Needs Less Cowbell

On my morning walk from the Gallery-Place/Chinatown metro stop to my office at 7th and Indiana, I was greeted by the hollering and angry drumming of picketers in front of a building across the street.

I wonder what they're so angry about? Could it be wages? If so, then why'd they spend a couple hunny on a gigantic, 20-foot blow up rat perched on top of a parked car? How long will they last out there in the heat? From the sounds of it now, they're still going strong, beating plastic buckets, parading their signs up and down the block all the while screaming, whistling and jeering.

And if my ears have served me correctly, there might be a member of the Blue Oyster Cult working the lines with them. Whoever's working the cowbell down there deserves more than a pat on the back. I can hear the loud tinging of said cowbell all the way up on the 9th floor of my building. And, it's starting to get old. Real old. If it's annoying me way over here, then whoever they're targeting at their building must be beyond irritated. I might go down there and join them just so they'll stop soon.

And what will become of the blow up rat once they're done? Who's the lucky one who gets to take that home with them? I say take it to the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade.