There’s a young man who I used to see at the open stage every Monday night, a portly fellow with a Maurice Chevalier hat. It reminds me of Harpo Marx disembarking the ship in Monkey Business. He sees himself as political. An activist or maybe an anarchist. I’m never clear what he wants to abolish exactly besides whoever is in charge. Last year he went to New York. He loved it. He said it was called a “gathering of radical voices,” and he often reminds everyone about it. Sometimes he says it casually, “When I was in New York…” and the rest of us take a sip of whatever we’re drinking. Many stickers on that guitar. They say things like RESIST and MAKE YOUR OWN REVOLUTION. When it’s his turn, he tells us he has new songs, “movement songs,”. He tunes for what seems a very long revolutionary minute. He rhymes “solidarity” with “popularity.” I feel as though it lands like a car alarm that everyone agrees to pretend is not there. When he finishes we all feel slightly embarrassed, for the way we try to act normal around someone certain he’s changing the world. Maybe that’s the real charm of him: never doubts the encore as he walks out into the night, hero of his movement.