Claim Death Award Center
Claim your sentence 
of Death 
by VooDoo Today!


Cxxxxs X. Dxxxxo
P. O. BOX xxxxxx
IXXXXXX California xxxxx-xxxxx


Dear Cxxxxs X. Dxxxxo
          It's really true! I1m excited to inform you
 that you have just been guaranteed an award 
of Death by VooDoo in our nationwide 
"National Insanity" Sweepstakes!

          Important! :

Although you are guaranteed 
this award! It is already yours! You must claim 
your award by the deadline!
           To prevent fraudulent or unauthorized award 
claims by patients of Dr. Jack Kavorkian, 
my office must hold your award pending 
receipt of your valid claim to Death by Voodoo.

          We have established a security procedure to
 make absolutely sure that nobody but you can 
claim the award that is rightfully yours. Your 
award designation has been computer
 selected from the thousands ofassholes who
  have been sending me 900 number get rich quick
  scam contests. 

          Yes, Cxxxxx, unless you award me 
 one million dollars in one of your phony contests, 
I will pray to Satan to have you drop dead and 
take your immortal soul immediately. I have 
already lit a candle and burned a piece
 of paper with your signed name on it.
 (Hell that was the easy part, you 
sent it to me!) Unless you respond within 
14 days of recited of this letter,
I am sorry, but you had better make funeral 
arrangements and notify your next of kin; 
wife, sister, mother and brother are all the
 same person, so that1s easy 
enough. 

          Just bend over and kiss your ass 
good-bye!! Maggots will eat your brains 
and come out of every orifice of your 
body as you literally disintegrate into dust. 

          This horrific end is all avoidable if you
 award all the people you have sent 
900 scams the prizes that you promised 
them and stop harassing them with these
phoney get rich quick scams and get a job.

          On behalf of the Claim Death Award Center, 
all the best to you and your family. Enjoy your
 award in good health, because you earned it! 
Death by VooDoo.



Sinningcerely yours


Grand master of voodoo
Belsabud Jones



Letter to Bureau-o-crates


	
          Four women and two dogs ago, I came 
forth upon the streets of Berkeley as to witt
 one street artist, dedicated to the proposition,
 that it is better for me to create beauty for 
myself working 120 hours a week for no 
money, then to become a wage slaving 
young urban professional. To that basic
 premise, I have dedicated my existence 
for some 23 years, maintaining  a moderate 
three figure income. Indeed, some might 
even call this poverty and wish to relieve
 me of my dedication. During my tenure 
as a street artist, I have witnessed many 
great changes to the city of Berkeley.
          The corner of Durante and Telegraph 
has changed unimaginably. There are 
now windows in the Bank of America.The 
store where little old blue haired ladies 
sold dresses  evolved to blue haired young
ladies selling weird clothes and evolved 
further into a store run by African Americans 
selling Bagels and Kosher foods!! This must be 
to compete with the Chinese selling Pizza, 
the Mexicans selling Chinese food, the 
Filipino selling Pretzels and the Italians selling 
sushi.  A shoe store has become a 
vegetarian restaurant and Ken Serican has 
built a three story empire from a station 
wagon full of records....
          Be that as it all may, we artesian 
developed a system to fairly and equitably
 divide up unimproved space and develop 
it for economic opportunities. Berkeley gave 
to us artists the greatest grant to the arts
 that ever existed: the right to develop 
unimproved sidewalk space into an economically
 feasible business opportunity. In exchange,
 we have provided the area with tourists and
 business greater that any where else in the 
city. We have created a successful market place.
          Now every few years, a group of newly 
elected officials, hired petty burocrates, and 
civil service employees arrive to "help" us 
(I am from the government and I am here to 
help you!) organize our business 
district/ neighborhood/street vending. 
Each time a new group  descends upon us, 
they have managed to screw up as best 
they could, double our license fees and 
call upon us to meet with them at their
 convenience for hours and hours of our 
time. It is not enough that these 
blood sucking vermin have no idea what
 it is like to sell upon the streets or make 
and create something by hand or 
operate any kind of business, they must 
occupy our time, by telling us how they 
are going to improve our business and 
want to charge us outrageous sums of 
money to do it.
          Ladies and Gentleman. Please, Please 
leave us alone! Please free us of your presence 
and go to work in some meaningful job making 
millions of dollars. Invent a new computer operating 
system, become a cult guru, defend a famous 
guilty football star for murder, but don1t 
triple our license fees, or plant gardens in
 our vending spaces or bicycle racks, kiosks, 
trash cans, Christmas tree lights, Umbrellas, 
banners, cherping pedestrian signs, telephones, 
newspaper racks, Christians with microphones , 
space alien landing pods, and black ionic holes 
in our vending spaces. Please try and understand 
that we don1t want to wear no stinking badges, 
cause this ain't KMart. We don't want any 
more unenforceable regulations or fee hikes!!!! 
Just go in peace or 
leave in pieces.....


