Minneapolis/st. Paul Blog

5. MUFFINS
Journalist, activist, or tourist, you're going to get hungry. The tasty, portable muffin keeps your glucose levels from dropping precipitously – and will win you friends among the teeming throngs. Journalists love free food, especially food that creates crumbs. Also, you might just save the life of that sickly, earnest young idealist who is more concerned with waving a sign than supplying himself sustenance. “Are those muffins vegan?” his desperate, Oliver Twist eyes will say. Sure they are, hippie. Sure they are.

4. A WATER BOTTLE

A must, and not just to hydrate yourself during potentially long days in the sun. If pepper spray and tear gas are flying near you, your sensitive membranes are going to get irritated. If, perish forbid, an overzealous public servant deems it necessary to mace your face, you're going to need a healthy supply of H20 to wash out your eyes. You can also use it to wet down ...

3.A HANDKERCHIEF

Useful for so many things, the handkerchief should never be considered out of style. It's a napkin. It's a bandanna. It covers your head if you're hatless in the sun. And if you, like most will, get caught without Item No. 1, it can cover your mouth and nose. This is especially important if you get stuck next to a shower-allergic crusty punk from Eugene, Ore. who has become inured to his own stench. Plus, a wet hanky over your face is the next-best thing for preventing tear gas intrusion.

2. A FLASK

You can fill this with vinegar, like Zach from Rage Against the Machine suggested. Yeah, vinegar. But not the kind of vinegar that angries up the blood. Just the kind that undermines the effects of tear gas.

1. A GAS MASK
People tend to look at me like I'm crazy when I suggest this. Think of it like insurance, I tell them.

Sure, the convention will probably go fine. Sure, even if there are tear gas incidents, you probably won't be anywhere near them. Just as you pay car insurance every month even though you probably won't get into an accident, though, it's worth stopping into a military surplus store to grab an old-school brand of risk avoidance.

The first day of WTO, a friend talked me into buying one of the gas masks Israel used to distribute around the time of the Seven Days War. I scoffed at first. Hours later, I was a believer. Not only did I avoid the crying and choking, I could actually see during the riot cops' efforts to clear out protest blockades. Best $10 I ever spent.

Despite this foresight, I can still tell you what it's like to be tear gassed. Why? Well, I'm an idiot.

My wife at the time, also a journalist, got separated from me while doing some reporting. We had agreed to meet at a certain street corner at 9 p.m., not knowing when we made this accord that the city would make a sideways turn toward Lebanon in the 80s. From there, the plan went, we could take a ferry out of Seattle and back home.

Flash forward to a city wracked by brutality. Mayor Paul Schell has declared a curfew where anyone on the street after 9 will be arrested. It's approaching that time, and she's nowhere to be found. A cadre of police in riot gear are marching block-by-block to clear the streets – and they're rapidly approaching the spot where we're supposed to meet.

I walk toward the line of cops, thinking I'll explain the situation. They're having none of it. They tell me not to come any closer, and that if I stick in that meeting spot, I'll wind up three hots and cot. Fortunately, off in the distance, I see my spouse approaching.

“It's fine!” I shout to the cops. “That's her! We're out of here!” And, in what was retrospectively a most unwise choice, I flash them a peace sign. We turn and start to walk away from the advancing line, toward the boat. Then I hear multiple “thunk-thunk” sounds.

They've fired off several tear gas canisters about 10 yards in front of us. I can't speak to why, but I've always suspecting it was just for fun, blowing off steam at the end of a day suffused with the insane. The tiny metal cylinders start to open, and the pure white death began to leak out toward our nostrils.

There is one right thing to do in this spot, and it's to give up your mask for the lady.

Embracing my inner gentleman, I strapped the apparatus – the same one pictured above -- around her dome while the gas cloud rose around us. I affixed it just in time. Just in time for her, anyway. “You'll have to lead me to the ferry,” I choked out. She nodded.

Then the gas mask fogged up. So the tear-gassed guy, eyes swollen nearly shut, was leading the utterly blind (but comfortable!) lady in the Israeli surplus gear. We waddled to the boat, my mucous membranes shrieking, and made our escape.

The lessons here: Don't get married. If you're going to get married: Buy two gas masks. And if you hear a guy telling you that it's worth the $10-$20 so you don't have to worry about this during your town's convention, listen to him.