Scenes From Berkeley
Some of the millions of wireless signals I can pick up from the cafe where I'm working downtown include:
We Will Share
Nuttin But Soyoung
Le Pud Palace
and my favorite...
Spank House North
(Kicks the shit out of Spank House South.)
Some guy with John Lennon glasses and a Manchester-in-the-60's Monkees haircut outside just tied up his dog to a parking meter (or in Berkeley-speak "safety-tethered his canine companion to a fascist symbol of unfair taxation on Earth-slaughtering non-bicycle transit mechanisms"), and then came back with water for him, and a blanket. And a scone. Then a super-hippie girl I recognize from High School walked in stoned with a giant hickey on her neck, and loudly annouced she wasn't buying anything but rather just came to get a napkin with which to blow her nose. She blew her nose and then left, passing an incoming lesbian with a mohawk and a vintage bowling shirt I covet. And then a three-legged dog outside the cafe barked at a passing college student, and his beautiful Native American owner ("friend / human guide") who was at the time reading "The Answer Within: A Clinical Framework of Ericksonian Hypnotherapy" didn't scold him but rather talked soothing words to him about chi and peace.
If I wrote any of this shit in a script, no one would believe me.