We all see things from our own limited perspective. There’s the famous Hindu story of the blind men groping at an elephant, trying to figure out what it is. One guy is feeling up the trunk and says, “It’s a long tubular thing!” One guy is feeling up the belly and says, “It’s this massive blobular thing!” Another guy is feeling up the tail and says, “It’s this thin reedy thing!”
There are different variations of this parable. In one version, the blind men all start arguing over who is right and get in a big fight. … In another version, they put all their limited views together and realize it’s an elephant. . And then in a third version they all get knocked down and stomped to a pulp, and the elephant lives happily ever after. The End
One of the things about living on the streets. You might think you’re on top of everything. You might think you got all the bases covered. You might think you got everything together. . . But your whole act can fall apart in a blink of an eye.
Case in point. We got a big 10-day storm coming in tomorrow morning. So all day long, I got this check-list in my head of all the things I gotta take care of before it starts raining. And I spend all day checking em off one by one. So I got my shit together, boy. . . The last thing I gotta do before I head up to my campsite tonight, is pick up my rain boots that I got stashed in the bushes. And let me tell you, those boots are great for rainy weather, they’re rubberized and shit, and keep my feets nice and dry. No matter how torrential the downpour… .
.But when I go to the stash spot where I got them stashed. . . THEY’RE NOT THERE!! I was SURE that I had left them there 5 days ago. But now they’re not there. I think: Maybe I actually stashed them at one of my other half-dozen stash spots and forgot about it. So I make my rounds to all those stash spots. Frantically searching high and low. But no. No luck. Now I’m in serious despair. I figure some bastard must have stolen them. So now I’m up shit creek without protective footwear. All I got are these flimsy cheap-ass sneakers. And I can tell you, there’s few things more miserable than walking around for 10 days in soggy cheap-ass sneakers and wet, stinky socks.
So now, for lack of anything better to do, I decide to go back to my original stash spot where I thought they were in the first place, and poke around one more time. So now I’m groping around on my hands and knees in the darkness of night, hoping against hope. Well sir, it turned out when I had stashed another bag of crap there, I had accidently pushed the bag with my boots in it into this deep dark crevice behind this other bush. BUT THERE THEY WERE! What a relief.
Some times you don’t got much margin of error on the streets.
One of the great, great things about Facebook. If somebody dislikes me?? If somebody finds my posts upsetting?? All they have to do is unfriend me. And then — instantly — I no longer exist in their world. I’m gone.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful if it was so easy to get rid of assholes in our real life, too??
On this day four years ago, January 21 2020, I saw Scaredy Cat for the last time. . .
Scaredy Cat was born at my campsite in 2015, and lived with me for four years. She had two litters at my campsite — first Mini Scaredy and then Micro Scaredy (Scaredy Cat was one of those feral cats that I could never trap and fix, though I certainly tried). When she got pregnant for the third time, she wandered off and disappeared. I suspect Camp Backwords was getting too crowded with cats for her liking, so she headed off in search of new territory to have her next litter. I didn’t see her for several years after that, and I figured she was gone for good. Such is the tenuous life of a feral cat.
Then one night I was hanging out at one of my favorite late-night drinking spots at this secluded spot on the Berkeley campus having an Olde English or six. When I heard this cat meowing at me from the darkness of the bushes. Which was weird. Why was this cat meowing at me?? Over and over. Finally, the cat mustered the nerve to poke it’s head out from the bushes. And to my great surprise it was Scaredy Cat!! I don’t know how she recognized me in the darkness after all those years. Or how she had tracked me down in the first place. But there she was.
We had a joyous reunion. Much petting. And then I fixed her a big late-night dinner. Then she jumped up onto the table I was hanging at, and hung out with me for the rest of the night. Until she finally wandered off.
The next night I showed up again at the same spot at the same time. And Scaredy Cat showed up again, too. Same routine. First, lots of meows from the bushes (which was kind of adorable, because the meows seemed to translate into English as: “It’s ME! It’s ME! Did you MISS me??”). More pets, another big dinner, and then she hung out with me for the rest of the night.
Well sir, Scaredy Cat showed up every night for a whole week. Just like old times. Me and Scaredy Cat together again. It’s like she had become my regular drinking partner or something, as we hung out together at the table all evening long.
Then one night she didn’t show up. Then she didn’t show up the next night either. And after awhile I realized she was gone. That she had wandered off once more. Just as mysteriously as she had showed up in the first place. And that was the last time I ever saw her.
I still to this day wonder what ever happened to Scaredy Cat. She was such a cool cat. One of my all-time favorites. But she was so smart, I figured she probably figured out some kind of cool set-up. She was really one of the smartest cats I’ve ever known. And so full of love. You can see it in her eyes. . . I’ve told this story before. But I like to tell it again every now and then. Just as a way of remembering Scaredy Cat.
One of the dangers of being homeless and living outside — needless to say — is that you’re in a somewhat vulnerable position when you’re sleeping at night. You don’t have those four walls and locks on your doors to protect you, for one thing. To that end, I take steps to find crash-spots that are relatively safe. That minimize the likelihood of being taken by surprise by an unexpected intruder while I’m asleep . . .
