The World According to Carl Sagan

For the last few weeks I have been watching the original Cosmos PBS series with Carl Sagan, as well as many of his interviews.

Sagan is an advocate for science in two ways--first, an advocate of the public understanding of  scientific principles, but secondly for a sort of world order that many scientists seem to promote as ideal. He has no trouble being an advocate of a scientific political agenda, which he supports both through his influence in the scientific community, as a celebrity, and in his many books and television programs such as this one.

What would the world of the scientists be like? What Utopia do men like Sagan envision as they attempt to shepherd mankind to it?

One imagines a rather restrictive, some may even argue fascist, world in some ways. But also one of great prosperity and humanism.

Men would no longer go about trying to dominate one another through wars, through economy, through ideology, through social hierarchy, or otherwise. They would be of one culture--the planetary culture of Earth. Of one nation-the planet Earth. One government--the World government.

Humans would live in a classless society, a single nation at peace everywhere. People of all shapes and sizes, man or woman, fit and thin, athletic to physically disabled,  no physical difference would have any significance, because it was no longer of any relevance. Man would be not a body, but a collection of many organs whose full duty was to service the mind.

And since mankind was no longer involved in any of those activities--having outgrown them, considering them an embarrassing barbarism of youth, before the enlightened era had fully manifested itself--what, then, did mankind do?

Well, of course--science. There each man would sit, clad in identical sky-blue turtlenecks, carefully monitoring and measuring the condition of the earth. Its temperature, the thickness of its ozone layer, and its over all condition. A nurse monitoring the vital signs of an inert patient. Protecting it from meteorites and gamma ray bursts using funding for ever-more advanced technology.

Society would be, at this stage, a perfectly rational and organized machine. Monitored constantly and continually refined for maximum efficiency. And with wealth and resources distributed to each according to his fullest desire, with plenty and abundance for all, due to the advances in the technologies which feed a very high quality of life, the world over.

And so men would have nothing left to do but to pursue knowledge.A world of scholars, engineers and Laputian measure-ers. Turning their attention to curing the last few ailments of mankind, and forever probing the cosmos for new information to discover. There would be, of course, a place in society for the passions, but these were to be satisfied by high art--sophisticated art, the cerebral and the conceptual. And, of course, all such media would be subject to approval by the state as beneficial to society and its emotional well-being. Nothing too course, or too vulgar as to reawaken man's more base desires. Such things were to be regarded as a threat, and such artists were chastised both by the state and by its citizens alike. There would be also an over-representation of the societal importance of Bach, incidentally.

There would be of course, many who argued that man had the right to live in a free society, and that we must not be too totalitarian in the name of rationality, equity, and peace. So, such allowances would be provided. There would be a place in the World Society for these notions as well.

For example, there would be, officially, a free market. Men would be free to design whatever new devices their wildest imaginations could devise. However, all products were subject to strict evaluation. Nothing that was deemed detrimental to the well-being of the Earth or human society would be allowed to be produced. By the well-being of the Earth, it would be understood that this meant that it does not in any way affect the Earth's flora and fauna, or affect its overall climate, or disrupt in any way the perfectly maintained balance of the planet. The well-being of human society might include forbidding the stimulus of too much of the negative human impulses of physical or verbal violence, social or sexual domination, and selfishness or intolerance. And obviously, the largest industry of all, formerly of war, would now be the production of scientific technologies. 

So it was that, like the philosophers once dreamt of a world ruled by Philosopher-kings, so too the scientists dream of a World Republic of Scientist-kings. As Sagan himself often stated, it is perhaps man's eternal fate to put himself at the center of every universe he imagines.

This Utopia, this World Republic of Scientist-kings, would march on and on, gaining ever more knowledge and with it power over the natural world…the solar system…the cosmos. Growing ever more enlightened and sophisticated. Stretching to the edges of the galaxy. And along the way,  perhaps finding other creatures, themselves as peaceful, enlightened, and dedicated to science as our Earthly Scientist-kings. And we would then, sooner or later, join with them to exchange knowledge and technology, and ultimately further assimilate all of life into the now Universal Society. A Universal Life. One universe becoming ever more conscious of itself. The Universal Life becoming a guardian and master of the entire universe.

