Monday, December 10, 2012

The H Stood For Huckleberry

Those of you who followed this blog in the past know Audrey and I have been blessed with a great life with our dog Eli. Last night, after fifteen and a half beautiful years, Eli finished his time here with us. It breaks our already fragile hearts that we have to say goodbye to him. We have little to say except we are so sorry to see him go. It happened so fast. Our tears can't stop. Our hearts reach out hoping he's in a better place.

We love you friend. I love you. I know you loved us, and we miss you so much.

Your names live on, buddy.

Elijah Barcio

Nicknames:
Elijah Huckleberry
Elijah H. Huckleberry, the H stands for Huckleberry
Elijah H. Huckleberry Barcio
Mr. Huckleberries
The Huckleberry Hound
Minister of Defense
Doggy Doo Doo
Doo Doo Doggy
Triple D
3-D
Fuzzy Face
Mr. Doggy Pants
Mr. Fuzzy Pants
Sir Walks Alot
Eli
Mister E
Hey There Mister
Happy Pants
Mr. Happy
Mr. Boots
and most recently...
Bootsy

You truly were our best friend. We are forever in debt to you, Eli. Your great spirit joined us too briefly but in the form of such a precious friend. We saw in your eyes that you loved us in return, and we hope you forgive us if we ever let you down. We're so sorry. Thank you for every moment. We love you.

For those of you who also knew and loved Eli, here is a slideshow of memories to remember him by.



Love,
Phil and Audrey

Sunday, February 12, 2012

Post Occupied

What have the Occupy protesters done to manifest change in the world?

Audrey and I barely make ends meet. We have both worked since we were children. For entertainment we go on walks. We go to the museum on free day. We read.

Before moving out here to California, we bought two shotgun houses in Indianapolis for around $20K each. We intended to fix them up and sell them for a profit. But that didn't work out. Today we're upside down in both.

We have watched over the past half-decade as our tiny assets turned into liabilities.

We rent the houses out. We can't get enough rent to pay the mortgage. Our families back in Indy help us maintain the yards.

The mortgage business, the real estate business, and in the political world are corrupt. But we took those risks. We bought those homes. We had that dream. If the risks had paid off, we would have been the ones to benefit.

My mother told me once, "If your only problems are money problems then you don't have any problems." She said that while fighting cancer. She died a few months later.

What she was trying to tell me is that money changes the external world, not the internal world. It changes who you seem to be, not who you are.

Even if she had possessed the wealth of a king, instead of Medicaid, her cancer would not have relented. Nothing could stop her from dying earlier than she hoped to die. All she could do was prepare herself for death's mystery and make peace with what she hadn't accomplished.

Now when I cannot pay a bill on time I think, "At least I don't have cancer." It's a shallow thought.

But as long as I have my health, lack of money can't stop me from doing anything. It can stop me from traveling the world in a private jet, but it can't stop me from traveling the world on a cargo ship, or in a canoe, or by walking and swimming.

It can stop me from getting a fifty dollar Neapolitan pizza with shaved truffles, but I can still forage for uneaten scraps of pizza from the dumpsters of the tens of thousands of pizza places in America that collectively throw away enough food every day to feed all the world's hungry.

If I am too proud to eat from a dumpster, that's an ego problem, not a money problem.

At it's heart, Occupy is about money. Where the protesters use the words justice and equality, they really mean vengeance and access to wealth.

If they want the world to be a more peaceful, just and equitable place, is camping in the streets the best way to accomplish that goal? Or would their days be better spent learning about themselves, sharing laughs with a neighbor, comforting the lonely, or learning another language?

What would make a bigger impact? Blocking the entrance to a bank, or developing the qualities of sincerity, humor and mental fortitude?

The protesters are upset because the crooked politicians aren't indicting the crooked business people with whom they have always openly conspired.

The Social Contract has never been fair.

The wealthy elite are where they are because of the advantages they were born with or that they wrestled away from others. Their sheltered, limited experiences keep them fundamentally disconnected from the day to day reality of most human beings. They withhold love and beauty from the world, and from themselves. They are kings of shit. They are beasts.

