June 18, 2004

The guitar player's amp melted halfway through the first song. Too bad, they were off to a good start. Iggy and the others stood behind the amp staring, pointing, frowning and then discussing. I overheard him tell the organizer that they were going to call a friend who would bring them another amp. The show wasn't over, but it was for the moment.

I'd already looked at all the art and talked to all the people I knew. Iggy looked busy fiddling and mingling, so I decided to go for a walk. I headed towards the bookstore. It was just around the corner, but it was Telegraph Avenue, so it didn't take more than a couple of seconds for a panhandler to lock onto me. "Can you spare some change?" he asked. "Sorry," I replied. "You didn't see the sign!" he said, pointing to a handwritten message on his paper cup. "No sorrys" it said. "You wanna see me sing and dance?" he asked, starting to dance. "I hate sorrys."

"Why?" I asked. "Aren't people just trying to be polite?" To be honest, I thought maybe polite might have been an overstatement, but I was tired and sort of cranky and even though I don't get to Berkeley very often I'd been through this "no sorrys" crap enough times to be irritated by it.

"It cuts the conversation short," he explained. He demonstrated by saying sorry to me and making a "talk to the hand" gesture.

"Well, maybe that's a conversation I don't want to have with you."

"What conversation?"

"The 'can you spare any change' conversation."

"I never asked you that!"

"You did, too! Just now!" I said, indignant.

And with that, he started muttering to himself and walked away.