Those goddamn wild turkeys

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I hate those goddamn wild turkeys so much. What brainless buzzards they are. Those goony-birds are always trying to get at the cat food at my campsite. And when I run them off they always do the same witless routine:

“Don’t mind me. As you can see I’m walking farther and farther away from the cat food dish . . so there’s no need to pay any attention to harmless little ole’ me . . . as I circle around your campsite . . . and slowly move closer and closer to the cat food from the other side . . . and gobble gobble gobble . . .”

And then just as they approach the catfood dish I have to get up and scream.

“GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE YOU GODDAMN TURKEY!!”

And they go running down the hill. Only to repeat the routine all over again.

I swear. They have brains the size of peas.

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The secret origin of Moo Cat

Blondie, leading the troops down the hill.

One of the cutest things I ever saw in all my years in feral catdom:

When Blondie had her first litter of kittens in 2007 she disappeared for a month. Then one morning she came back down to my campsite and started taking some of the cat food in the cat food dish back to her nest for her kittens. She’d carry the hotdogs in her mouth

Then, a couple days later, she led her kittens down to my campsite. That was really cute. They all came marching down the hill in a line behind Mom. Blondie looked just like a squad leader, leading her troops on an expedition. Ha ha.

When they finally got down to the cat food dish, Blondie basically said: “OK kids. Dig in!!”

That’s how I first was introduced to that crazy cat Moo Cat.

 

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The end of the Koerber Building era

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On this date in 2007 I was just on the verge of getting kicked out of this office building that I had been secretly living in for 9 years. The Koerber Building on University Avenue. It had been a great run. I had been paying $125 a month to rent out this little 6-foot-by-13-foot office. It was about the size of a big walk-in closet. But it was ideal for my purposes. It had a high ceiling. So I could stack boxes with all my stuff against the walls. And, best of all, it had a bunk-bed that I could sleep in. And it was hidden in the back of the building. So almost nobody even noticed that I was there.

That 9-year run was a productive period for me. I produced some of my best work. I wrote my SURVIVING ON THE STREETS book. And the first drafts of ACID HEROES. I co-published the last 6 issues of the TELEGRAPH STREET CALENDAR. And I recorded hundreds of hours of original music on my mighty Fostex four-track recorder. Among many other projects.

And then a new owner bought the building in 2006. He immediately sent out a letter to all the tenants telling us how much he looked forward to working with all of us. Then he started throwing us out, one by one. He was renovating the building floor-by-floor starting with the top floor. So he kicked all the tenants in the top floor out first, and worked his way down from there. I was on the second floor (the last floor with tenants). So I was among the last to go. The last man standing. For that last year I pretty much had the whole building to myself. Which was a good deal for $125 a month.

But it was also depressing. The building had once been this dynamic place, bustling with creative and hard-working people. And then I watched as it gradually was reduced to this dark, empty shell.

And it was a metaphor for my life during that period. Everything seemed like it was dying. At the same time, Cody’s Books (my main hang-out), also went out of business. And  that once-dynamic scene was replaced by a boarded-up, burned-out, shell of a  building.

My main publisher, Loompanics, also went out of business during that period. So it was like, “Three strikes and I’m out.” I remember I kept thinking back then: “”Everything in my life is CONTRACTING.”

On August 1, 2007, I packed up all my stuff into a storage locker, handed in my keys, and left the Koerber building for the last time. I had turned 50. So it was one of those moments when you knew quite clearly that one part of your life was ending, and another part of my life was beginning.

Up to that point, my life, and my artistic career, had pretty much been on a constant upward spiral. But now it was like the arrow had pointed downward.  And everything kept getting worse and worse. And that was pretty much how it would go for the next 10 years. And, well, here I am.

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The corner of Telegraph & Haste

 

 

For 19 years I considered the corner of Telegraph and Haste in front of the Cody’s Books building as “my corner.” I basically claimed that space for myself and used it for 19 years. I set up various vending tables over the years. So it was my place of business. But it also served as my livingroom. And my clubhouse where me and my friends could hang out.

I was able to claim that space because, when Fred Cody — the original owner of Cody’s Books — first built the Cody’s Building (I think it was a gas station before that) he wrote into the lease that the space in front of his building should be reserved for “noncommercial vendors” for “political” and “community service” and “free speech” purposes (Fred was a cool liberal). And I felt my various vending tables fit into those parameters. So there I was.