In effect, mankind, perhaps along with the intelligent beings of other worlds, becoming the very God that mankind had imagined in the beginning. Omniscient, omnipotent, and all-loving. A God created out of man, and brought forth through the powers of man--that is, science.

It is at once a terrifyingly surreal, but also inspiring thought.

Mash up of many interviews and parts of Cosmos:
https://youtu.be/MrZ4197C1I0

Cosmos (1980):
https://youtu.be/T6C9taivF40

Life Hack: Print Out Webpages Into a Book So Everyone Will Think You’re More Sophisticated Than They Are

            It’s a well proven fact that modern technology has ruined our relationships, and society in general. We’ve given up the ability to make shallow small talk with strangers on the bus who just can’t seem to leave us alone in exchange for the paltry ability to speak instantly to our loved ones from around the world. For the pale and trifling sum of having the world’s knowledge available at our fingertips in an easily verifiable manner, we have lost the immeasurable joy of talking out of our ass about the facts as we half-remember them for hours, weeks, years, until we have time to go to the library, or to an expert whom we personally know, and confirm our convictions.

            Since internet culture has become more and more popular and mainstream, well educated socially conscious special people--the guardians of society--have warned us of such dangers, as well as others. But the poor masses, doomed forever to roam the earth as ignorant children in need of guidance, have stubbornly refused to heed the call, and have persisted to so foolishly enjoy themselves without moral umbrage.

           

            Prove you’re smarter than all that with this amazing Lifehack! Following these simple instructions will turn any socially malignant webpage into a good ol’ traditional book.

1.    Type the URL of the desired book into your browser

 

This, unfortunately, requires actually operating a computer, but at least it is in the privacy of your own home, so nobody will know. Later, you can confess your sins to your local priest. Be sure to put on gloves and eye protection to protect yourself from the evil machine’s harmful mind rays. They may make you fall asleep and turn into a sheeple.

2.     When the page is loaded, go to File > Print, or simply press Command+P

3. Repeat until you have printed out every page of the website

This could take some time…

4. Staple the pages together

           

            Once printed, staple the pages together. If desired, place them into a manila envelope or bind the pages together and create your own DIY cover for extra hipster points!

5. Enjoy!

Voila!—that’s French for you masses of uncultured swine—enjoy your newfangled piece of literature! It may not be as convenient as a webpage, but any pretentious snob will tell you that it’s the older, and therefore superior, medium.

-----

            Be sure to take your new library with you on the bus, to your favorite coffee place, or other places where insufferable pseudo intellectuals like to congregate. When people ask why you’re carrying around a suitcase full of hundreds of papers, binders and folders, make sure to announce in a self-satisfied tone—“oh, this? Why this is a book. Ever head of one? You see, I don’t do internet anymore. I feel you can only really appreciate written communication in its pure form. Not flipping through a phone like some sort of mindless zombie.”

            When some unwashed rube tries to sully your eyes with whatever base, trivial thing is trending online, guide him along his way: “yah, I guess reddit is alright…sometimes—but have you read the book?”

           

            Be sure to talk down to those lesser than you. Tell them to take their face out of their phone and urge them to “wake up” unironically. By no means mind your own business. If possible, distribute leaflets educating them of their misguided way of life.

            While it might not seem like much on its own, this is merely one of a myriad of ways you can stay behind the curve, steadfastly resisting a world in constant flux, in which familiarity with technology is an increasingly vital part of everyday life, your career, and competently interacting with society as a whole.

            Now, hurry, do it before everyone else does and it becomes adult uncool!

Also from Lifehacker (recommended for you):

Adapt or Don’t:

20 New Gadgets To

Drag Your Feet On

Throwing Your Lot In With

The Amish

10 Reasons why Kids

These Days are Such Brats

How to Shop for Your

First Pair of Adult Diapers

Think of the Children:

A Concerned Mother

On Why Fun is Dangerous

Recreational Activism:

5 Ways to Change the

World Without Lifting A Finger

The Story of Abraham

Muslims, Jews, Christians--they don't exactly see eye to eye on everything. But, they all agree on one thing: Abraham is the coolest guy ever. He's the father of both the original, kosher bible club, and all of its many spinoffs. Yet, his story is relatively obscure next to the more poplar sequels, your Moseses and your Mohammeds, and I suppose, for some, maybe your Joseph Smithses, or what have you. But Abraham did it first, so let's take a look at his story and hopefully we can figure out what has made so many people dedicate their entire lives to this no doubt fine specimen of human excellence.

