As for February 14th, I participated in the annual San Francisco pillow fight by the Ferry Building on Embarcadero. It was more like a war.
A fellow fighter, David, and I rushed on our bikes 20 minutes before it struck fight time. As we locked our bikes into place to the setting sun, the clock struck 6:00 PM. As the last bell sounded, the whole street burst into a sprint, some swinging their bulging down pillows by their side, others hugging onto theirs tightly, stumbling as they ran with all their might. An older man with bottle-cap glasses and billowy white hair ran into the middle of the traffic, put up his hand to stop the cars and screamed at us, "GO! GO! GO!"
We ran for our fucking lives and dove head first into the masses in the plaza.
Pillows burst. People screamed, laughed, raged. Feathers exploded and flew. It was like rising snow.
A girl thought it would be a good idea to wear a helmet until she heard a team of vigilantes: "GET THE GIRL WITH THE HELMET!"
And they pummeled the shit out of her.
Wading into the midst of the action was like being a blind man finding his way through a turbulent sea of cotton, feathers and elbows. You swung left and right, upwards and downwards, really never knowing who or what you were hitting. You got a little thump in the face, or in the back of your head. It was what I'd describe to be... a comfortable moshpit.
You saw flirtatious lovers. You sensed intense teenage angst. You saw an adult world transformed into one of children. You witnessed children completely immersed in this fantasy land, riding on their fathers' shoulders, bopping people left and right. You saw those who came to play, those who came to watch and the few who came to hurt. People kissed, people raged and lashed, people tripped and fell and put their arms up in victory and defense.
It was epic.
I'll leave you with this video, which does the scene some justice.
A fellow fighter, David, and I rushed on our bikes 20 minutes before it struck fight time. As we locked our bikes into place to the setting sun, the clock struck 6:00 PM. As the last bell sounded, the whole street burst into a sprint, some swinging their bulging down pillows by their side, others hugging onto theirs tightly, stumbling as they ran with all their might. An older man with bottle-cap glasses and billowy white hair ran into the middle of the traffic, put up his hand to stop the cars and screamed at us, "GO! GO! GO!"
We ran for our fucking lives and dove head first into the masses in the plaza.
And then madness:
Pillows burst. People screamed, laughed, raged. Feathers exploded and flew. It was like rising snow.
A girl thought it would be a good idea to wear a helmet until she heard a team of vigilantes: "GET THE GIRL WITH THE HELMET!"
And they pummeled the shit out of her.
Wading into the midst of the action was like being a blind man finding his way through a turbulent sea of cotton, feathers and elbows. You swung left and right, upwards and downwards, really never knowing who or what you were hitting. You got a little thump in the face, or in the back of your head. It was what I'd describe to be... a comfortable moshpit.
You saw flirtatious lovers. You sensed intense teenage angst. You saw an adult world transformed into one of children. You witnessed children completely immersed in this fantasy land, riding on their fathers' shoulders, bopping people left and right. You saw those who came to play, those who came to watch and the few who came to hurt. People kissed, people raged and lashed, people tripped and fell and put their arms up in victory and defense.
It was epic.
I'll leave you with this video, which does the scene some justice.
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