Journalist Mike

Mike Disman is a crafted journalist. He carries a notepad well and moves through crowds with muffled footsteps. He often interviews the prettiest girl nearby, and they are often smart.

Mike Disman doesn’t light his own cigarettes, he doesn’t light any cigarettes at all. He holds a Flip camera with only one hand. Who knows what he’s doing with the other. Could be fingering girls. Could be texting.

Mike Disman reports on good things, like Occupy Boston and the horrors of seal clubbings. He went to a Quaker school; does his work on time. He used to sit in silence for an hour and stand up whenever he had something to say to the community.

Mike Disman is standing on the hill overlooking the meeting held in Boston Common for Occupy Boston the night after the eviction. Behind him, there are ice skaters going in circles to the velvet thunder of Christmas music.

Mike Disman is constantly putting new numbers into his phone. He has a sprawling network canvassing wherever he walks.

Mike Disman puts his phone in his pocket, and starts toward the bench at the foot of the hill, the Christmas music fading as quickly behind him as day does to night, enveloping him the way only darkness can. He lights a cigarette. He mourns for the 99%.

He doesn’t know where to go. He walks home. He records a couple of notes in his yellow notebook and charges his phone. Then he sleeps, dreaming of the same thing you and I dream of, but in different colors.

Mike Disman is a journalist you could consider revolutionary.