So, basically, Abraham was a very rich guy who moved all of his family from a place called Ur--yes, "Ur." It was the olden days so I assume it had been named by some sort of caveman who had started the city a few years prior--into a land called Canaan because he said God gave the land unto him, even though the Canaanites were already living there. Did I mention that this guy was the first Jew? Anyways, so Abraham was super rich, like Steve Jobs, except back then instead of iPhones and stuff they mostly just had goats. This was before credit cards, before paper money--a lot of people in places that were at the HEIGHT of civilization were still on the fucking barter system back then. No electricity, not even steam engines. The best technology ran on Ox power. Like they were the fucking Flintstones. No astronomy, no medical science, no science period. Philosophy hadn't even been fucking invented. Thinking had just been invented last Tuesday and was still in beta testing. All this is just to put into context how primitive these people were in whose understanding of the world we put our unconditional faith.

Anyways, so Abraham, the Steve Jobs of the thriving goat herding industry, was sleeping in his grass hut or whatever, when God apparently started talking to him and telling him to do shit. And so the next day he called together all his goats, and his slaves--because he owned a LOT of slaves--and his handmaidens and his whole entourage and he tells them all about the conversation he just had with God (so cult family members reading this, I'm sorry to burst your bubble, but Abraham beat you by a few thousand years). And they all fucking believe him, of course, because once again, this is before modern inventions--like evidence. Abraham couldn't record God on his cellphone camera, he couldn't even take an 1800s grainy sepia tone photograph. If something happened and you wanted to record it back then, you had to paint a fucking picture of it--and not a good, Michelangelo oil painting either. The best they had back then were basically stick figures, and you had to chisel them out of a clay tablet. Why? Because there was not even. fucking. paper. So, everyone just had to take his word for it. And, we've been taking his word for it ever since.

So, Abraham tells all his goats and handmaidens the amazing news that omnipotent God decided to give to him. Was it, maybe, the secret to electricity? Penicillin? No. Much, much, better. God commands that he cut the tip of his dick off. Just put yourself in one of these slaves' shoes for a minute. Imagine, for example, you've got a boss that's a little bit loony tunes, and one day you come into work and he starts talking to you about his conversations with God, the omnipotent creator of the universe. And last night God told him to mutilate his penis. Oh wait, it gets scarier. Because not only are you this guys employee, but you have to live with him on his estate. He's your roommate--and landlord! And he has complete power over you. He can starve you, he can leave you out naked in the cold, he can beat you, he can rape you, he can sell you to someone else who can do the same and worse because he literally OWNS you. And then he starts talking about how God told him to mutilate his penis. That's about where you stand as a slave at this point in the story. But wait, we're not done yet. It still gets better. Not only, Abraham continues, does God command that HE cuts off the tip of HIS dick, but every male in the household--including his slaves--also gets their dick off, too. That means you! And this is going to be an ongoing thing from now on. If he buys anyone else from some other rich goat tycoon at some later date--welcome new recruit to the Abraham family, here is your complimentary welcome basket complete with getting the tip of your dick cut off.

Then we cut to the B story with Lot in Sodom and Gomorrah where God rains burning sulfur on the city, thus putting an end to sodomy once and for all. Lot's wife gets turned to salt, but that's okay because Lots daughters have drunken sex with their father, thus ensuring the family line continues. Because God might find gay sex icky, but father-daughter incest on the other hand, is super hot! Between that and the unhealthy obsession with forced circumcision, I'm beginning to think God might have an interesting youporn search history. Well, you know, I guess it's always the guys that seem so puritanical on the outside…can't judge a book by its cover and all that… Now back to Abraham.

So, Abraham keeps talking to God and chopping people's dick head skin off for a number of years. God, seeing as how he already promised Abraham all of that land that already belonged to other people, decides that maybe Abraham needs to get around to having a son, seeing as how him and his wife are in their 90s and childless, otherwise his covenant might end a bit prematurely, and his chosen people wouldn't be around to get choosed. And that would ruin his whole third act with all those handsome Nazi uniforms. So God hands Abraham a bottle of his newest creation, Viagra, and commands Abraham to have saggy, wrinkly, 90-year-old sex with his geriatric wife. Okay, so far, so good. God demands old person sex.…certainly fits in with his unusual sexual fixations, but no harm done I suppose. Well, until God starts telling Abraham to start killing people. Darn. Talking to God always seems to be going so well until he starts commanding you to kill. So God tells Abraham to sacrifice his son, Quetzalcoatl style, on top of a mountain. So Abraham gets on his donkey and tells Isaac they're going on a little trip to Disneyland. Yay!

