[Page 2: Billionaires for Bush: Parody as Political Intervention]

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Government Of, By, and For the Corporations

To those who say Big Money should be kept out of politics, I say show me where in the Constitution it calls for a separation of cash and state!
-Phil T. Rich, CEO of Billionaires for Bush

On March 20th, 2004, the one-year anniversary of the U.S.-led invasion of Iraq, more than two million people worldwide took to the streets as part of a global protest organized by the United for Peace and Justice coalition. It was an opportunity for people in over 60 countries to mobilize in resistance to the occupation of Iraq and to the Bush administration's policy of preemptive war. Having spent the majority of my four years as an activist and organizer in Atlanta, Georgia, I found myself gearing up that morning for what was to be my first time participating in a protest of such a grand scale in New York City. But it was more than regional differences that I was anticipating on that unseasonably temperate day. As I donned my sleeveless black evening gown, "diamond"-studded tiara, and feather boa, it occurred to me that this would be the first time since my indoctrination into progressive politics that I would be participating in a demonstration of political resistance as a counter-protester.

I was introduced to Billionaires for Bush and its lead organizer Andrew Boyd (a.k.a. Phil T. Rich) six months prior by my academic advisor at New York University who was aware of my interest in creative communication strategies of social justice movements. On its website, Billionaires for Bush describes itself as a "strategic media and street theater campaign whose combustible mix of humor, savvy messaging, grassroots participation, and cutting edge internet organizing tools will flush out the truth about the Bush administration's disastrous economic policies" (www.billionairesforbush.com). By impersonating billionaires through caricature, parody, and public spectacle, and by pledging an undying devotion to George W. Bush, Billionaires for Bush hopes to brand the President as nothing more than an ally and puppet to corporations and the super-wealthy. As a veteran of a number of social justice organizations that spend much more time on base-building and mobilizing than on devising mass media strategies, I was immediately intrigued by the existence of this activist collective—comprised mostly of white, middle-class, educated folks in their 20's and 30's—whose primary methodology for achieving their political objectives rested on the outreach capabilities of national and local media. Furthermore, I had never before witnessed such a blatant marriage of humor and politics outside of political cartoons and the occasional late-night television skit. In fact, most political discourse to which I had been exposed in both community organizing and academic work seemed to entail a most somber and prudent approach; humor seemed to be reserved for peripheral conversation and the occasional nihilistic comment. As with any political organization I had encountered over the years, my immediate questions centered on the efficacy and value of the Billionaires for Bush line of attack. Could parody-driven street theatre serve as an effective tool for political change? Would the absurdity inherent to the delivery of the Billionaires for Bush message detract from the legitimacy and authority of their politics? After attending a few meetings—assemblages of a few of New York City's most infamous artist-activists, pranksters, and event planners—I was motivated to further my involvement by creating a Billionaire persona of my own. As with most neophyte Billionaires, this initiation involved three basic components: an attempt at a witty pseudonym (I took on the name Alotta Bling, "bling" serving as modern vernacular for "riches"), formal attire exhumed from the local thrift shop, and a short autobiography specifying the history of my hypothetical riches.

The concept for the Billionaires for Bush March 20th counter-protest in New York City was simple, but well organized. We would anchor ourselves to the traffic island situated near the corner of Broadway and 34th Street in midtown Manhattan, where we would have prime access to the UFPJ antiwar march route and media opportunities. The dress code, along with other vital information concerning the counter-protest, was addressed in a previous email sent to the organization's listserv: ball gowns, tiaras, fake furs, et cetera for the ladies; sport tuxedos, bowler hats, monocles, et cetera for the men. Participants were discouraged from bringing any of the homemade marker-and-posterboard signs that were typical of grassroots protests. Instead, the organization provided professionally designed placards, colorfully printed with slogans such as "Four More Wars" and "Leave No Billionaire Behind." It seemed that if there was one thing that the lead organizers of the Billionaires for Bush knew, it was how to art direct.

I arrived solo to the corner of 34th and Broadway feeling slightly self-conscious of my ostentatious attire, trying hard to blend in with the tourists and shoppers darting in and out of the Macy's department store across the street. Fortunately, my fellow counter-protesters, even those Billionaires I had never met before, were easy to spot. As we began gathering, the majority of us apparently feeling both awkward and emboldened by the exaggerated extravagance of our fashion, conversation topics wavered between street position strategies and media talking points. Occasionally, our dialogues would be adorned with naïve attempts at the quintessentially pretentious British accent, the theatrically trained constituents of our group naturally more successful than the rest. When our group attained a critical mass of about twenty people, bemused passersby began slowing down to form our initial audience of spectators. Our presence quickly began attracting the attention of media, both professional and amateur, even before the UFPJ march reached our position on the route. Tourists and press photographers alike competed for the perfect shot of our midday costume party.

