’d think so,” he said, turning to let somebody through the barricade.
“My friends on Facebook, my liberal friends, have been mocking me for thinking Soros funds these protests,” I said. “Is there any earthly chance you could go on the record, at a future time, if we set careful ground rules?”
“Sorry, I can’t.”
I deliberately did not look at his name. I apologize for not being able to give you an ID but I can swear on my life this conversation happened, just like this.
“Is Mr. Trump in the building?” I asked.
An elderly couple passed by, heading east. The woman wore a fur jacket and pearls. “How long will this go on?” She asked the officer.
“Until Soros’s money runs out,” I said. “Could be a while.” They laughed.
A gay couple approached, arm in arm, and waited to cross west. “Why is the street closed off?” one of them asked. “Protests,” said the officer. They looked toward the crowd, and one of them turned back and said, to the officer, “Can you even believe this is our President elect?”
Why would you say that to a New York cop? I wondered? It’s a loaded question. Rigged, if you will. Perfect for like, a wine bar at Moma. I bet there are many other things that bother an NYPD officer a lot more. People never pay attention to who they’re talking to. Have you noticed that? They think every human shares their ideology, and they speak from that assumption. No individuation. You have to master little facial movements that convince people you are part of Uni-Thought, so they go away, satisfied that umbrage has been properly exchanged.
“That thing the man just said,” I said to the officer, “that was all based on him thinking he was witnessing one thing, but in fact, he was witnessing something else. They thought they were seeing the raw emotions of the nation’s youth, and Trump was the sole cause. But it’s staged, paid protest. Theater. Still, Donald Trump has to be seen as somebody who rouses this much disgust, when in reality, if there was no money going around, it would be a fraction of this size.”
He nodded, and rolled his eyes. He was seasoned.
I made a mental note: “Potemkin Village.”
“Nothing is what it seems, is it? I said.
“No it isn’t,” he said.
Suddenly sirens started wailing and the corner of 57th and 5th filled with cars moving so fast they seemed to be flying, red and blue lights flooding the intersection, as a megaphone voice boomed forth menacingly: “Get out of the street! Get out of the street!”
“There’s some kind of escort coming through,” the officer said. I retreated a few steps, and watched. Several police vans flew past, along with a large black van, with men putting their heads out the windows, checking all directions.
“Who could this be?” I wondered.
You will never believe “who” it was.
A massive flatbed truck reached the intersection and turned down 5th.
“Oh it’s the tree,” the officer said.
“The tree?” I said.
Sure enough. On the flatbed was a gigantic fir tree, covered in a white cloth, that said in huge black letters: “Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree.”
I felt star struck. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I reached for my iphone but it had died in the cold, so I couldn’t take a picture.
The officer took a few pictures.
Suddenly, I felt sad. In fact, grief stricken. The mighty tree looked like a hostage, captured and felled. It was so big, so powerful, yet it looked so tragic lying on its side like that. I was glad I didn’t have a photo.
I’d been thinking on the subway coming down that in these queasy days since the election, something has tangibly changed in American life. I returned, November 7, from a tiny island off the east coast of Sweden, where I had decided to relocate (not because of Trump.) As election day approached, with no non-Orwellian reporting in the Swedish press, I rather lunged back here, realizing this was history in the making, one way or the other—the ultimate clash of values. The classical world vs. the new world order.
What do I mean by “classical?” Well, remember the world before the unseen hand of George Soros, before the angry, never sated progressive PC dragon armies, were everywhere? When protesters carried home made signs and didn’t looked like MK-ultra mind controlled zombies? Remember laughter? Christmas parties? Jesus, even the Rockefeller Christmas Tree looked to me now like a hostage of some angry army or other. Everything now, I thought, is shame and anger. This is the end stage of the plague that is Political Correctness: People can do nothing, except one thing, the Uni-Activity, which is traffic in shame, blame, identity rage, affront. Social media is the great shame forest—the opposite of the enchanted forest. There can be no joy, no love, no fidelity. Only political hygiene, and the never ending shame games. We all are expected to walk around simultaneously accusatory and ashamed, shoveling this shrapnel of disdain back and forth, in a state of political hysteria that once was the modus operandi of extremists and fanatics. Indeed, mental patients. If you try to temper anything, you get a strong sense they’re coming for you next. But their world, even if they do finally conquer us all, is all misery. Misery is the language, the pollen, the cause and the effect.
They’ve killed all life, was my cheerful thought, standing on the platform at 103rd st waiting for the 1 train, looking at people in porridge colored winter coats, shuffling onto the train.
We know one thing: We must now (if we intend to be taken as “people,”) be miserable about Donald Trump—not only here but around the world.
When I left Sweden, there was a terror scare in the tunnels, so I got delayed to the airport and missed my flight. The woman at the re-booking desk at Arlanda airport, tapping away to see if they could re-book me the same day, shook her head, like they always do, to discourage hope.
I leaned into the counter and said: “I need to get home in time to vote,” and she looked up.
“Oh! Yes! Heavens! Yes you do! We are all depending on it!” She tapped away with renewed zeal, never acknowledging that she did not know who I would vote for. It was way deeper than a given. As she tapped, she commented: “We all, here in Sweden, you know, we thought Trump was a joke. We thought it was a joke.”
