Voodoo's War Journal #2: "A Police State means never having to say you're sorry"

(NOTE: Do not be fooled into thinking this piece even resembles objective reporting.)

After having such a spectacular time Monday, this budding journalist remained at the IMC headquarters Monday night and caught a couple hours shuteye on one of the benches in the office. Most of the volunteers cleared out by 1 AM; a few hardened indy media folk held down the fort through the night. A couple dozen pairs of tired eyes stayed glued to digital editors and computer monitors until Tuesday morning's sun came creeping over the city's smog-drenched skyline. Staff began to trickle back in and LA-IMC's various media-oozing organs slowly coughed to life.

A quick change of clothes in my car and a perfunctory swab of deodorant completed my morning's hygiene. My stomach finally unraveled from the knot of anxiety it had been trying out for the last few days, and was loudly demanding something to digest. For fear of losing my sweet parking spot, I decided to hike it on down to forage some grub.

Breakfast was greedily scarfed down a few blocks south on Fig at a Denny's-clone diner. And as if I hadn't seen enough law enforcement personnel in the last 24 hours, I was joined at the diner by not one, not two, but three separate groups of armed men in uniform hunting for their morning meal. My IMC badge got casually slipped into my pocket and I sat and ate.