Some might consider the next part of the story to be blatant emotional and psychological abuse towards Abraham, not to mention his son. But you decide. Imagine you're the son of this psychopath who mutilates his slaves and claims to speak to God, as we've already established. One day, pops calls you to come help perform a sacrifice. You gather up some firewood, and an axe, and your good sacrificial blood collecting bucket, and you head up the mountain. But, somethings missing. "Don't we need to pack a sacrificial animal?" You ask.  "Oh, I'm sure God will provide someone--er I mean, something" says Abe, shifting his eyes from side to side menacingly. Oh shit. It's the day I always feared. Pa's finally gone and snapped. Or so Isaac presumably began to think. Or perhaps not. It seems people were a little bit more naive back then because when they get to the top of the mountain Isaac allows Abraham to tie him up over the firewood like Joan of Arc about to be burned at the stake, and shows no sign of struggle. Or maybe he was just the most retarded kid ever. Anyways, at the last minute, just as Abraham is pouring lighter fluid over little Isaac's head, God sends a lamb to sacrifice and informs Abraham that he just got punk'd. So, God didn't actually have Abraham kill anyone (THIS time). Instead, he was just up to one of his rascally old tricks. But, if he hadn't, Abraham would have totally been down to slit his own son's throat and burn his little body to the voices in his head. No doubt about it. At this point, any reasonable person would have gotten the fuck out of there. Maybe he could run away to Uncle Lot's house…sure, he'd have to worry about keeping him away from the liquor cabinet but at least then no one's trying to kill him. But, instead, Isaac seems to be unfazed by the attempted murder. They all have a good laugh and God gives them all a PSA about the "importance of faith."

That's the point of the story that we are supposed to take from it, it was a test of his faith. To see how far Abraham would go for his religion. And this steadfast, unwilling-to-compromise faith has remained a cornerstone of Abrahamic religion ever since. If you aren't willing to kill for God, what good are you?

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the story of Abraham, father of the Jewish, Muslim and Christian religions.  Explains a lot, doesn't it? Thousands of years later, as we sit in our air-conditioned houses tapping away on laptop computers capable of transmitting data from here to Jerusalem in seconds, people continue to follow this man who would by modern standards be a criminally insane schizophrenic. Not to mention ignorant to the point of apparent mental retardation. And not just a few people. Millions of them. In fact, an overwhelming MAJORITY.

And they demand, of course,  that you respect their religion.

ATTACK OF THE INTERNET

Joe Shoemaker was a senior reporter at Riverfield's most respected paper, the Daily Yesterday. He was busy typing up the paper's lead story--Millenials: Will They Ever Get Off of Our Lawns? when suddenly the Managing Editor, Abe Goldstien rushed into the room.

"STOP THE PRESSES!" he yelled.

There were no presses here. It was just a figure of speech. Did they even use presses like that anymore?

Abe called the journalists into his office, explaining that he had an unbelievable and amazing story that they must investigate and bring to public light as soon as possible. He was a grey-haired, pudgy, mostly bald man who dressed in an expensive dark-grey suit with suspenders. He was always smoking a big cheap cigar, which everyone allowed him to due in spite of modern smoking laws, just as he had since he had assumed control of the paper in 1954.

"This morning, at precisely 6am," began Abe, "I was suddenly and mysteriously unable to access my emails."

"Did you call your Nephew?"

"Yes, I called my Nephew. But he, suspiciously, never returned my calls. So, naturally, I called Microsoft to figure out what was going on. Told them my emails were acting highly irregular. However, they too were somehow unable to assist me, and suggested I speak to my email's server. Just as I was hanging up the phone, my emails began to work again--inexplicably. But in it, was a mysterious message that had not been there the last time I had logged in to my internet. Fearing it may be spyware, I was at first hesitant to open it, but I mustered up my courage and pressed on. Inside the message, it said…"

Abe dramatically paused here, and took a long sip from his coffee.