Over the years various people would dispute my legal interpretation of Fred’s lease. And try to run me off of that corner. Cops, business owners, City vending license officials and even a couple of my fellow street bro’s. Because it was a very valuable piece of real estate and a lot of other people wanted to use the space. But I was slippery enough to hold onto that corner for 19 years.

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Running a vending table on a street corner can get pretty wild. Its kind of like running a bar. The clientele can get a little sketchy. Because you’re on a street corner and you’re open to anybody.  So sometimes you had to act as bouncer and run off unruly customers (plenty of the Telegraph street vendors keep a baseball bat discreetly placed under their vending table for that purpose). Anyone who has had a “service job” where they have to deal with the general public will attest to this fact: A certain percentage of the general public are flaming assholes. So, just by the laws of averages, you have to deal with them.

So, in the course of my street vending career, I’ve had to explain to certain individuals:

“I have the right to refuse service to anyone.”

They would invariably counter with: “I can hang out here if I want.”

And I would counter with: “No you can’t.”

And then I would prove it. Ha ha.

Several times I had to pick up my folding chair and chase some asshole down the street, waving my chair over my head like a tomahawk.

And I knocked some people on their asses. And some people knocked me on my ass.

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On top of that, I hung with a fairly wild crowd back then.  I knew most of the street people on the scene.  And plenty of the drinkers and druggers.  So things could get a bit raucous at times.  I, myself, liked to drink a beer or ten while I was tending to my vending duties.  Interspersed with some good strong pot to add a surrealistic touch to the proceedings.  So I’d generally get a good buzz going.

And I had a big ghetto blaster on my table which I used to blast out loud rock’n’roll.  And that usually drew a crowd.  Sometimes I’d be having so much fun, I’d still be sitting there on that goddamn corner well after midnight. It’s a miracle I was able to pack up all my vending stuff and get out of there with my life intact some nights.  Ha ha.

I know I’m nuts.  But part of me wishes I could go back in time and do the whole thing all over again.  *sigh*

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The final issue of the Telegraph Street Calendar

 

 

The Telegraph Street Calendar 2004 was the 15th, and final, issue of the series.  It ran from 1990 to 2004.  And, from a personal view, I was 33 when we started and 49 when we ended.  So when we started I was a young man, and when we finished, well, I was no longer a young man.  So it spanned a pretty significant portion of my life.

 

One of the reasons we started the Telegraph Street Calendar was that we felt the media mostly portrayed “the homeless” in a stereotypical manner.  Either as “noble victims” or “trouble-making bums.”    First and foremost, Duncan and I wanted to present the street people as individual people.  And we looked at the street scene the way an anthropologist might study any particular tribe.  In fact, street people aren’t really all that different than any other group of people (though they certainly have their distinctive elements).  Street people eat and sleep and shit and piss  and socialize  and work (well, some of  the time) and raise children and pets just like any other group of people.  My standard line used to be:  “The street scene is just like high school, except with rattier clothes and less teeth.”

We rarely had any trouble coming up with a unique theme for each issues.  Because the street scene used to change dramatically on it’s own every year.  Due to the transcient nature of street-people and the ever-shifting circumstances of street life.  Some years stand out in my mind like colorful, zany, sunny days.  Whereas other years have a darker and more tragic resonance.  The whole project was very much like publishing a yearly Yearbook of the Telegraph street scene.  And as Duncan and I hawked the latest issue at our vending table in front of Cody’s Books, the latest arrivals to the street scene would often check in with us, as if we functioned as sort of a Chamber of Commerce for the street people.

At any rate, the whole project was a pretty bizarre adventure that thrust me into places and situations that I never in a million years expected to find myself in. As they say.  It was a trip, mon!

Here are a couple of the characters that were featured in that last issue.

JOHN D. An archetypal street bro’. Hit the Tele scene in the late 1970s and made the scene for decades.

ELIZABETH and ANNIE. Quintessential grand dames of the streets. Elizabeth goes all the way back to the late ’60s Telegraph street scene, one of the first of the Berkeley street hippies.

 

 

B.N. DUNCAN. Hamming it up for the camera. He saw himself largely as an alienated loner on the fringe of society who couldn’t really relate normally to other people. . . He would have been shocked and surprised at how many people — from all walks of life — showed up for his memorial and all the heart-felt tributes.. . .As well as all the people imitating his endlessly repeated catch phrase: “Ahh! You couldn’t loan me a couple bucks until the first, could you?”

