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August 28, 9:39 a.m.
Another piece of what Jack likes to call Security Theatre last night in Ybor City:
We were drinking and playing pool with my cousin and her boyfriend at a friendly bikers’ bar called the Dirty Shame around midnight, when suddenly we noticed that outside, one of the roaming herds of brown-shirted police had metamorphosed into a line that was retreating slowly up Seventh Avenue.
My first thought was that they had simply decided to try a new formation during their lonely ramblings—that out in the middle of the peaceful, humid Florida night they were making up cheerleader and marching-band moves to entertain themselves. But no, they were reacting to a real menace—the worst threat Tampa had seen since the March of the Nine Dehydrated Anarchists that afternoon.
One might have thought from their reaction on this, LBJ’s birthday, that the officers were retreating before some snarling, Chicago-style mass of enraged Yippies and Weathermen. Instead, it turned out to be fifty or sixty protesters. Jack thought they might be Ron Paul supporters, several of whom we had seen running around the streets near the security perimeter, holding up signs for their candidate. I thought they tended more to the left, mostly because they were carrying a small, golden, papier-mâché elephant with a chain around its trunk. It wasn’t possible to tell for sure—we could barely hear their halfhearted, uncoordinated chants.
Regardless, the marchers, like the anarchists, were quickly surrounded by a mass of brown-shirted security forces who clearly outnumbered them. Quickly and deftly, the police moved the demonstrators down a side street, away from the dozen or so scattered spectators watching quietly from the sidewalks. As they all marched off together, they struck me as something akin to a historical recreation, a Colonial Williamsburg–style pantomime of protest that referred vaguely back to a misplaced past.
More from Kevin Baker:
Appreciation — June 26, 2014, 8:00 am
From Johnny Cash to “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad”
In Havana, the past year has been marked by a parade of bold-faced names from the north — John Kerry reopening the United States Embassy; Andrew Cuomo bringing a delegation of American business leaders; celebrities ranging from Joe Torre, traveling on behalf of Major League Baseball to oversee an exhibition game between the Tampa Bay Rays and the Cuban national team, to Jimmy Buffett, said to be considering opening one of his Margaritaville restaurants there. All this culminated with a three-day trip in March by Barack Obama, the first American president to visit Cuba since Calvin Coolidge in 1928. But to those who know the city well, perhaps nothing said as much about the transformation of political relations between the United States and Cuba that began in December 2014 as a concert in the Tribuna Antiimperialista.
Ratio of the amount J. P. Morgan paid a man to fight in his place in the Civil War to what he spent on cigars in 1863:
The Food and Drug Administration asked restaurants to help Americans eat less.
Pope Francis announced that nuns could use social media, and a priest flew a hot-air balloon around the world.
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“Matt was happy enough to sustain himself on the detritus of a world he saw as careening toward self-destruction, and equally happy to scam a government he despised. 'I’m glad everyone’s so wasteful,' he told me. 'It supports my lifestyle.'”