I went to the Party in the Park a few weeks ago and found myself in the middle of a crowd of misfits and artists and delinquents and tattooed mothers holding babies wearing ear protection and guys with leopard-print suits and perhaps misunderstood geniuses and war veterans with prosthetic legs and people of all color and all around us towers of industry and commerce echoing the funk of George Clinton and the Parliament Funkadelic and it seemed such a perfect peaceful way to stick it to the man, all us 99 percenters, myself included, making a noise impossible to ignore, rising up off the buildings, not conforming, not apologizing, not going away.

And then the next morning I drove to work and sat in my cube all day doing exactly what is expected of me, as usual.