After finding no flight, and charging me $250 to fly to London that night and home the next day, she said: “Well, do hurry home and vote. Fingers crossed.”
Now another woman next to her chimed in. How dangerous Trump would be. I had three hours to kill so I put my bag down and said. “Here’s the thing. The NYPD seized computers from Anthony Weiner, the estranged husband of Hillary’s closest aide, last week. Then the head of the FBI re-opened the investigation into the potential criminal conduct of Hillary Clinton. There are concerns about national security, as well as some things we simply are not privy to. So it’s complicated, for Americans. They found something on those computers, we don’t know what. That’s all I’m saying.”
They looked confused, and quoted a Facebook meme, listing Trump’s sins and on the Hillary side of the equation, only one thing: “Emails.”
When there was still some faint hope of getting on a flight that night, I let them assume, hoping it would work in my favor. But now they had pissed me off with their Swedish condescension about uncouth Americans. I felt kind of violated. Why should I have swept into this, when all I was doing was missing my flight and minding my business? When my mother flew for Pan American in the 1960s they respected passenger’s boundaries. They weren’t even permitted to acknowledge previous cocktails by using the word “another” when coming through with the drinks cart.
Remember when people were nice? Charming?
Now we’ve been plunged into some kind of Blade Runner world, Or A Clockwork Orange, where everything is broken, cold, dripping, and everybody is angry all the time. Violence and identity rage bristling in all things.
At Heathrow, the man who stamped my passport also encouraged me to hurry home and vote for Hillary. But he was at least a personality. “Look, I doubt they’ll find evidence she shoved a cricket bat up somebody’s arse,” he said. “And Trump is terrible. He’s a misogynist, racist, xenophobe…” People in the line were glowering, so I thanked him for the conversation, and moved on. He said he also voted against Brexit, which he called a “disaster.” Well, British people will always be funny, no matter what. At any rate, how am I expected to know? I don’t know. Neither do you. Neither do any of us!
Before I said goodnight to the police officer, my Deep Throat, I asked him one last thing: “Do you know what the NYPD found on Weiner’s computers?”
“No,” he said.
And I thought, “Good. I have enough problems.”
I thanked him.
I made my way around the block, and encountered some protesters—young girls, with signs. I asked if I could ask them some questions and they said yes but then they refused to speak to me, and I wound up standing there talking to myself. “Can I just ask you what brought you out here? Such a cold night. What is your goal?”
They turned away from me and brandished their signs toward traffic, with a kind of militant posture, like statues.
“Ok well, nice to meet you, and good luck,” I said. I was approached by a young Brazilian reporter in a trench coat, extremely friendly. She said in Brazil they are “…kind of rooting for Hillary.”
She also said they have mandatory voting in Brazil. If you don’t vote you pay a fine.
I asked what she thought about the protests and she said, “Well, in Brazil we all like very much to protest.”
I didn’t feel in the mood to tell her about the paid angle.
I bet Brazilians would find that to be a serious hoot.
Get paid to be angry in the street? Is it like sex? Like once money enters into it, everything changes? Do protesters who get paid tell people they are paid? Do they hide it?
I would not find much material in this crowd, and besides, I was freezing. Word is there would be 10,000 protesters, the next night. Another officer told me that. How many are paid? Are the unpaid, organic ones going to cotton on and expect Soros to pay them too?
I walked toward the subway, depressed. I tried to remember that I had a scoop, even if it was still a totalitarian truth-hating society, where they’ve convinced everybody that investigating stuff is like being a terrorist who hates women. I did have a scoop. I had an NYPD police officer confirm (“intel”) that protesters are paid by Soros, and have been for at least the last 12 years, in his experience. What I couldn’t figure out is why New York tolerates this. Then, I went home and Googled Soros. I found a comprehensive list of his donations. It’s called “A Guide To The Political Left,” and can be found at www.DiscoverTheNetworks.org. [link] Soros funded, of course, Hillary Clinton’s campaign, but also, Bill de Blasio’s. [See sidebar “Soros Funding, Some Details.”]
As I waited for the subway, an MTA worker with false eyelashes dipped a big brush in a bucket and scrubbed the walls. The ammonia vapors cleared my mind. We have to make peace with our new Soros funded, thought-controlled fish tank, I thought, because we all live in it, and we can’t get out. He has more money than God and he has no love whatsoever for a non-engineered, natural world, where the chips fall as they may. Imagine being able to use your money to “influence” everything the players say, think, do. Like a megalomaniac progressive-left playwright, with no talent. The play never ends. Nobody ever learns anything. Nobody ever cries. Love is of no interest. Everything is offensive. Nobody is ever understood, or forgiven. All quotes are always taken way out of context. Crime is not crime. Everything is flattened, numb, post-human.
And even the Rockefeller Christmas tree needs a police escort.
(Note: The first half of this article has been published in a Swedish periodical, www.Newsvoice.se, in Swedish. It was previously “killed” by a NY periodical after repeated attempts on my part to get NYPD to offer a single officer to go on record by name regarding Soros funding protesters came up dry.
I am not asserting here that “all” or even “most” protesters are paid by Soros and/or anybody else. I am only asserting what is in the text.