Like this particular doorway downtown, that I often use at night when it’s raining. . . This doorway is ideal for several reasons. For one thing, the building is deserted after business hours, so there’s nobody around. For another thing, it’s in a very secluded spot that gets almost no foot traffic — to get to it you have to walk down this narrow path that leads to a cul de sac, so there’s no reason to be walking in the area in the first place. On top of that, I only use it after midnight and when it’s raining, when almost nobody in their right mind would be outside schlepping around in a cold, wet rainstorm. So I usually sleep rather peacefully.
And yet, no crash-spot is full-proof. Or fool-proof, as the case may be. And maybe once every couple of years I’ll get a late-night surprise.
Like last night. . . . One thing that worked against me was: The weather forecast had predicted a steady rainfall all night long. But, alas, no rain came down all night. Which added to the possibility of foot traffic. And, lo and behold, around 2 in the morning I was awakened by sounds coming from the distance. The very NEARBY distance. And the sounds were that of a loud, angry, shouting, ranting male human being. One of the last sounds you want to hear at 2 in the morning in a secluded doorway. Thrashing about for no apparent reason. And the sounds were getting louder and closer to me at an alarming rate. I sat up in my sleeping bag and tensely studied the approaching sounds, searching for clues as to their origin. I jumped out of my sleeping bag just as this burly young man staggered into the middle of my doorway. . .
He was ranting incoherently, his eyes mostly closed and unfocused, as he weaved back and forth. “Hey, what are you doing?” I said, softly but sternly. His movements weren’t necessarily violent or menacing — at least I HOPED they weren’t. He mostly seemed confused and angry, like he couldn’t figure out where he was or how he had gotten there, or why. He staggered back and forth, reminding me of a bewildered bull at a bullfight who had taken too many swords to the guts. Most likely he was drunk out of his mind. Or stoned on some weird drug. . . Before I could decide what kind of action I should take, a second person stepped into my doorway — a slender young guy, obviously a friend or companion of the raging bull. He grabbed the guy and started trying to pull him away from me. “C’mon let’s go,” he said. He gave me a sheepish look and said, “Sorry.” I gave him the thumbs up expression and a thin smile to let him know that I understood the situation and was not going to give his friend a good solid kick in the nuts so long as he kept a respectful distance from me.
After a bit of struggling he was able to persuade his lunatic friend to reverse his track and head back in the direction from whence they had come. I listened as the shouting and the thrashing sounds retreated into the distance. And then, finally, there was blessed silence once again.
And I got back into my sleeping bag and went back to sleep. . . Like I said, this spot is usually a pretty good crash-spot. But, alas, not always.
I was missing from my campsite for the last three days because of the rain. When I finally showed up yesterday, Mini Scaredy was waiting for me. She came running down the trail to greet me, meowing over and over. I had never heard her be so verbal before. I think it was a combination of her being happy to see me, and upset that I had been gone. The meows probably translated into English as: “Where have you BEEN??” and “I MISSED you!!”
I’m probably guilty of sometimes anthromorphizing with my cats (that’s a clumsy word that means “projecting human characteristics onto animals”). But cats do express a wide range of complex emotions, thoughts and feelings just like humans. Including worry, anxiety, longing and loneliness. . .
At any rate, it took Mini Scaredy a little while to settle down before she was purring away again like her usual self.
After I packed up my campsite this morning, Mini Scaredy climbed up into a nearby tree. And as I was about to leave, she gave me a look like: “Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye on everything while you’re gone!” Ha ha.
Sometimes I wonder. If I’ll reach some point in my life. When I’ll just go completely berserk. From all the indignities I’ve suffered. From all the ignorant stupid assholes. That I’ve had the misfortune to come into contact with during the course of my life.
Of course on the other side of the coin, many people have had the misfortune to come into contact with an ignorant stupid asshole like me.
So it’s important to have a bit of an objective perspective and be able to see life from both sides.
“And furthermore you dirty rotten cock #@!!&$##!! son of a @$#¥#!!!!!”
Born on this day — January 8, 1931 — rock mogul Bill Graham.
The only time I remember seeing Bill Graham in the flesh was at a Grateful Dead show at Winterland in 1976 (great show — or great acid — I’m not sure which). Before the show there was a volleyball game between the Bill Graham staff and the Grateful Dead road crew. And every time Graham touched the ball he was roundly booed by all the Deadheads in the audience. Back then Graham was considered a major villain in certain circles: the “Capitalist Pig” who had exploited the groovy hippie rock scene. That bit.
Back in 1982 when I was a San Francisco bike messenger I would sometimes deliver packages to Bill Graham’s office building — this one-floor warehouse in the flatlands of 11th Street. It was a pretty cool place. Virtually every inch of wall space was covered with framed original art rock posters and gold records and other vintage rock memorabilia. It was like walking around in this really cool rock museum. There was a lot of history on those walls, I can tell you that. . . I never saw Bill Graham when I was delivering my packages. But I could sometimes hear him. BOY you could hear him! His office was at the end of this long hallway and you could hear his booming voice all the way to the reception area, talking on the phone to somebody. More like, shouting and screaming on the phone to somebody (you actually felt sorry for whoever the hapless schmuck was who was on the other end of that barrage, ha ha). I had never heard anybody curse like that in my life. And I had spent a lot of my life hanging out with street people and punk rockers. But this was on a whole ‘nother level of profanity. Ha ha. . . Later, in 1985 an arsonist — who I believe was never caught — tossed a couple of Molotov cocktails into the building in the middle of the night and burned the place to the ground. And all that treasured rock art and memorabilia went up in smoke.
Ace Backwords 