When I was living in Boston a bunch of years ago, friend Pagan Kennedy used to implore me to get down to the protests where Vermin Supreme was hanging out. Now she is digging his shpiel in the Boston Globe.
What do we want?” “Peace,” the crowd answered. “What do we want?” the guy screamed again. “Peace!” Now the river of people roared the word. The sound boomed through my chest. No one was laughing. “What do we want?” the guy demanded again. And this time, Supreme pointed his megaphone at the sky. “A pony!” he screamed, his amplified voice rising over the roar. Next time around, pretty much everyone in the crowd had defected to Supreme’s chant. “What do we want?” “A pony,” hundreds of people hooted. Some young women near me bobbed up and down. “A pony, a pony,” they squealed.