Telegraph Street Music, Volume One

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One of the weirdest scenes I was ever involved in was the year I spent recording a compilation CD of Berkeley street musicians back in 1994. The “Telegraph Street Music” CD. Volume One.

I had spent the previous 9 years working as a cartoonist. Now, cartoonists are basically nerdy, introspective, mild-mannered types. The kind of people that are comfortable sitting by themselves at a drawing board for long stretches of time. So that was the kind of scene I was used to. So I was completely unprepared for immersing myself in the middle of the music scene. Musicians are the exact opposite of cartoonists. They’re wild, aggressively extroverted, exhibitionists, overly emotional. And among the most drugged-out and hard-drinking groups of people there is (I’ve read that only physicians have a higher rate of drug use than musicians). And this was even MORE pronounced among street musicians.

And it’s not hard to understand the high drug and alcohol content among musicians. They regularly gig at bars and nightclubs where booze is the stock in trade. And playing music also goes along with “partying” which is also a big drug and drink scene. And anybody who has ever pounded down a few quick beers to muster the courage to get up on stage and sing karaoke can understand that part of the equation.

Myself, I was taking a lot of psychedelic drugs back then. When I took acid and played music, my music sounded better, more profound, cosmic even. (Of course later I realized, if I really had had any musical talent I wouldn’t have needed the drugs to make it sound good. It would’ve sounded good just on its own.)

I spent a year sort of auditioning all these crazy Berkeley street musicians and setting up all these impromptu jam sessions on street corners. And there was always plenty of pot, booze, crack cocaine, speed, acid, ‘shrooms, you name it, to keep the party going. So for me it was sort of like stepping into a whirlwind of alternate mental states of mind.

Anyways, I managed to get the CD pressed up. 22 track of chart-topping weirdness. And I printed up a 64-page magazine to go along with it because I was into over-kill back then. And it got written up in all the local newspapers and music magazines. The San Francisco Chronicle did a big article with the big headline “The Surprise Hit of the Season.” Which was a bit of an exaggeration. But I wasn’t complaining. And KFOG — the big psuedo-hippie classic rock station — did a feature on it and played some of the tracks. And the first pressing of a thousand copies sold out pretty quickly.

I had this Peavy amp in my apartment at the time, that I’d bought from some crackhead musician for 50 bucks worth of crack (that amp had great fuzz tone for power chords!!). So I had all these street musicians tramping through my place at all hours of the day and night, partying away and making lots of music in between all the drugs and alcohol. ROCK’N’ROLL YA PUKES!! My upstairs neighbor wanted to kill me. And I can’t say I blamed him. After he called the cops on me for like the third time, I realized the party was over. I had gotten too wild for civilized company. Plus, I was four months behind on my rent, because I had stupidly spent what little money I had on recording equipment, musical instruments, pressing up a thousand CDS and printing up a 64 page magazine. So I was fucked.

But I didn’t care. I wanted to cut loose. I wanted action. I wanted to be baying at the moon at midnight without getting busted by the cops.

So I packed up all my stuff into storage, sub-let my apartment, and hit the road. I had a frame backpack with a sleeping bag, and my guitar and a leather satchel with all my recording equipment. And I set out to record Volume Two of the “Telegraph Street Music” CD from right on the streets. It seemed like a concept. So I spent a year recording hundred of hours of music, madness and mirth. But by that time, I had become so overwhelmed by the street musician scene that I couldn’t really produce much of anything with all the cassette tapes I had recorded, except to put them all in a big box and stash it in my storage locker. Where they sit, thankfully, to this day. THE END.

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The Cowardly Feline

Courage!

Moo Cat is such a coward. The other cats are always chasing after her and running her off because she acts like such an asshole. And she’ll go running down the hill with her tail between her legs, climb up a tree, and cower up there until the other cats finally leave her alone.

But you should have seen her last night. Oh, what a tough cat she was. It was around midnight and I put out some cat food for her, when this raccoon showed up and tried to horn in on the action. I shooed the raccoon away. And then I sort of stood there by Moo Cat’s side while she was eating, to guard the cat food and keep the raccoon at bay until Moo Cat was finished eating.

