Has the Left lost their stomach for revolution? I’ve spent the past week surrounded by tough-talking anarchists and literal Revolutionary Communists megaphoning about how we need to rise up, overthrow the government and seize the means of production, but when it comes to results, all I’ve seen is a bunch of huffing and puffing. Case in point: I went to a #BlackLivesMatter anti-DNC march yesterday, and the little action I saw was mostly antifas pouncing on me… two hours after I’d been filming them for Red Ice. (Watch our coverage here.)
Is Philly just a really slow town, or were they taking puffs from that giant blunt the Bernouts were toting around yesterday? In Cleveland, I couldn’t even get a cup of coffee in the vicinity of a Leftist march without someone calling me a “fucking Nazi“: in Philadelphia, it’s been mostly hugs, smiles and free iced tea. Was it the obesity crisis or helicopter parenting that turned the Left’s Days of Rage into a mere Hours of Rage?
I was late arriving to yesterday’s march, which began at the corner of Broad and Diamond, outside Temple University. Just as well, because in typical #BlackLivesMatter fashion, they got started a couple of hours late… because they were waiting for the police to give them the go-ahead. Ponder the reality-warping irony of that fact.
The protest itself was considerably smaller than the previous day’s Bern-Out: 300 protesters tops, the overwhelming majority of them White (again, irony). As Atlantaen Revivalist (who attended the march with me, along with Cynic in Chief) pointed out to me, prior to my arrival, the marchers sorted themselves into a racial hierarchy, with the Blacks out in front to look good for the cameras. A couple of hipster girls complimented me on my Sonic Youth Goo T-shirt as we got into position, and a half-dozen masked antifas were near the front, including one Black guy decked out in a gas mask and a tactical vest.
The march began around three, as the three of us were coming out of a 7-Eleven with energy drinks and water. There’s very little to say about this stage of the march, as the crowd of White hipsters chanted their usual cries of “STOP KILLING BLACK PEOPLE!” and “WHAT DO WE WANT? JUSTICE! WHEN DO WE WANT IT? NOW!” In a nod to the out-of-shape participants, the procession stopped for water and snacks every other block. I wasn’t recognized by anyone aside from Mike Cernovich, who was deep undercover. Even Daryle Jenkins, the anti-racist Edward Rooney, was nowhere in sight.
It wasn’t until about an hour in that things got dicey. At the corner of Broad and Jefferson, the march suddenly dispersed as antifas, protesters and cameramen swarmed on someone who’d been accused of being an “infiltrator.” Marchers shoved me aside as the poor sap was mobbed to screams of “FED!” and “PIG!” The march resumed shortly thereafter, but in another bad sign, Cynic was dogged by a reporter (possibly from the Huffington Post) who accused him of being an undercover cop and asked him for ID.
The march restarted, and things went swimmingly for a few more blocks. Given that no one had recognized me yet, my false sense of security was strong… until I saw a burly White guy and a couple of smaller ones approach me.
“Hey, are you that white supremacist?”
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing here?”
“We know who you are.”
Just my luck: Periscope had frozen up on me a few minutes ago and I wasn’t filming the confrontation. I began retreating towards the other side of the road as the antifas pursued, crying “WHITE SUPREMACIST!” and “NAZI PIECE OF SHIT!” The Black guy decked out in Tacticool gear was right in my way, and I shifted gears to escape his clutches. As I ran, I tripped and hit the ground in a barrel roll, dropping my phone and charger. As I scrambled to my feet, Revivalist ran up and yelled at the antifas, “BACK OFF!”
At the sight that I wasn’t alone, the police snapped into action, forming an impromptu barrier between the antifas and us. We explained that we were Right-wing journalists peacefully filming the march and they let us go. After getting clear, we hoofed it down to City Hall to get out of the way of the advancing horde. My phone was a little dinged and a part of the plastic covering of my charger had popped off, but both were still working.
As Cynic, Revivalist and me made it down Broad, we passed a gaggle of Libertarians wielding “Socialism Sucks” signs: the same guys I’d seen in Cleveland. Revivalist explained to them that they needed to scram, because the #BlackLivesMatter people were howling for blood. They took the hint and split; as we kept walking, Revivalist and I saw a nearby Walgreens lowering its security cage to keep people out. “They know what’s up,” he remarked.
At City Hall, we linked up with Karl Ushanka and a few other guys to debrief. The #BlackLivesMatter marchers proceeded west across Penn Square and onto Market, but the energy had clearly dissipated: aside from a few middle fingers from the hippies, no one bothered us again. City Hall itself was largely dead in terms of protest activity, aside from the Revolutionary Communists grandstanding in the public square.
We later went over to a nearby bar, where we watched the Stalinist show vote at the DNC unfold in real time. The Democrats are in full collapse; a good quarter of delegates walked out of the convention in disgust, despite Bernie Sanders throwing his support behind the Lizard Queen. The mainstream media are too busy acting as Hillary’s courtiers to notice the Leftist Dream imploding all around them.
While Breitbart’s Lee Stranahan has backed up my assertions that the Philly police are lacking compared to the cop presence in Cleveland, my belief that the city will be enveloped by riots by week’s end is fading as the days pass. Over and over again, the Left has wimped out when it comes to implementing their revolutionary boasts. I’ll be here all week, but Tuesday might be where anarchy in the U.S.A. peaks.