After a few group photographs, we assembled along the western sidewalk of 34th Street behind a 12-foot velvet rope barrier fashioned the night before by Billionaire Meg A. Bucks. Policemen assigned post to this particular leg of the march were initially baffled by our intentions as they waited for the approach of the UFPJ protest march, but most caught on quickly to the "joke," doing their best to allow only brief lapses in their stern demeanor. Chanting among our group erupted spontaneously, mimicking the content and call-and-response style of typical protest incantations.

BIG MONEY… UNITED… SHALL NEVER BE DEFEATED!
FOUR MORE WARS! FOUR MORE WARS!
SHOW ME WHAT PLUTOCRACY LOOKS LIKE!
THIS IS WHAT PLUTOCRACY LOOKS LIKE!

Spectators anticipating the thousands of antiwar demonstrators scheduled to take over midtown Manhattan that Saturday began performing the classic double take. Gaping mouths and furrowed brows clearly revealed the audience's initial thoughts. Are the people dressed up in fancy gowns and tuxedos demonstrating for or against the war? Are they serious, or just having a good time? And, of course, the most basic and yet most complicated question of them all: Is this real, or is this fake?

Tension mounted as the first trickle of media and police heading the march came into view. By this time, our chanting had assumed a more comfortable rhythm, though we racked our brains for fresh verses. The seemingly endless wave of protesters carrying signs that read "Bush Lies, Who Dies?" and "End the Occupation" was intimidating, but served to reinvigorate our theatrical gestures. The initial clash of protester, counter-protester, and media created an enormous swell of movement, shouting, and laughter around the 34th Street traffic island. A number of antiwar protesters on the opposite side of the street stopped midway through their chanting to find out what the uproar was all about and determine whether we were, in fact, allies or foes. Many protesters took a break from marching to witness the diversion, some responding by simply laughing and cheering while the more enterprising marchers assumed a spontaneous role in the skit by exchanging put-downs with the Billionaires. All the while, the chanting persisted.

1-2-3-4, WE'VE GOT BILLIONS, BUT WE WANT MORE!
5-6-7-8, CUT MORE TAXES, WE CAN'T WAIT!
WHAT DO WE WANT? SWEATSHOP LABOR!
WHEN DO WE WANT IT? NOW!

A few Billionaires took advantage of the brief lulls between chants to test out their individual routines. Monty Moneybucks, dressed handsomely in full tuxedo regalia and top hat, would occasionally step out from behind the velvet rope into the crowd of protesters shouting, "Never before have I witnessed so many work so hard for the benefit of so few! It is the best of times! And all of you commoners are ruining it! Ruining it for the rest of us! President Bush is the best president money can buy!" Meg A. Bucks found her specialty in interacting with younger marchers, approaching nine- and ten-year-old protesters with offers to work in her factory that specialized in child labor profiting. The occasional heckler in the audience would be reproached by a Billionaire pointing a finger and screaming, "Outsource that man's (or woman's) job!" or "Stop complaining and buy your own President!" Each wave of the march brought a new energy to our chanting and actions, leaving us less discouraged at having to repeat the same shtick every ten minutes. Perhaps the climax of the spectacle occurred in a call-and-response chant that spontaneously erupted between one impassioned UFPJ marcher and a number of Billionaires.

Marcher (dishearteningly): WHOSE GOVERNMENT?!
Billionaires (gleefully): OUR GOVERNMENT!
Marcher: WHOSE MEDIA?!
Billionaires: OUR MEDIA!
Marcher: WHOSE OIL?!
Billionaires: OUR OIL!

Members of the press repeatedly pulled some of the more vocal Billionaires aside for interviews. Interviewees, often to the disdain of the interviewers who were anxious for the "joke" to end and the "real" exchange to begin, attempted to stay in character while responding to the questions probing their attendance as counter-protesters. Usually, however, the Billionaire would step out of character for a few moments and explain the organization's objectives, passing out a flag-and-dollar-bill-themed business card with the Billionaires for Bush website address and contact information.

The exhilaration lasted in waves for the entire three-hour length of the march. By the end, most of us were drained and hoarse, feet aching from standing for hours in our high heels and wingtips. We were immediately certain that the day had been a successful one; all of our fliers had been handed out, many had inquired about how to join our organization, and, most importantly, over a dozen contacts and interviews had been made with major and local media outlets. Our next major street theatre action was not for another month: Tax Day on April 15th. The Billionaires for Bush had decided it would be a good idea to greet last-minute tax payers lined up at the post office on the evening of the 15th, and thank the little people for paying "our" share of the burden.