Thanksgiving, Berkeley. Teley goes dark and the streets empty of "all the lonely people...where did they all come from...where do they belong?"
You can walk down the desert of Shattuck or Telegraph and see Berkeley slip-sided away. Did the madding street scene ever really happen?
The starkly homeless emerge in bas relief, the gritty backbone of Berkeley.
As our streets empty, our neighbor churches fill with prayers to the gods.
Among those gods is, conceivably, the God of Berkeley. We'll call him, Dude, as his name is uttered on every street corner in this blessed berg.
For this year's Thanksgiving fest, I immodestly offer this orison for the irreverent:
Oh Dude, hear our prayer
The Dude abideth
We seek not abundance, self-wealth,
Or any blandishments of our times
We seek your majestic justice;
The acceptance of our own ideas,
and the defeat of opposing ideas
We seek not to "all get along here,"
But to make others move along
But mostly, oh Dude,
We give thanks for our lives
Here in Berkeley
We will avoid leaving the protective
Safety net of Berkeley in fear for our souls
Way Yay though we pass through the canyons
That once were streets,
We will not fear a mugging
Even though you won't arrive
Dude, we know we have sinned against you
Avoiding our Dude commandments
And your dudely ways
Berkeley remains our strength
Our inspiration, our very lives.
Today, we eat the bird
Tomorrow, the bird will be flipped us.
You would understand, oh Dude
But Dude, we wouldn't have it
Any other way
It's all good