Politicians who sell out to the rich instead of advocating for their constituents are tools.

The way to stop it is to actually participate in our participatory democracy. Engage in the grueling, daily work of democratic self-rule. Attend city council meetings. Write to your legislators. At the very least vote, or else you deserve the corrupt, mismanaged system you have enabled.

Choices make people.

Occupy is righteous in its frustration. But the protesters could make a better contribution to humanity by volunteering at homeless shelters.

Power has always been corrupt. Wealth has always been greedy. Happiness has always come from within.

If you are disgusted by our Congress, as I am, vote them all out of office. If you are outraged at Corporate America's collective rape of the environment, support the grass roots efforts to expose their behavior and fight them in court. If you are devastated by the waste of life perpetrated by the war mongers, walk the walk and talk the talk of diplomacy.

All points of view meet at this axis: Change your own nature and you change human nature. Change yourself and you change the world.

Friday, February 3, 2012

Everything Works Out When You Work Out

Five days a week I run up and down these stairs at Alta Plaza Park, a few blocks from my apartment. Ten times up and down then a hundred push-ups and two hundred sit-ups.


Afterward, I practice my katas under the trees at the top of the hill, looking down at the bay.


A few weeks ago I ran all the way down to the bay and found upon my arrival a tiny fitness court by the water, featuring pull-up bars, push-up bars and sit-up stations. A relic of the 1980s myself, I fit right in with this little spot of the world and have been returning several times a week since.

Today I found this video explaining the origin story of my little outdoor gym on YouTube:


497 Views! Way to go monkeybars!

I love that I can do ten whole pull-ups at a time while looking at the Golden Gate Bridge and listening to seagulls. (Since they're flying over the bay I suppose they're bagels.)

Today while skulking around on Craigslist I found an employment ad looking for fitness instructors for something called the National Fitness Campaign Marina Green Fitness Court, or as I call it now, the monster that is soon to devour my little corner of happiness.

The 1980s era monkeybar gym is scheduled to be replaced this April by a much larger, alien workout plaza that is so futuristic it has its own Facebook page, which is something I don't even have.

I will have to adapt I suppose. Or if they are just going to throw them away, do you think I could get the monkey bar gym installed in my spare room?

Friday, January 6, 2012

If it won't reach...stretch.

Since 1952, the population of the United States has doubled. If I said that in the past sixty years the population of my living room doubled, that would not be cause for alarm. I don't compete with the inhabitants of my living room for survival. We collaborate.

But America is not my living room.

Americans in 1952: 157,552,740
Americans in 2012: 312,901,000

Twice as many Americans competing for a sense of belonging and identity. Twice as many humans who need to be fed, clothed, sheltered, enlightened, amused and loved.

What does that mean for artists?

81% of Americans say they would like to write a novel one day. On average, .0005 percent of Americans actually make a living as writers.

In 1952, 70,000 Americans called themselves professional writers. Today 152,000 Americans get paid to string words together to inform, entertain and challenge the masses.

Twice as many workers competing for less revenue from twice as many customers.

An increase in readers does not increase the demand for new books. A thousand books can just as effectively stimulate a million people as a billion people. Technology further allows fewer writers to reach more people.

So take solace, writers: We are less valuable to America than ever before.

We are free.

Here are two recent expressions of my freedom:

1) a collection of new work called "If it won't reach...stretch," a pocket-sized reader featuring contemporary poetry, fiction, essay and comics by a diverse group of people who have at least one thing in common: They are friends of mine.

To browse the book, or buy a copy, follow this link: If it won't reach...stretch.

2) "Yeah lovin' it," a spin-off of Real San Francisco exclusively featuring pictures of McDonald's trash I saw on the ground.

Visit here yeahlovinit.tumblr.com then use the Submit link to send your own pictures of McDonald's trash and I'll put them on the site.

More people means more hamburgers, more trash, fewer book deals, fewer summer homes for authors. Welcome to the Free Market. I'm free at last.