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I hitched a ride with Julian Borger, a U.S. correspondent for the Guardian of London. "The only newsworthy thing that's happened all week is Colin Powell," he said. We arrived downtown in time to see a group of anarchists running back and forth a parking lot, with no particular destination, it seemed. Julian looked at the scene, and said "See you later." Apparently, he'd seen enough of this crap in London. But it was fresh to my eyes, and I plunged in without a map. I ran in one direction, following one group, and then in another, following another. I came upon 15th and JFK Boulevard, and found Philadelphia an occupied city. Everywhere I saw protesters. They had overtaken the plaza of a municipal building. They were spilling out into streets. They were blocking traffic. The police were holding them off in some places, and frantically trying to gain control in others. I saw a Department of Recreation vehicle, its tires slashed, its back window covered in yellow paint. A police athletic league van had also been disabled, and bore the spray-painted words "Execute Tom Ridge," who is Pennsylvania's Republican governor. These were backed up by a whole line of city vehicles, equally slashed, and equally trashed. Out of the haze came 500 or so protesters. They were knocking over trashcans and dragging Dumpsters into the middle of the street. They pulled American-flag bunting off the federal building, and were having good sport while kicking and tearing up garbage bags. They headed north onto Broad Street, blocking traffic. The cops used their bicycles to set up a barricade on the west side of Broad and Arch. As Jen Rehill later reported on Pacifica Radio: "Protesters turned right and went the wrong way up Arch Street. Three or four protesters pulled chain-link fencing from a construction site on Arch. They were joined by 10 or 15 more who dragged the fencing down the street. I saw one man pull down a newspaper box and a few others kick over trashcans. Nearby, I saw protesters spray painting the words "Execute Bush" on an empty police cruiser." Then, to my eyes, events turned violent. The police set up a barricade on 18th Street, so the protesters headed north to Vine Street, which was a big mistake. They turned the corner to find a police car, which they surrounded. To their right was a vacant lot, overgrown with weeds and trees. The police swooped in on their mountain bikes, and they struck, whipping people with batons, pinning them to the sidewalks. I was in the middle, and darted in an out of the lot, trying not to get hit. "You are hurting me!" I heard and saw a woman scream. "You are hurting me! Oh my God, you just hit me in the fucking face with your baton!" A kid in brown pants limped toward me. "Motherfucker hit me in the leg!" he shouted. He headed toward the particular cop in a retaliatory mode, fist raised. "Sit down, you fucking idiot!" I shouted. The police arrested a few people, pinning them to the ground. They then secured the street. Meanwhile, a white-shirted police supervisor was pouring water over his face. "They sprayed some yellow shit in his eyes," a cop said. The cops looked scared, too. "Guys," I heard one of them say, "keep your head up. They got marbles. They're throwing marbles." The supervisor went up against a chain link fence, where he inexplicably began removing his pants. A photographer, who identified himself to me as Dan McLean from the Brooklyn Bridge Press, leaned past the police to try and get a picture. "Jesus fucking Christ!" the supervisor said. "Can't a guy have any privacy?" A phalanx of cops moved toward the photographer. "Why you arresting me?" he said. "Because I want to," said the cop. "Because I want you in the fucking van." An officer turned to me and said, "Why do you people make it harder for us?" NEXT INSTALLMENT
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