Last Thursday I spent part of the evening in lovely Berkeley, California!
Berkeley, as you know, is the Cambridge of the West, chock full of lesbians and other poorly dressed intellectuals. I was there for a combination St. Patrick's Day and going away party for Mark from French Class.
Long time readers of Camper's Log will remember that I used to take some French classes at City College. I retained nothing afterward, except for Mark from French Class' friendship. C'est vrai.
It had been a long time since I left the city limits. I think the last time may have been when I had to review some bars in the East Bay in November. It's a rare feat when I leave the Mission at all. But Berkeley? Let's just say that on my list of Hot Places To Go, it's not near the top. Here's why:
Immediately upon exiting the Ashby BART station, I saw somebody hug a homeless person. The homeless lady was singing about Jesus for spare change, and some Berkeley progressive moron interpreted this as her needing human compassion in the form of an embrace, instead of 50 cents towards a fifth of Night Train. People in Berkeley are stupid!
The average Berkeley citizen has a uniform. They prefer natural fabrics and a blue collar workman's look, even though the only work they do is on their thesis projects. Faux-poverty is very Berkeley.
The women look like they study math or anthropology, and probably have unshaven legs beneath their long, wrinkled dresses, which are always topped with loose-weave cotton or wool sweaters. Hey ladies, why don't you wear your hair down to match your brown-framed glasses? Oh, you already are. Of course.
The younger ones go for different non-attractive style, like denim jeans, a Patagonia sweater, and a wool ski cap. It's their way of saying, "When I'm done with this organic mocha grande, I'll see you in the rock climbing gym."
Most Berkeley men have floppy hippie-jew 'dos and creative facial hair. They wear vintage (or just old) t-shirts and always baggy corduroy pants with pleats. Pleats, for chrissakes! Nobody has an ass. And some dirty, floppy sneakers like Converse or skate shoes on the bottom with brown old man socks.
At the party there were a few other things that would have indicated we were in Berkeley: organic liquid hand soap in the bathroom, a huge bike rack mounted to the living room wall, Tibetan sheets as decor, etc. You could just tell that there is a college nearby.
Then this goth girl came in and I thought that she must be one of Mark from French Class' friends, but in fact she was the hired entertainment for the evening: a bellydancer. Sure, why not? I tried to convince Mark from French Class to take a lesson, since he is going to need to know that stuff in Morocco. (The wipe with their butts with their hands in Morocco so instead of shaking hands to say hello they bellydance.) But he wasn't buying it.
Oh right, Mark from French Class is going to Morocco and Paris and Egypt. He got laid off recently so he was in South America for the past several months, then off to North Africa next week, but he has to make sure he leaves in time to do an internship in Tibet in the fall. Note to Mark from French Class: Fuck You! The furthest I've been in the past six months is Berkeley, and even that was enough material to warrant a log entry.