"that my emails had been hacked with a virus! Obviously I was very startled by this news, as my computer contains so much sensitive information on developing stories which we can not afford to have leaked to the public. The email told me that I could remove this virus, but I didn't have much time, I needed to respond to the email as soon as possible.

Obviously, I lost no time responding. A second email was sent, instructing me to call a very long number immediately. On the other end of the phone, a gentleman with a very oriental accent answered the phone. At this time I was still panicking. 'I have sensitive information on my hard disks!' I explained 'I cannot allow my email to become corrupted'!

'Yes, yes sir. I understand.' said the oriental man. 'Luckily, I can help you. I have a program that I can email you that will remove any virus. First, I'll need to scan your computer. Please, sir, search for a file on your computer called cmd.exe. That'll be the virus right there.'

'Okay. I'm typing cmd.exe into my google…now what do I do?'

'...yah, it's saying you have over 3,000 viruses Im afraid'

'Sweet jumping Jesus! …on my servers?'

'…yah…but don't worry. I can email you this antivirus program to get rid of them. It's called keys_log.exe. It will only cost you $150. Then you'll never have to worry about viruses ever again. Could I get your credit card information sir?' "

"Stirring!"

"Did it work?!"

"I thought so, at first. Until I received a call at  around10:30 from Ron, head of Internet Security for the Daily Yesterday. Someone, or something, has hacked the network of all of the Daily Yesterday's servers. They are, as I understand it, spying on our every move. Every word we type, every email we send, or every search we put into google, is being watched. In other words--we at the press have been bugged."

Gasps.

"Bugged?"

"Clearly, we have been targeted by some outside entity hostile to the press. No doubt they were behind the hacking of my emails earlier this morning, as well. If I hadn't installed that antivirus software, who knows what they could have gotten away with! But that left me with one last pressing question: who could be behind this? Who would have both the motive and the means to attack one of the largest and most respected publications in all of the Midwest west of Chicago? That's when it hit me--"

Dramatic pause.

"--it was the internet!"

Gasps.

"The internet?"

"Yes! Gentlemen, the internet has hacked my servers."

"But--but why?"

"it's simple really. We all know that so-called 'New Media' fad is due to end any day now. And then  we respectable, serious paper publications, shall rise from the ashes in a triumphant Second Golden Age of Journalism. This is what the Internet fears."

"Amazing!"

"I didn't even know there was a first Golden Age of Journalism!"

"Wow!"

"So, they've decided to take us out now, while they've still got the chance. Starting with us at the Daily Yesterday."





To Be Continued...









































...never

On Top of The Hill

On the top of the hill, the President had dinner with a Hollywood Producer of children's programming. A man that had not tried to change the world, just make a lot of money. 

The Producer had invited the President to a fundraising event at a great big house on the tip top of Beverly Hills. There was a catered dinner and expensive bottles of Champagne. The reception was at the house of Magic Johnson. The other guests, while some less known, were no less influential. Dress was formal. Tickets ran $16,200 per person. 

The Producer was a billionaire. The 144th richest person in America. Over the years, he had donated millions of dollars to politicians like the President. Clinton had described him as a “very good friend and supporter.” In the 2000 election, he was the 5th largest individual donor to the Democratic Party, and in 2002 he had spent seven million dollars to buy them a shiny new Democratic National Committee headquarters. The next year, perhaps in the spirit of bipartisanship, he had donated to the reelection campaign of George W. Bush. Any politician, Republican or Democrat, who used their political power to the Producer’s pleasure was sure to find his campaign much, much richer. 

And any politician who did something that displeased him could be sure that they would hear about it. As in 2008, when he, with many other influential donors to the Democratic Party, composed and signed a letter to Nancy Pelosi warning her not to seek the Democratic nomination, or lose her funding (the donors were upset over some earlier comments she had made concerning the party’s superdelegates). 

It’s not every man who could make a credible threat to the third most powerful person in the world. The Producer wielded his vast fortune like a hammer. Politicians either used it to crush their opponents or were crushed under it. So needless to say, the President wisely accepted his invitation. 

He lived in the great big house on the tip top of the hill, in Beverly Park. From there, he looked from his bedroom window down over the lights of the vast American city of Los Angeles. 

