Protesting Life

There's a story about my father floating around my family, which may or may not be true. When I tell it, it goes something like this: The year is 1969. The place is Los Angeles. The image is my father, briefcase in hand, annoyance on face, pushing through some sort of hippie protest on his way to work. This story is supposed to illustrate apathy and general lameness.

Flash forward a bit to year 2010, place: Chicago. There appears to be a protest going on outside my office. I hear some commotion and join a co-worker at the window. We can see people marching with signs in the reflection of the building next door. I Google "chicago protest," but nothing promising comes up. My co-worker searches Twitter and finds a post about a "support rally" in Chicago, but we're not sure what they're supporting... Another co-worker says quietly, "I kind of feel like going down there, but [trails off]." I shrug and go back to my cubicle, insert headphones in ears.