When I was a teenager in the projects on the edge of the college town of Ann Arbor, MI., I listened to the university licensed radio station WCBN-FM which played Dead Kennedys singer Jello Biafras spoken word albums constantly. As I washed the dishes in our tiny kitchen, I heard every comedic detail of the obscenity trial and every trivial factoid about Tipper Gore's crusade against obscene rock.
Years later, I was living in a large collective household in Philadelphia with a bunch of AIDS activists. On the eve of his presidential campaign, Al Gore's congressional committee threatened trade sanctions against South Africa to stop them from manufacturing their own versions of patented HIV medications.
My housemates started disappearing for days at a time. Nobody would tell me where they were. Then they started showing up on CNN. They disrupted every Al Gore campaign appearance for the first several weeks of the campaign. They became masters of an activist technique that would eventually be known as "bird dogging." They were becoming quickly famous and kicking Al Gore's ass politically but still the trade sanctions that meant death for millions of South African AIDS patients were still going through.
The actions became more difficult to pull off though. Secret Service were looking out for them and keeping them out. They needed fresh faces to keep the campaign going. I was drinking whiskey with them on the porch one night, and they asked me if I could clean up my punk rock image enough to pass as a young college democrat for the day.
They woke me up in the morning and handed me some background information. I showered off my hangover and put on some khakis and a button up shirt. I waited on the porch.
The New York activists had been up all night doing press work. They had been delayed at the car rental place renting an SUV. They were giddy and punchy and in the middle of the most relevant and famous campaign of their lives. There was a lot of traffic on the way down. We got to the college democrat conference late. We had missed Al Gore.
Later that day, across town, there was another fundraiser. Some of the hosters were aids activist allies, and it had not been decided what was the strategic opportunity we wanted to use at the event. Gays and Lesbians for Gore were hosting a fundraiser for the democratic contender with keynote speaker his wife Tipper Gore. My hair rose with my adolescent punk rock rage at Tipper Gore's name. We caught a cab across town.
In one of the fanciest hotels I had ever set foot in, we waited in the lobby for another team of people and drew too much attention to ourselves. The other team arrived and we wrote a bad check for the four of us. Secret Service approached us and asked, "What's on the agenda today guys?" We stared like deer in the headlights, and said, "Sorry?" The young intern who had registered ran up to us apologetically. She had given us the wrong buttons. She substituted rainbow ones for the solid blue ones she had given us.
We were let in. There was a massive buffet table and free Heinikin served in wine glasses. We had not eaten all day and were trying not to act like homeless people whove snuck into an Old Country Buffet. There was a horrible band of gay frat boys playing Bonnie Raitt covers and filthy rich same sex couples dancing and spinning each other. The air crackled with excitement and my head pulsed with nervous energy.
The band stopped and there were a bunch of introductory speeches. People saying things like, And this is a historic thing that we have such a large fundraiser and that we were encouraged by the candidate to support him. And other statements were made like, Al Gore may not always do what we want him to do, but he has our best interest in heart.
We spread out through the room as a buzzing murmur spread through the place. A door opened and there she was. The freedom hating demoness of my teen years, Tipper Gore floated up to the podium. A hush fell as she began to speak.
In the middle of her first paragraph, a cymbal sounded from the bands drumset in the corner. People thought that the drummer was playing a rimshot for Tippers joke until the neatly dressed woman in the corner belted out, WHY IS THE INFECTION RATE IN ZIMBABWE She was drowned out by boos and ushered out by secret service. Tipper was unnerved and mumbled something about being in lots of meetings about those issues. The crowd began chanting louder and louder, TIPPER! TIPPER! TIPPER! TIPPER! TIPPER! TIPPER! TIPPER! TIPPER! TIPPER!
I let her stop lilting and regain her composure. I took a deep breath and channeled Jello Biafra. I let her say another few lines and then let loose. WHY ARE DRUG COMPANIES PROFITING OFF OF MEDICATIONS DEVELOPED WITH US TAX DOLLARS! A man with a skinny mustache put his hand over my mouth. I backed away from him and watched him stand there with his hand out like a Supremes drag show. The secret service guys surrounded me repeating, Comewithussir, Comewithussir, Comewithussir, Comewithussir. I was ushered through an exit door into a service corridor. The chants of TIPPER!TIPPER!TIPPER! got even louder and more bloodthirsty.
The guy after me got beaten up. He was shaken up but okay. One of the organizers apologized to him. The last woman was separated from us until we got kicked out into the street. Tipper barely finished her speech. Even after the last disruption she was cringing in preparation for the next one.
All this time, I kept thinking about the band the punk band the Dead Kennedys and lead singer Jello Biafras war with this woman who I had just publicly embarrassed. I thought about the spark that his conflict had lit in me to fight other serious injustices and lead me to this additional action against one familys evil empire.
We were giving effusive answers to a litany of questions that the Secret Service guy was asking us. We got asked what we were protesting and my fellow protester angrily spat out the words, Al Gore is threatening to kill millions of South African AIDS patients with trade sanctions to protect the profits of bloodsucking pharmaceutical companies AND WE HATE TIPPERS HAIR!
I whirled around towards the secret service agent with an angry finger pointing in the air towards him ready to give him a history lesson about how Tipper Gore and her Parents Music Resource Center had lead a crusade to limit my youthful access to militant self expression. I paused midsentence when I realized that the man in front of me was probably not a student of the said youth subculture and had the potential to wildly misinterpret what I meant when invoking the band name, Dead Kennedys.
I DID IT FOR THE D---, I did it for punk rock!
The agent was making list on an envelope. Aids, South Africa, hairstyle, punk rock. He made vague threats about what would happen to us if we showed up at another campaign event. He informed us we would never again be welcome in that hotel again. He handed us over to local police who made us stay across the street.
Two days later, JFK Jr.s plane disappeared over the ocean. I had narrowly avoided implicating myself in an accidental tragedy by saying Dead Kennedys to a secret service agent.
Years later, I was living in a large collective household in Philadelphia with a bunch of AIDS activists. On the eve of his presidential campaign, Al Gore's congressional committee threatened trade sanctions against South Africa to stop them from manufacturing their own versions of patented HIV medications.
My housemates started disappearing for days at a time. Nobody would tell me where they were. Then they started showing up on CNN. They disrupted every Al Gore campaign appearance for the first several weeks of the campaign. They became masters of an activist technique that would eventually be known as "bird dogging." They were becoming quickly famous and kicking Al Gore's ass politically but still the trade sanctions that meant death for millions of South African AIDS patients were still going through.
The actions became more difficult to pull off though. Secret Service were looking out for them and keeping them out. They needed fresh faces to keep the campaign going. I was drinking whiskey with them on the porch one night, and they asked me if I could clean up my punk rock image enough to pass as a young college democrat for the day.
They woke me up in the morning and handed me some background information. I showered off my hangover and put on some khakis and a button up shirt. I waited on the porch.
The New York activists had been up all night doing press work. They had been delayed at the car rental place renting an SUV. They were giddy and punchy and in the middle of the most relevant and famous campaign of their lives. There was a lot of traffic on the way down. We got to the college democrat conference late. We had missed Al Gore.
Later that day, across town, there was another fundraiser. Some of the hosters were aids activist allies, and it had not been decided what was the strategic opportunity we wanted to use at the event. Gays and Lesbians for Gore were hosting a fundraiser for the democratic contender with keynote speaker his wife Tipper Gore. My hair rose with my adolescent punk rock rage at Tipper Gore's name. We caught a cab across town.
In one of the fanciest hotels I had ever set foot in, we waited in the lobby for another team of people and drew too much attention to ourselves. The other team arrived and we wrote a bad check for the four of us. Secret Service approached us and asked, "What's on the agenda today guys?" We stared like deer in the headlights, and said, "Sorry?" The young intern who had registered ran up to us apologetically. She had given us the wrong buttons. She substituted rainbow ones for the solid blue ones she had given us.
We were let in. There was a massive buffet table and free Heinikin served in wine glasses. We had not eaten all day and were trying not to act like homeless people whove snuck into an Old Country Buffet. There was a horrible band of gay frat boys playing Bonnie Raitt covers and filthy rich same sex couples dancing and spinning each other. The air crackled with excitement and my head pulsed with nervous energy.
The band stopped and there were a bunch of introductory speeches. People saying things like, And this is a historic thing that we have such a large fundraiser and that we were encouraged by the candidate to support him. And other statements were made like, Al Gore may not always do what we want him to do, but he has our best interest in heart.
We spread out through the room as a buzzing murmur spread through the place. A door opened and there she was. The freedom hating demoness of my teen years, Tipper Gore floated up to the podium. A hush fell as she began to speak.
In the middle of her first paragraph, a cymbal sounded from the bands drumset in the corner. People thought that the drummer was playing a rimshot for Tippers joke until the neatly dressed woman in the corner belted out, WHY IS THE INFECTION RATE IN ZIMBABWE She was drowned out by boos and ushered out by secret service. Tipper was unnerved and mumbled something about being in lots of meetings about those issues. The crowd began chanting louder and louder, TIPPER! TIPPER! TIPPER! TIPPER! TIPPER! TIPPER! TIPPER! TIPPER! TIPPER!
I let her stop lilting and regain her composure. I took a deep breath and channeled Jello Biafra. I let her say another few lines and then let loose. WHY ARE DRUG COMPANIES PROFITING OFF OF MEDICATIONS DEVELOPED WITH US TAX DOLLARS! A man with a skinny mustache put his hand over my mouth. I backed away from him and watched him stand there with his hand out like a Supremes drag show. The secret service guys surrounded me repeating, Comewithussir, Comewithussir, Comewithussir, Comewithussir. I was ushered through an exit door into a service corridor. The chants of TIPPER!TIPPER!TIPPER! got even louder and more bloodthirsty.
The guy after me got beaten up. He was shaken up but okay. One of the organizers apologized to him. The last woman was separated from us until we got kicked out into the street. Tipper barely finished her speech. Even after the last disruption she was cringing in preparation for the next one.
All this time, I kept thinking about the band the punk band the Dead Kennedys and lead singer Jello Biafras war with this woman who I had just publicly embarrassed. I thought about the spark that his conflict had lit in me to fight other serious injustices and lead me to this additional action against one familys evil empire.
We were giving effusive answers to a litany of questions that the Secret Service guy was asking us. We got asked what we were protesting and my fellow protester angrily spat out the words, Al Gore is threatening to kill millions of South African AIDS patients with trade sanctions to protect the profits of bloodsucking pharmaceutical companies AND WE HATE TIPPERS HAIR!
I whirled around towards the secret service agent with an angry finger pointing in the air towards him ready to give him a history lesson about how Tipper Gore and her Parents Music Resource Center had lead a crusade to limit my youthful access to militant self expression. I paused midsentence when I realized that the man in front of me was probably not a student of the said youth subculture and had the potential to wildly misinterpret what I meant when invoking the band name, Dead Kennedys.
I DID IT FOR THE D---, I did it for punk rock!
The agent was making list on an envelope. Aids, South Africa, hairstyle, punk rock. He made vague threats about what would happen to us if we showed up at another campaign event. He informed us we would never again be welcome in that hotel again. He handed us over to local police who made us stay across the street.
Two days later, JFK Jr.s plane disappeared over the ocean. I had narrowly avoided implicating myself in an accidental tragedy by saying Dead Kennedys to a secret service agent.