Life was good. 

=-=
On the bottom of the hill, a small crowd gathered in Roy Roger’s Memorial Park. They were black specks from the Producer’s window. Were they people? They could have been anything. Dust stuck to the glass, perhaps.
And in the hands of these little specks were white, square pieces of confetti of some sort. Their significance was indiscernible from the top of the hill, to the President or to the Producer. But if we moved outside of the great big house, and out the gate of Beverly Park, and winded further and further down the meandering streets of Beverly Hills, and went past the Beverly Hotel, and out into the park,

until we were down in the streets with the specks—so that the Producer’s house was lost to our sights, far behind and above us--then we might see what they were. 

The white, square confetti were, in fact, protest signs. They were of all shapes and sizes. Most were the typical handmade variety, of some sort of heavy cardstock and fastened onto long wooden stakes, slogans written in cheap marker in messy block letters. These had a variety of slogans, “kill the TPP,” “TPP GTFO” “TPP kills democracy” and the like. Others were nice and laminated, clean computer- designed banners that said “ban fracking.” These had nothing to do with this particular protest whatsoever. They were from last week’s protest, apparently. A latina woman with cherry-red hair, buzzed short on the sides, explained that it had been “her cause for the last 4 months.” She was the leader of this event, and she carried a megaphone in her hands and passed out sheets of paper with the lyrics for the evening’s chants. Protesting was, it would seem, how she spent her spare time. Then there was the centerpiece, and most impressive of the signage. A cardboard train reinforced by plywood that was worn like a sandwich-board over a protestor’s entire body. “It took us 2 weeks to make this,” said a man with grey hair pulled back into a ponytail. I wondered silently to myself what the Producer would have been able to accomplish in as much time. 

The Protestor’s mission for that evening was for the President to see their signs and hear their chants. “We’re going to make so much noise he can hear us all the way up the hill!” promised one of the organizers, triumphantly. 

Since 2010, lobbyists from 12 countries had met in secret to discuss laws that would affect the food these protestors ate, the freedom of the internet they used, their rights to freedom of speech, the medicine they would have access to...just about every facet of their daily lives. These laws would, according to the document, supersede the local laws of each constituent country, including the United States, and they would be passed without going through the usual legislative process of the Congress, undermining its democratic system. They would also put even more money into the pockets of media emperors like the Producer. No one was meant to have known any of this, of course. It was reported that something called the TPP was being discussed, and that was about as far as anyone could know. It was only after Wikileaks released the part of the document concerning intellectual property rights that anyone had any idea what this document would mean for the citizens of any of the 12 nations. 

And so that is what brought these people here to Roy Rogers Park, right across from Beverly Hills, down the hill. Word had spread to them, somehow, of the scheduled fundraising meeting above, and they hoped that the President’s motorcade would pass by their little white squares and hear their chants and cries as he made his way up to the party on top of the hill. 

Originally, as was explained to me later, they had planned on a much more formal meeting with the President. Apparently, they had managed to raise the few thousand dollars necessary to attend the Producer’s event. But when they had taken their money and gone up to the tip top of the hill earlier that week to try to buy their ticket, they discovered that their money was no good there.
“They kept asking us for our name,” they explained, “the name was worth more than the money.”

So, having gathered in a large mob led by their Leader, the woman with the megaphone, the protesters took their signs and marched towards the entrance to Beverly Hills, chanting as they went. 

“Hey TTP, you can’t hide! We can see your corporate side!” “We want to—“
“Stop the TPP!”
“We need to—“
“Stop the TPP!”
“Hey TPP, whatayasay how many lives have you ruined today!” And other such refrains. 

The police, who at times have not always been on the best terms with protestors, showed no signs of resistance, By all appearances they were actually quite helpful. The officer gently escorted the mob to their designated destination. On the way, as they all turned the corner past the Beverley Hotel, a grey hair stopped where he stood, “Wait! Wait! Hey!” 

A few people turned their heads and asked for an explanation.

“Fuck the police! They’re leading us the wrong way man!” he shouted, “The Beverley Hotel’s that way!” “We’re not going to the Beverley Hotel.”
“We’re not? But that’s where the President’s staying!”
“No, he’s not. He’s going to a fundraiser on top of the hill.”
“Oh.” he said, disappointed. 

