The Perfect Storm

These were some of the things that went through my mind as I was picked out of the crowd and physically pushed down 34th Street by a cop who told me not to be seen there again. My press credentials had saved me from a trip to the protester lockup at Pier 57, and I wandered to a pizza place filled with a group of anarchists taking a break. By now the protesters had stopped shouting at each arrest, and the cops only occasionally and halfheartedly pulled onlookers off the sidewalk and to awaiting vans. Down the street, where the sitdown had triggered everything, the corner had been covered with horse droppings, alleviating the cops of the need to drag out those pens again. They had learned a valuable lesson.