The Austin outpost of Occupy Wall Street, Occupy Austin, has become the go-to-destination for Austin’s homeless. It offers better accommodations than most of the city’s seedier motels. The food is good, the bathrooms are clean, the cops provide unparalleled security, and there’s daily entertainment in the form of local bands and deejays. As a protest movement, Occupy Austin has been a bust, but as a hangout for puppy draggers, trustafarians, faux hippies and gutter punks, its the Club Med of rainbow gatherings, a Hobo Hilton for the terminally unemployed. The only thing missing are free samples of shampoo and a mini-bar. But booze isn’t a problem, Occupy Austin is BYOB. Or if you prefer a cocktail, the protest is conveniently located a few blocks from the turista watering holes on Sixth Street with their cheap belly shots and happy hour specials. Really, what more could you ask for?

Forget about the revolution here in Austin. So far it ain’t happenin’. The populace is too comfortable. The local economy is good. The standard of living is above the national average so there’s a general sense of contentment that fosters the kind of complacency that just doesn’t breed street action like OWS.

As it stands now, the protest is a combination of beach blanket Berkeley and a pajama party for a bunch of white punks on hope whose idea of putting their bodies on the line is a willingness to get a sunburn for the cause. Down here, civil disobedience is taking a piss on a parking meter while blurting out “power to people” and pumping the air with your fist. This is the Slack Panther Party.

The Mexican-American and Black community have avoided the protest like a bad case of the crabs. Big disconnect. And if it weren’t for the occasional appearance of a bikini-clad revolutionette or two, not even the cops would be paying attention.

I’ve attended all 10 days of the occupation so far and have found little that qualifies as being newsworthy. But I still show up with my camcorder hoping to capture something that might electrify our local scene. But instead of pepper spray, I’ve been subject to the sickly sweet smell of sage smudgesticks, cheap Indian incense and the stomach churning aroma of patchouli and armpit juice. Occasionally, a drunk slacker will stagger in my direction and purge the hippie stench with an invigorating blast of MD 20/20, the preferred aperitif for Che babies. Yesterday, I thought I heard the drone of a surveillance helicopter but it turned to be some hippie chanting Om.

The dozen or so facilitators who are running the show are Stepford revolutionaries who seem to have wandered in from an Herbalife convention. When it comes to rallying the masses, they’ve got more in common with Librium than Libya. On the other hand, a few of the homeless people I’ve interviewed have turned out to be the bright lights in the dim fog of Occupy Austin. In many ways, I think they’re better equipped to run things than the self-appointed leaders of this circus - they’ve got nothing to lose, have a sense of humor, a direct knowledge of what struggle is and how to adapt to having nothing. They are the 1% of the 99%.

Liar (aka White Liar, aka White R. Liar) is a 35 year old guy who found in homelessness a cure for his depression. Instead of living a life of quite desperation working in jobs he couldn’t stand just to earn enough money to scrape by, he opted out and decided to follow a career path forged by Jesus, Gandhi and Iggy Pop.

When Liar’s not sleeping under bridges or underpasses, he’s looking for a good old fashioned protest movement to provide him with his daily needs such as food, a bathroom and the company of fellow street dwellers.

I know the irony of his wearing a Donald Trump branded shirt will not be lost on Dangerous Minds’ readers.