It's that glorious time of year again when anti-globalism demonstrators threaten the very fabric of democracy with oversized puppets of world leaders, and the DC Police preserve the public trust by keeping tear gas companies in business.

The protests, scheduled for Sunday, are expected to draw much smaller crowds than last year's events. This no doubt comes as a disappointment to the legions of cops who (admit it!) savored the chance to look scary as shit in full swat-style riot gear. (If I can admit that I draw a kind of grim satisfaction from a particularly demanding ambulance call, in which someone's life and limbs were at stake, then I think it's fair that cops should fess up to the fact that knocking some neohippy heads on Pennsylvania Avenue gives them a little charge. Let's be honest about the fact that we've all got some damage going on that can be positively directed towards the benefit of society, or channeled into wanton destructiveness, depending on the whims of our masters.)

And they do look pretty scary in their gear, from the black boots (I've got of those myself, for the rescue squad) through an assortment of body armor to the tippy top of their helmeted heads. I particularly admire the full shields the police carry on one arm, like they're equipped for battle outside a medieval castle. The shields feature a little Plexiglas window that allow them to see who they're aiming the baton at. That little aperture reminds me of the tiny windows in the doors of illicit casinos and French resistance cells in Bogart movies. Seems like there should be a little fidgety man behind them asking the password. I believe there's something like that in the Wizard of Oz as well, when Dorothy and her companions approach the Emerald City and the man in the door-window tells them they have fifteen seconds to drop their puppets and disperse or they will be tear gassed.

As part of their preparations, the police first hovered their fancy new helicopter about twenty feet over our house, sending down such a violent plume of air that grass and bushes were flattened where they stood and trash cans went spinning and hopping halfway down the block. We later learned the police were making a practice pass at the station helipad across the street, apparently in case the protesters overrun the city and they must evacuate the station commander, Hanoi-style, from the roof. I found the spectacle interesting in a mildly frightening way, but neighbors reported that the wash from the helicopter's blades actually tore picture frames off their walls and applied fast-acting entropy to the contents of their rooms. One was still trying to coax her cat out from behind the dryer two hours later (in fairness to the police, I believe the cat ran there of its own accord and wasn't actually blown through the house like debris).

The next morning the officers were out on the thin margin of grass that runs along side the police station, practicing their baton handling and crowd control. For a while they stood smacking their wooden sticks into the palms of their hands in unison, creating a sound that was surprisingly intimidating despite its thug-show cheese factor. Later, they locked arms, formed human barricades and moved forward with their batons thrust out, yelling out "HUH!" with every few steps. While I imagine they looked fierce from the front, the sound was so kung-fu-movie that I wondered if the intent was to incapacitate protesters with laughter.

(Let's be clear about the fact that I probably have a lot in common with the officers. The strange capacity of the uniform to make us different, and its ability to empower us to overcome fear and chaos, is an undeniable bond. And it is an uncomfortable reality, not so much that I share this with the police but because I have yet to accept it fully in myself. The uniform is closely connected to the odd Western icon of the Superhero, a person who often compartmentalizes his/her personality between a normal human identity and an persona that is not bound by norms or limits. When humanity is helpless the superhero appears, fancy costume and all, to set things right. But why the persistent multiple-personality theme? Do we recognize that without the human identity to provide balance the power of the uniform alone flirts with inhumanity?)