Berkeley Reporter

by Steed Dropout
February 21, 2012

BERKELEY REPORTER: THE VOICE OF CHURNALISM

Let’s say that Manhattan is the Big Apple, and Berkeley just a bite.

And let’s further say that the New York Times speaks for New York, while we, here at Berkeley Reporter, and at the Berkeley Daily Planet speak for Berkeley.

This is as close as BR will ever get to the Times, where they still manage to do journalism, while we are busy practicing churnalism, or as the co-founder of the international Occupy movement has characterized us — “crap.”

If you think the news you read is manufactured (Chomsky), or even invented (Mencken), you’ve found a home at BR. We admit it.

Churning a story defined: it’s when you contribute to a story you are covering in a way that alters the story. The motive: to inflate the story. Bigger stories read better than honestly paltry tales.

My last Planet piece covered, the popular performance artist, Billy Palen, and his alter-ego, Reverend Billy, who was here from the Big Apple for a conference at the university. He’s so big he stayed at the Faculty Club.

Famous Cafe Mediterraneum, home to many demos. Photo by Ted Friedman.

Continue reading “Churning a Story, While Reporting the Little Apple” »

by Steed Dropout
February 15, 2012

BIG BERKELEY COP-OP, A COP-OUT?

In my previous Berkeley Reporter dispatch, I had written how my old friend Michael, a schizophrenic, had been busted at the Cafe Mediterraneum by five squad cars; and a fire-truck; and an ambulance; and a squad of police; and plenty of paramedics.

The Med, on Telegraph, across from Moe’s Books, is as notorious as the perps, who are busted there. The patrons are mostly perps, who could be busted at anytime, and some of them have been.

But a tipster in the Med said that Michael, busted Friday night, was back in the Med Saturday morning. He was, inexplicably, sweeping the floor with a straw-broom.

I was incredulous, even talked my tipster-friend into a case of mistaken identity. But the next day, I saw, with my own eyes, Michael near the Med, where he had been busted.

He said that he had been released from an emergency room four hours after his arrest. “They shot me up with a drug cocktail, I lay around at a Dr.’s house, and they released me.”

Michael was desperate for cigarette money, saying if he didn’t get some cash for smokes, he’d steal them. I emptied out the slim assets in my billfold, $12, and handed it over.

Michael's only possessions, after we moved them from blocking a car. The broom was important to him. Photo by Ted Friedman.

Continue reading “Cafe Med Psycho Back on Street in Four Hours, After Big Cop-Op” »

by Steed Dropout
February 11, 2012

BERKELEY POLICE RETURN TO SCENE OF MANY CRIMES

It was six o’clock, and Craig Becker, owner of the Caffe Mediterraneum, was leaving the store to pick-up supplies. Lost in his usual fog, he, nevertheless, did see Michael outside the cafe with his pants down.

Perhaps pants down in Deluth is a bigger deal (especially in the winter) than in Berkeley. But I had warned Becker to keep an eye out for Michael. Michael had been barred from the cafe numerous times.

After telling Michael, once more, he could not enter the cafe, Becker called Berkeley Police on his cell phone, and left. He forgot, as he often does, to warn his employees. Becker has a long list of forgottens.

Rat-trapped at Caffe Med, Friday, a mentally-ill man, with flare, is surrounded by police, who 'just want to help.' Photo by Ted Friedman.

Continue reading “Whacked Again at Berkeley’s World Famous Cafe Med” »

by Steed Dropout
January 30, 2012

A HAIL-OF-BULLETS MURDER

As a hazy dusk settled over Berkeley’s So-Ass™ nightclub district, last week, two killers, turned the corner of Shattuck Avenue, at Emerson Street.

The killers were across the street from Smokey J’s barbecue joint, and close-by a barbershop — the legendary Don’s Headquarters, a neighborhood headquarters, and high-spirited conversational emporium.

The killers’ grey Honda matched the grey pre-massacre atmosphere in the sedate, upscale hood. The victim, a beloved neighborhood figure, nicknamed “Junior,” who had worked seven years with his uncle in the barbershop, was leaving the shop to watch B-ball with his friends around the corner.

Murder victim's favorite rib-house, and around the corner from the crime scene.
Photo by Ted Friedman.

Continue reading “So-Ass Murder in Berkeley’s Nightclub District” »