Veggie Dogs for Watch Dogs

I stayed up all night with Landslide kids. We sat on the porch with walkie talkies, looking down at the intersection of Kirkpatrick, Beelen and Allequippa.
This is all I saw all night.

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Nothing happened. There was a scare here and there, but when during a police state the biggest scare of the night comes from a suspicious delivery of the Wall Street Journal at 5 a.m., then I think we're all right.
Actually, when I followed a friend up to the woods after dawn to let the chickens out of their house for the day, two strange cars pulled in. Over the walkie talkies, which make everything inaudible except laughter (which could be maniacal or good-natured, it's never clear), all I could make out was that it was of my friend's concern to return from the woods.
As we were making our way back down the hill, we found out it was a false alarm: two men had pulled over and were having an altercation; the one in the rear smashing the other's back window and driving away before anyone realized that the cars weren't there to raid the house or step on pepper plants.
I ate two-and-a-half veggie dogs with saurkraut and pickled jalapeno peppers from the farm, drank one heavy cup of coffee and pooped at least three times.
I'd like to think I helped keep the farm safe, but I realized as the sun was rising that I had no clue what to do if confronted with a cop and a warrant. This week's special legalities equal total disregard for visiting friends: To anyone with a badge, a visitor is an out-of-town protester with a gallon of fermented piss and a five-gallon bucket of flingable shit.
I forgot to mention the welcome and supportive presence of several ACLU Legal Observers, one of whom is a new Landslide lawyer who was working earlier in the evening at the convergence space in Greenfield.
One could assume that the ACLU would have no trouble dealing with police, but it's hard to remember that while trying to stay up and remain comfortable perched from above the scenic violence.
Helicopters flew overhead once every five minutes before midnight, search lights getting lost in the fog like measuring scoops in a jar of flour. Every time a light on Fifth Ave. turned green, the anticipation for a cop coming up the hill quickly grew to a head, and then deflated just as quickly. If someone was walking up toward the bus stop at Kirkpatrick and Fifth, then it was worth pulling out the binoculars to see what they were up to, even if it really was just a plan to wait for the bus.
Every transistor box with a plexiglass cover and rivets around the edge is a scene-monitoring, electronic cop. Every vehicle without obvious markings is an unmarked police vehicle.

The moon was hiding from our vantage point on the porch last night, but it really wasn't what we were looking for.