Point Isabel - Cleanup 2!

Call me Panda-mel. Some days ago--never mind how long precisely--having little or no trash in my paws, and nothing particular to interest me in Berkeley, I thought I would pad about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before dumps, and bringing up the rear of every garbage truck I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off--then, I account it high time to get to Point Isabel as soon as I can. This is my substitute for Netflix and chill. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to trashed beaches along with Pandas Davis, Gina, Michelle, Barbara, and Mirabel. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all raccoons in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards oceanic filth with me.

- Moby Dick, page 1, "Call me Ishmael."