No Kings

While Ours Is in His Counting House

The “No Kings” rally in Great Barrington, Mass., today was well-attended.

“If Kamala Was President,” said the sign carried by a well-dressed lady, “We’d All Be Having Brunch Right Now.”

Not all the signs were that decorous.

“Does This Ass Make My Country Look Small?” accompanied a photo of the grotesque Presidential behind.

“Our Expectations For You Were Low, But Holy F*CK!”

“In Your Guts You Know He’s Nuts.”

And the Topper: “Who’s the ‘Shithole’ Country Now?”

Self-Referential: “Now You’ve Pissed Off Grandma.” “Never Fear, ‘Aunti-FA is here.” “So Bad That This Recluse Is Here.”

Defensive: “NO ONE PAID ME TO PROTEST OUR DICTATOR I MADE THIS SIGN MYSELF.”

Historical: “A mad king caused the birth of our nation. Don’t let another one be the death of it.” “”KING GEORGE KING DONALD SAME PROBLEM DIFFERENT WIG.”

This one seemed to be a kind of homophobic (or maybe not, maybe homophilic) threat: “BIG BEAUTIFUL BILL: TRUMP’S NEXT CELL-MATE.” I have to say I kind of welcomed that one, though I should no doubt have preferred the one that said,”Queer Joy Is Resistance.”

A man wearing a silver fright wig, and a long golden robe was also wearing a sign that said, “DOWN WITH BIFF!”

“Who is BIFF? Or what?” I asked him.

“Biff!” he said. “Biff! You don’t know Biff?”

He clearly hated having to explain. “Who are this people?” he seemed to be thinking. “Back to the FutureI?” he said. Oh, yes, of course. Biff the cheating, dim-witted bully character in that film. You should probably not rely upon old-movie references in a protest rally.

Keep it simple! “The Only King I Support,” said one sign, with a photo of Martin Luther King. “I was going to put B. B. King,” she said, “but, you know.”

Lots of protesters invoked the word Fascist -- “You Fascists Bound to Lose,” for instance. Then too there were several calls for Empathy. I see that I didn’t record any of these. Unless you count, “WHO WOULD JESUS DEPORT?”

I ran into our friend Darien, who once performed a wonderful guitar solo, to an overflow crowd, from the deck of our house. “How are you doing?” Darien (I don’t know the right pronoun) asked me.

“Well, I’m alive,” I grumbled.

“And what a great time to be,” said Darien.

“Yes,” I said. A Trump-era yes. Sadder than a Johnson-era yes, or a Nixon-era yes, or a Reagan-era yes, or a Bush-era yes. A lot sadder.

The Berkshires still include some old folkies, a few of whom, out in front of the courthouse, were strumming and singing, over and over and over: “We will, we will, we will not be moved.”

And we weren’t being. By that I mean, hardly anyone was audibly connecting to the old folkies. Hardly anyone was singing along.

I picked up a stick. A nice one. No doubt detached from somebody’s sign. I will always be gathering wood for the fireplace back home.

“Lost your sign?” a man asked sympathetically.

I didn’t want to say I was scavenging. Or, there’s a better word. I was trying to think of the better word.

“What did it say?” he wondered.

“What?” I said.

“Your sign,” he said.

“’I FORGIVE FASCISTS,’” I lied.

“Huh?!” he said. Which, to be fair, is about what I would have said to him, if he had tried on such a slogan.