Click Here to Protest - Humor - Column - Editorial

Industry Standard, The, Oct 16, 2000 by Carl Steadman

"You said this would be as addictive as online porn."

His spiel doesn't stop. "I've painstakingly captured all the gritty reality of the San Francisco Mission District--the Firetrap single-room occupancy hotels, the street vendors hawking designer knockoffs, the preachers and pushers at the BART station plaza." His clicks are fast and furious. "Can't you smell the sweet aroma of taquerias and rotting trash, the stench that is the frustration of the downtrodden working man?"

My nose twitches with undeniable odor. "You're right. Though the working man smells a lot like cotton candy."

Jerry smacks the side of a beige box. "It's been a pain getting 'desperation' out of the ScentWare SDK," he explains. He goes on. "What's really going to raise consciousness is that my virtual 'hood is inhabited by its indigenous population - I've got a starvingartistbot, and a latinobot, and ..."

"A homelessbot?" I snicker.

"Of course!" His voice is without irony. "And there's the protestbot, angry over the latest round of e-victions from dot-commification!" He stops, his face covered with smug satisfaction.

This isn't the titillation I'd come for. "Isn't online preservation sort of missing the point? When Mission District activists are screaming 'Save Our Neighborhood!' I don't think they mean bookmarking a URL."

Jerry smiles. "But that's the point. Now you can enjoy the street's eclectic cultural mix while maintaining its essential purity. Schrodinger's cat lives on! Besides, we march tomorrow!"

"Our socially responsible virtual selves can't march for us?"

"If you're not part of the solution you're mostly stupid," he replies. And then his voice becomes hushed: "Trust me. This will change your life. For the better." He tells me no more.

The next day I use public transit for the First time in years. I am truly a man of the people.

Among the many loiterers on the corner I Figure the demonstrators are those sporting cracked keyboards, with smashed CRTs as helmets. It's a good call. I find Jerry, his short-cropped hair in a black bandanna, a can of spray paint at the ready. He greets me. "Welcome to Ground Zero. You ready for this?" He seems to feed off the chaos around him.

A placard is thrust hard into my chest. I grab it reflexively. "People Without Palms!" it proclaims. I hope that nobody notices the bulge in my pants.

Bewildered, I speak the words slowly. "So. Jerry. We're protesting ourselves?"

He pumps his Fist in the air. "And I've never felt so alive!"

Through a bullhorn he screams "I'llshowyouamarketcorrection.com!" into my ear. Trudging along with the epithet-hurling crowd, I step in something soft and moist, ruining a pair of classic Adidas. I get in Jerry's face. "What makes this mode of living any more authentic than ours?" I yell, incensed. "Who's to say that we dot-commers aren't the true natives? Future anthropologists will recognize the startup as the city's first genuinely endemic culture. The Nerf guns, the dogs, the wrist braces - it all started here. Look at our butt-ugly million-dollar plywood-and-sheet-metal lofts - you don't see those in other 'communities."'

Jerry seems surprised at my outburst. "But they're...diverse."

"And we're not? We turn out new business models every six months. Want funk? Get a whiff of our carpets." I sweep my hand across the squalid cityscape.

The man is visibly annoyed with my counterpropaganda. "Just try it."

"What?"

"DOT.COM.YUPPIE.SCUM!" is Jerry's thundering answer. He motions to me.

"Gentrify this!" I say, hesitatingly.

"You've got it!" Jerry cheers, throwing his 6-foot frame against a sushi bar's glass window. "Youandyourstackofworthlessoptions.com!" foams a Kozmo.com messenger nearby.

Waves of power wash over me. Filled with confidence, I run ahead of the pack. "Down with the CDA!" I pant, scraping the key to my Audi TT along the smooth curves of an S-class Mercedes. "Feel the Digital Revolution!" becomes my battle cry as I smash in an SUV's windshield.

"Cyber Rights Now!" we scream, long into the dark San Francisco night.