When she was done eating, I got in my sleeping bag, and Moo Cat sat on top of my chest. But when the raccoon returned, Moo Cat decided to show off her awesome power. She did this sort of fake-lunge in the raccoon’s direction. And then started growling fiercely at the raccoon, showing off her fangs to let the raccoon know she’d rip his lungs out if he made one more move in her direction.

The raccoon did in fact back off and trot down the hill. But it was only because I — this 195 pound human being — was lying right behind Moo Cat backing her up all the way. If I hadn’t been there, you can bet Moo Cat would have been sprinting down the hill with her tail between her legs.

But you sure couldn’t tell Moo Cat that. She gave me this cocky, jaunty, “tough guy” look, like: “I sure showed that damn raccoon who was boss, huh?” Then she slept peacefully by my side for the rest of the night.

I swear to God, Moo Cat cracks me up.

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July 20, 1969

 

On this date in history. July 20, 1969.  Man walks on the moon.  And another man, Ted Kennedy, drunk-drives his car off a bridge. Leaves a woman trapped in his car to die. Never calls the police. Instead rushes off to consult with his lawyers and advisers to concoct an alibi. Never serves any jail time in spite of committing multiple felonies.

Instead returns to the Senate to serve out his terms with the other criminals in Washington DC.

Of course it’s one of the great ironies. One of the great “coincidences.” One of the great examples of cosmic synchronicity.

John F Kennedy is the guy who launched the whole NASA “let’s get to the moon” program.

And Ted Kennedy crashed his car into the drink at almost the exact same time.

 

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Victor the Mexican Paul McCartney

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Just ran into longtime Berkeley street person Victor, staggering down the Ave. He looks like he’s been through the mill. And he probably has.

Victor is known as “the Mexican Paul McCartney.” Because he’s a street musician and he can play virtually every Beatles song. Which he belts out with heavy Mexican accent (sometimes he’d play an entire side of the White Album, including Revolution #9, ha ha).

Whenever he sees me (or sees anybody for that matter) his standard greeting is “Ahh, my REAL partner!!”

Victor is almost completely blind. From a drunken car crash. He wanted to purchase some booze at the little liquor store on the corner of University below Sacramento. And he drove his car right through the front window and all the way to the counter (that’s ONE way to get to the front of the line!)

My favorite Victor story. It was a cold, wet winter night and a bunch of us homeless street people were all hanging out on Sproul Plaza. Victor didn’t even have a jacket let alone a sleeping bag. So he started acting really drunk. When the cops showed up he got really belligerent. So they handcuffed him and hauled him off to the drunk tank. But just as they were stuffing him into the back of the cop car, Victor turned and smiled at me and gave me a big wink. Victor would have a warm place to sleep tonight

Victor. My real partner.

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Fear & Loathing on the Campaign Trail ’72

 

 Yesterday I happened to stumble across a copy of this book free-boxed on the sidewalk. FEAR AND LOATHING ON THE CAMPAIGN TRAIL ’72. By Hunter S. Thompson. 505 pages. Its like a relic of a bygone era.

Hunter S. Thompson’s first two books were classics. HELL’S ANGEL’S and FEAR & LOATHING IN LAS VEGAS. This was his third book. And it has some very interesting elements. Thompson hadn’t yet been overwhelmed by his persona and by drugs. And it was damn interesting that he could take his counterculture underground slant and interject that into the mainstream of American politics. In 1972.

But it was pretty much Thompson’s last gasp as an artist.

When I was a 17 year old kid in 1974 I read this book several times with fascination. I was a budding hippie wannabe at the time. And I felt guys like Hunter S. Thompson were psychedelic sages who were delivering insights that were way more profound than the mainstream consensus reality.

A lot of his political “insights” today seem a bit stale and dated by today’s standards. But there you go.

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A favorite Hunter S. Thompson story that George McGovern often told.

Hunter Thompson, George McGovern and his wife went out to dinner at this swanky restaurant. When the waitress showed up Hunter Thompson said.

“I’d like to order four beers.”

The waitress said:

“Why do you want four beers. There’s only three of you.”

Hunter Thompson said:

“I could care less what those bastards are drinking. I want four beers for me.”

Ha ha.

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All the other reporters on the campaign trail avidly read Thompson’s accounts every two weeks when they came out in ROLLING STONE. They were envious. He was writing about all the things they said in private but were afraid to actually publish.

 

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