The peace, harmony, and security of our fragile society faces a grave threat, a ruthless enemy without conscience or mercy.

This enemy of peace and freedom is named Bede Gleeson.

This afternoon, I tried to take in the joys and wonders, the sights and sounds, the tastes and smells, of the 16th Annual Fall Peace Festival. Well, maybe not the smells. But I did try to take in all the rest of it. Tried, and failed.

I brought all the Gleesons, plus my niece Sophia, who is bright and lovely but technically a non-Gleeson, downtown to the Civic Center. Phoebe and Sophia looked after Faith, Abby, and Gil, while I was assigned our remaining baby, Voldemort. I mean, Bede.

As we stepped into the hall, I heard the jingling and drumming of the belly-dancing troupe, and casually sprinted over to the stage, passing dozens of tables offering sundry moonbat accoutrements: fabrics, coffee, bumper stickers, buttons, petitions, condoms, and whatnots. Lots of whatnots. I shot one photo of a belly dancer.

It was the only photo I would get to take of the goings-on. Bede, whom I was carrying, chose this moment to commence a one-hour tantrum. He refused to be held, refused to be put down, and forbade all further attempts at photography or conversation with any of the exhibitors.

I tried, vainly, to talk to one woman at a table festooned with “Department of Peace” signs.

“Sir, do you have a yard where you can display a sign?”
“AWAAAUGAA!!!”
“No, we…”
“AWAAAUGAA!!!”
“…rent.”
“AWAAAUGAA!!!”
“Because I’m giving these ‘Department of Peace’ signs to people with…”
“AWAAAUGAA!!!”
“…yards.”
“We rent. ‘Department of…’”
“AWAAAUGAA!!!”
“‘…Peace,’ huh?”
“Yes, because there should be a Depart…”
“AWAAAUGAA!!!”
“…ment of Peace. Because we have a Department of Health, not a Department…”
“AWAAAUGAA!!!”
“…of sickness, right? So why do we have a Department of War in…”
“AWAAAUGAA!!!”
“…stead…”
“AWAAAUGAA!!!”
“…of a Department of…”
“AWAAAUGAA!!!”
“…Peace?”
“But we haven’t had a Department of War since…”
“AWAAAUGAA!!!”
“…1947. Truman…”
“AWAAAUGAA!!!”
“What?”
“Truman…”
“AWAAAUGAA!!!”
“What?”
“Truman!”
“AWAAAUGAA!!!”
“His name’s Truman? Well, Truman’s not very happy, is he?”

No, he was not happy, not very, not Truman. Oh well, at least it was free. And at least there were belly dancers. Till next year, awaaaugaa.

Taking the family on a research field trip this afternoon, to the Sixteenth Annual Fall Peace Festival, at the Civic Center. This year’s theme is “Building a Culture of Peace.” This beat out the other contending themes, “Apologizing to Saddam,” “A New Paradigm of Self-Loathing,” “We Have No King But Yasser,” “Um,” and “Buying Stuff Made by Approved Victimized Classes to Assuage Our Vague Guilt.”

I’ve never been to this perennial confab of commercialized counterculture, so I expect to gain a few insights. I’ll be bringing my camera, and will report my findings in this venue. Come back later to have your consciousness raised a tad.