The Protestors arrived at their destination and chanted some more. The residents of Beverly Hills were quite supportive for the most part. Those passing by in their Lexuses honked in support. Other residents came outside to see what all the fuss was about and talk to the protestors. Others used the demonstration as a civics lesson of sorts, grabbing their kids and gesturing towards us, explaining something inaudible.
The Protestors arrived at a street corner near the entrance to the top of the hill and waited for the motorcade. They chanted and chanted on the streets of Beverley Hills. They wove their signs and they banged on drums and blew whistles. 

After quite some time, as the sun started to set, I asked “When is the President coming?”

“The motorcade is supposed to pass by at 5,” they said
“It’s 5:15 right now. Guess he’s running a little late...”
“Any minute now, any minute...”
Hours passed. More chanting. More drumming. More bell ringing. But still no sign of the President. They chanted and chanted all the more, and dusk passed into nightfall.
Cars began to pile up, due to police blockades further down the road. As the night grew darker, fewer passersby continued to care about the TPP. They cared more about getting out of traffic and going home to their families.
“Aw, look at all the poor rich people stuck in traffic,” said a Guy Fawkes-masked protestor behind me, “Fuck the bourgeoisie.” 

The people in traffic might have lived in Beverly Hills, but they lived at the bottom. They were professionals, most likely. Separated from the Protestors only by slightly nicer clothes, slightly nicer cars, slightly nicer houses. Personally, I did not think they owned the means of production.
The night crept on. It quickly became clear that Mr. President was not coming. Some of the protestors, content that they had done their part to raise awareness anyhow, left. Others stayed at the corner to chant through the night. 

The Leader with the megaphone, however, rounded up a close group of followers for a special mission. They were going to track down the President, one way or another. Even if they had to march all the way up to the top of the hill. 

And so the hunt for the President began.
=-=
The elite team included me, the Leader with the megaphone, two Guy Fawkes masks: the one who hated the bourgeoisie and another in a jester’s hat, and a dozen or two of the old grey haired hippy types.
We wandered through the winding streets of Beverly Hills, Leader still chanting through the megaphone. Police with headlights flashing followed close behind, half escorting us and half keeping an eye on us.
We climbed higher and higher up the hill. 

“C’mon guys, we’ve got to make it to the very top! That’s where the President is! That’s where the media is!” said the Leader. 

But the media was not there. And where they were hardly mattered. For all I could tell, they might as well have played hookie. They had been somewhere, doing something, but what exactly was impossible to tell.
Three of their vans had been parked on the side of the road from the very start of the protest, when we were still assembling in the park across the street. And there they sat off to themselves: one for ABC7, one for KTLA, and one for RT. And they sat and they sat. In them, there was a camera and two reporters, and all I had seen any of them do, for hours, was sit in the car and play on their iPads. Out from one of the vans, the one from RT, someone finally emerged to interview a representative from the Electronic Freedom Foundation. But the other two, KTLA and ABC7, interviewed no one. They sat in their vans and played on their iPads all day long, savoring the slow news day. 

Later, watching the story on the news, I saw the full extent of their coverage. The headline was: “Traffic ‘Snarled’ In Los Angeles Due To Obama's Fundraising Trip.” 
They showed maybe a second of footage of the protestors, without going into any detail about what the protestors were going on about. Then they explained in great detail, complete with graphic illustrations, about when the President would come riding through different areas of the city, so that motorists could avoid those areas and not be late going to or coming from work. 

On and on, the Protestors winded upwards, to the top of the hill. It seemed much bigger from the inside, and the more we walked the more the bigger it seemed to get.
The residents came out to the street to see why people were marching through their neighborhood after sundown, chanting and shouting and waving around signs. They stood on the curb, husband wife and child, staring at us like people passing by a car accident. 

“Did you know that the government is operating in secrecy?” cried the Leader at one of the residents, a man who looked like he had just gotten back from walking his dog, standing leash in hand in the driveway.
“No. How’s that?” he asked.

But before he could respond, the Leader had already passed up the road and gone back to cheerleading: “When healthy food is under attack, what do we do? Stand up fight back!”
The other Protestors shouted back in the general direction the question had come from.
“Don’t drink the water!” shouted one.
“Turn off that TV! I highly recommend!” shouted another.
“Don’t drink the water and don’t breathe the air!”

