There’s always that scene in Batman movies, start of the third act.
Joker has gained control of Gotham.
Batman absent, maybe tied up upside down over a vat of acid.
It is chaos in the streets. Minions dressed like Cirque washouts skip around downtown, beheading the statues, spray painting the marble walls.
Yeah, this feels like that.
But instead of Batman swooping down to clean up the town in the final 12 minutes, we have a President that scurries out of his bunker long enough to hold up a Bible in front of a church.
Offscreen, peaceful protesters weep not just from anguish but from chemical sting.
Rage against the murder of a black man on the ground, pleading for just a breath of air.
This after months of isolation and unemployment, the very real fear of a killer still hanging invisibly in that air.
The avenues that were empty just a week ago are packed now.
These masks, protective devices now cloaks against government trackers, or worse: the cowardly disguise of bandits.
For the criminal element had to take advantage of the protests, using the cover of mask on the crippled businesses to go on a shopping spree.
There they go honoring George Floyd again, this time with size 10 1/2 Old Skool Vans and a 52 inch Flat Screen from Target.
The current administration seems unable to detect the difference between protester and rioter though, and urges the governors to gas em all.
Our friend Norman was hit with a rubber bullet in Minneapolis, the non lethal device fracturing his skull and bruising his very brain.
But Norm’s a tough old bird and will surely pull through with Alisha by his side our help.
Seeing the posted photos of the wounded punker bleeding over his bomber jacket, it reminded me of earlier skirmishes in the streets.
Times of violence on the asphalt and police abuse, long before cell phone cameras.
The Punk riots of the early 80’s seem almost quaint by comparison.
I mean, what was at stake, the right hold 40 oz of beer in public and to see The Exploited play a decaying ballroom?
Was it all just Cowboys and Indians cosplay on the deserted downtown streets, tribes going at it without witness just because?
But the violence was just as real, the cops just as bent on breaking in heads. Outside of Mendiolas Ballroom, we saw cops walking down the streets, breaking in store windows with their batons. The damage all to be blamed on the punk rockers running for their lives.
The monster movie thrill of running from people trying to hurt you, hiding behind walls while trying to control your breathing.
The bruises yellowed just as much, those streets also glittered with the gem of broken glass.
My daughter texted me these images of protests in downtown LA.
Our sons and daughters out there navigating the fucked up world we’ve given them.
In the month they should be celebrating graduations and proms, they brave airborne disease to say: enough.
You’re bursting, sitting there in the darkened multiplex.
The 32 ounce Diet Coke was only fifty cents more after all.
But there’s no way you are leaving your seat, not just yet.
Batman is wriggling his wrists now, fingertips just inches away from some little device that will free him.
With a faith that has been gifted in consolation, you wait for rescue..
You have hope.