Random Photos 18

I’m the first to admit. I don’t know what “love” is. You have all these people saying “I love you.” And “Until death do we part.” And “I’d die for you, baby.” And etc. One chick songwriter had a great line: “You said you couldn’t live without me. So how come you’re still alive?” Ha ha. They say “I will love you until the end of time.” And 6 months later they get divorced and hate each others guts. Love love love. “That’s like hypnotizing chickens.” I guess this “love” stuff can be a little fleeting.

But anyways I was thinking about this particular issue — “love” so-called — because its 11 o’clock at night right now. And I’m drunk and I just wanna go to my campsite and go to sleep. But then I remembered I had all of this cat food for my feral kitties stashed somewhere in the bushes.

So I staggered 5 blocks back into town to see if I could find – amidst my drunken haze — where in fact I had stashed my cat food. In the bushes. When you’re drunk one bush looks like another bush. AND WHERE IN HELL DID I STASH MY GODDAMN CAT FOOD???!!!

But, after much thrashing in the darkness I did in fact find my cat food.

But I wondered. If that might be some kind of definition of “love.” Whatever the hell “love” is. That you feel compelled to go out of your way to do something for somebody besides yourself. Even if its just a bunch of feral cats. Because mostly Im a self centered bastard.

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We’re just getting started. Pizza on the way. She asked me to hold off the street people until she got everything set up.

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This very cool woman just showed up and has decided to set up a feast in People’s Park in honor of Ramadan. Along with her cute pup Lola. Plus, table clothes and candles. Talk about classy. God is great. In all His forms.

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I have the soul of a poet. Unfortunately I don’t have the talent of a poet. But never mind. I’ve just composed what I think might be an immortal poem. Which I am now sharing with you, my Facebook friend.

“I think that I shall never see
A poem as lovely as OE”

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Caution: If you stare too deeply at this plant you might become hypnotized and sucked into its vortex and forced to do its bidding.

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Plants of Berkeley.

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Chuck.

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Chuck. A Berkeley street character and street musician. He’s often referred to as “the Jewish Bob Dylan” (or is that redundant?) because he plays Dylan songs in Yiddish.

In an odd twist, I found out awhile ago that Chuck was actually working as a bike messenger at Rocket back in 1978 at the same time as me. He referred to himself as “Charlie the dispatcher’s whipping boy” and “the worst bike messenger of all time.” Ha ha. Chuck.

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