“Washing the vegetables still won’t help!”
Good, we were raising awareness. 

For everything anyone could possibly complain about in the world, some protestor or another had a slogan to shout. The man looked back at us with a confused look on his face. One of the Guy Fawkes masks--the one with the jester’s hat--walked by him waving his “Stop the TPP” sign enthusiastically.
Eventually we reached a point where the sidewalk ended, and the police informed us that we could not legally walk in the middle of the street, and now needed to turn back home. The Protestors were not happy with this. They had a right to assemble. They had an important mission to personally deliver their message to the President. 

“They do it on purpose!” said one of the grey hairs, “It’s not our fault there’s no sidewalk! They do it on purpose!”
“I’m not telling you that you can’t be here to make your point, I’m just telling you that the safest place to do that is down at the bottom of the hill,” said the cop. 

But the protestors did not want to go back to the police-designated protest zone. They started to get angry. Shouts of defiance periodically rang out at the officer. For a fleeting moment, the only time during the whole ordeal, I felt the power of the mob. Sure, the cops might have all had pepper spray and clubs and even guns. But there was just something so intimidating about an angry mob, on an almost instinctual level. It felt as if they sat just on the edge of some scary powerful chaos and anarchy, boiling just below the crust of civility, capable of spilling over at any moment and for any reason, like a pack of angry gorillas in Occupy Wallstreet T-shirts. If there were more of us, if we were younger and angrier, it would have felt all the scarier. It would have put us on a much more level playing field with the authorities. We might have been in a position to negotiate, pepper spray and guns nonwithstanding. 

And as it happened, we did negotiate. Another one of the grey hairs, who had just retaken her driving test, pointed out that it was perfectly legal for us to walk in the street where there was no sidewalk, so long as it was against traffic. So we all crossed to the left side of the street and marched on. The cops didn’t seem to care to press the point. They continued to cooperate. 

“Happy protesting!” they said, in that voice that cops have, as if talking to children. A few of them parked their cars beside us and smiled wryly as we passed by, as if they knew something that we didn’t know.
It seemed like we were wandering for hours. But the houses never ended. The motorcade never appeared. We just kept wandering and wandering. Looking for the President. Trying to be heard. Trying to change the world for the better. Trying to have some control over our lives. Trying to do something. Anything. 

“How much longer to the Producer’s house?” I asked the man next to me.

“30 minutes,” he said, staring at his iPhone like it was a Geiger counter.
“...how long is it really?”
“30 minutes,” he said, face to phone, giving a readout, “we’re going at a very slow pace...”
“I can’t walk that far! My car is going to get towed in 30 minutes!”
I guess I had expected that we would be there a few hours, the President would pass by, woo hoo mission accomplished, and we’d all go home. I hadn’t planned on a hike all the way up the hill.
“I don’t think the President’s coming this way, anyways.” “Why not?”
“Earlier, this place was full of cops blocking off these roads. Just dozens of them. Tons of them. Now there’s only the handful that are trailing us. We changed the course of the Presidential motorcade. They had to change the course of the Presidential motorcade for us!”
He was so excited.
Well, at least we had made a difference. 

After another half hour, I was forced to give up on them and made the long trip back down the hill. I left them to wander. The presidential motorcade had to be in there somewhere, and when they found it, he would have no choice but to see their signs and banners and hear their chants. I wished them luck.
What would happen after he saw them, and how this accomplished anything, nobody explained to me. But at least we were “out here, doing something about it instead of sitting at home in front of the TV!” a fact they took great pride in repeating to each other. 

What exactly we were doing, I still don’t know.
The Protestors never did find the motorcade. After walking for about two miles, the police finally succeeded in making them turn back down the hill.
=-=
At the top of the hill, the President sipped champagne with the Producer. “Sorry I’m late. We had to take the back road.” 

Media helicopters flew overhead, getting aerial shots of the Producer’s mansion for the evening news.
Down the hill, remnants of the protest slowly dwindled. 

Its members broke apart, and little by little they scattered up and down the streets aimlessly, like pieces of rubbish caught in the wind. The lights of Los Angeles towered above them, oblivious and uninterested in the people at the bottom of the hill.

=-=-=-=-=-=-