Russell Andavall

The FireGod

Tales of Telegraph Avenue

"Why are there no earthquakes in Berkeley?"
Answer: "Because there is a wingnut holding down every street corner!" Yes, I am one of the wingnuts.. If your really crazy we elect you to city council.
Russell Andavall

A series of short stories about selling pottery on Telegraph Avenue

One sunny afternoon, I am selling pottery on the corner of Durante and Telegraph and...

Two exceptionally beautiful women come up to my booth and select a few pots to purchase. They each hand me 20 one dollar bills for their purchase. I exclaim as I am wrapping up the pots, “Oh, you must be waitresses?” To which they replied “No, we’re lap dancers.” and smile at me and wink. I take the stack of 40 one dollar bills, smell them and say “Why so you are,” and put the money in my wallet. My neighbor over hearing this comes up afterwards and with her rye smile and evil wit says “My are their customers cheap tippers.” I look at her and say, “Not really, they spent the twenties over at the junk jewelry booth....”

The Drunk

Perhaps the funniest scene I’ve ever witnessed on the Avenue came on a Cal and Stanford football Big game Saturday. One of the fraternities was having a keg party up the street. Somehow, one of the local drunks had managed to get two beers and smuggle them out of the party. As he staggered down the street with a cup overflowing in each hand, his pants fell down around his knees. He now had a dilemma. What could he do? He couldn’t walk and he couldn’t pull up his pants. He decided to try and make his way to my table and put the beers down and pull up his pants. Unfortunately, he tripped on his pants and sent the beer spewing everywhere. In his excitement, he let out a huge spirit of piss that also when everywhere. My partner and I watched this drama unfold with hysterical laughter until we realized that there was a tidal wave of piss and beer running down the street aimed directly for our stack of boxes. Amid piss and beer soaked drunk we worked feverishly to move the boxes before the stream of innocuous liquid reached them. It was impossible and we ended up with several stinky and wet boxes of pottery.
New York

A loud and obnoxious older woman from New York approached the booth with her friend. She proceeds to handle several things and then asks: “Are these pots made by the natives?” To which I replied: “No the Natives are a Berkeley rock and roll band and they are playing at the Starry Plough tonight.”

"Little Potzzzzzz"

“What are those little pots for?” I am often asked. To which I reply: “They are for elves and fairies to live in. You can put hopes, wishes and dreams in them. They are a ‘Chacka’, that is something to collect dust in your grandmother’s window sills. But wait a minute, your grandmother doesn’t have dust in her window sills does she? Its a pot to piss in, although you better have careful aim, good control and a tiny bladder, You better buy one so you will always have a pot to piss in or you won't have a window to throw it out of.” (Note: Last year I sold over 1000 little pots at $2 each and 3 for 5. They paid for my kilns to be fired.....)
Russell Andavall
The FireGod