I’m a little late to be getting into political activism. When I was a kid, I was fascinated by big politics. But after watching the landslides of 1984 and 1988, I didn’t have much faith in the hick from Arkansas who played the sax. Add in Perot, a win for Clinton, and I was thoroughly confused. When I wanted the bad guy to lose, he won. When I didn’t care, I liked the outcome. At 16 I decided it wasn’t worth getting interested in politics.

So twelve years later, I’m wearing a tux and walking through downtown Boston, carrying a sign reading “Billionaires for Bush,” chanting “War is great for profiteers. Bush and Cheney, four more years.” I suppose I’m a sucker for a clever group with a sense of mischief. Or maybe I’m just so upset with Bush that I’ll do what it takes to get him out. Or maybe, my friends in The Late Night Players invited me. I thought it might be nice to share my experience, insights, and laughter.

First of all, everyone needs a name. Some of the leaders are Phil T. Rich and Cassius King. My name is Thurston Forcash. And I pulled on my tux Tuesday night to meet up with my fellow billionaires for a parade. Parade? We’re not going to be in the pen? They had a permit. Policemen on bicycles escorted us through Boston as we thanked people for paying their taxes so we didn’t have to, and how the journey would have been so much easier in out helicopters.

Who are the billionaires? There was a decent age range, but most were in their twenties. A little race diversity, but most were white. A few boring people, but most were funny. The group pulled together two consecutive hours of improvisation, and most people didn’t seem to know each other at all. So many people seemed new to the group, or had been brought by a friend. But the group does have some legs. In 2000, they were known as Billionaires for Bush (or Gore). Now, they’re focused on unseating the incumbent.

We strolled and chanted through some lovely parts of Boston, through giant commercial buildings which we all claimed to own. There was a collection of TV trucks as we passed Faneuil Hall, so we broke into a chorus of “Watch Fox News! Watch Fox News!” to the delight of the crowd.

Between Haymarket and North Station, we stopped to have some speeches. And you know what? These guys weren’t bad. I can’t do them justice, so I have to hope Phil T Rich or Cassius King have posted somewhere. As we were gathered, the Run Against Bush runners came through our group. How do you deal with this? Well, it made my heart feel right at home: we booed them, with smiles on our faces. They smiled, waved, and ran away.

What did I learn? What was so neat about this? I was in the middle of reading 1984 for the first time when I marched. Most striking of all was how much fun it is to strut and yell. I got two hours of the Two Minutes Hate. When other people were milling about in Guantanamo Bay: Boston, I was protected by police, yelling at the top of my lungs. When someone in front got tired, I held the sign and walked proudly. “We’re here. We’re rich. Get used to it!” And when the cameras started, I posed happily until I realized that, well, I’m not an activist. I’m not terribly political. I’m hardly even a Democrat anymore. I’m just anti-Bush, and anybody who steps into the media loses their ability to express themselves. A silent picture of me in a tux with a rubber cigar doesn’t say anything about my internal conflicts about critical issues, my feelings of inadequacy when faced with the magnitude of national policy. Nope, I’d be a kid in a tux, mouthing off. So when a photographer asked me for my name, I smiled, demurred, and said “Thurston Forcash.” When he pressed, I said Dan. I am not a movement. I am not an ideology. And I am not interested in being seen as one.