St. Francis is the new Peach Pit.

The conspicuous absence of a television among our worldly possessions has conspired with our imagination to invent curious behaviors, the most recent example of which is an obsession with Veoh.

Veoh provides free access to back seasons of hundreds of bygone television shows. Alf. The A-Team. Buck Rogers. The Fall Guy. Alfred Hitchcock Hour. Arrested Development. The list goes on.

Bestowed upon us is the right to elitistly claim at parties, "We don't own a television," while still sneaking home to watch ten episodes a day of the original Beverly Hills 90210.

And like barnacles multiplying on a ship's rusted hull, this obsession has begat others.

Like, most recently, the obsessive quest for a "Peach Pit" of our own.

The Peach Pit! Where Brandon learned to gamble! Where Kelly passed out in the bathroom from too many diet pills on her 18th birthday! Where David fired Steve as his manager so he could secure an ultimately doomed hip-hop recording contract!

Every epic story requires a regular hangout where the main characters get together and chew the fat, literally.

This week Audrey and I found ours. And it's name is "St. Francis."

Over a Guiness Float, vegetarian chili and a 1/2 order of The Nebulous Potato Thing, it began.


Further evidence this place is our destiny called to us from among the Candy Dots and salt water taffy for sale in the St. Francis swag case. A message from our very muse.

All we need now is a couple of decent love triangles and some much bigger haircuts.

Come with me if you want to live.

A list of words I never used to say, that I now say almost every day:
1) hill
2) ocean
3) beach
4) golden gate bridge

A list of things I didn't used to eat, that I now eat almost every day:
1) Lemon
2) Plantain
3) Cilantro
4) Bee Pollen

A list of things my neighbor has said to me recently that might or might not refer to Proposition 215:
1) "I have the card."
2) "I gotta get some clones."
3) "There's this guy in Alta Vista Park every Saturday who sells these amazing, all-natural brownies."
4) "Seriously, if you ever change your mind let me know. I've got tons of this stuff."

A list of videos I've watched recently of my new governor on YouTube:
1) "My Favorite Body Part...The Aahhsss."
2) "Plain Zero."
3) "Come with me if you want to live."
4) "It's a mistake."

Update From Mission Control

Attn: All Team Members
Re: "Life 5.0" Operating System Update

You may have noticed for the past 18 days that available network resources have been diverted toward system-wide testing of speculative entertainment programs (Beach Runner, Cafe Visiter, Latino Market Shopper and Beach Runner 2.0: Dog Owner Edition) and vital educational programs (Subway Figure-Outer, Up-Hill Bike Route Avoider and Hospital Locater).

Noticeable slow-downs during prime use hours are blamed on critical upgrade program (Job Seeker: SF Bay Edition) running in the background of main operating system.

"JS:SFBE" utilizes approximately 50% of total energy reserves available to run "Life."

We at Mission Control apologize for this slowdown, and are happy to announce that as of eleven-fourteen this morning "JS:SFBE" has concluded work on phase one of its upgrade.

Activity Report:
Username: AUDREY
Jobs Secured: 1
Title: CENTER DIRECTOR
Location: SYLVAN LEARNING CENTER
Sub Directory: SAN BRUNO, CA
Start Date: 12.01.2008
Distance from Mission Control: 12.4 MILES
Approximate Salary: CLASSIFIED
Operational Parameters: FULL TIME
Benefits: FULL



Promotions awarded all around.

Celebration to follow this evening at Le P'tit Laurent.

All team members invited to attend.

Lots of Love

I remember my dad told me about a news show he watched on New Years Eve, at the turn of the millennium. A journalist was interviewing a group of religious leaders about whether the world was about to end when the clock struck Y2K.

The main concern in any religious discussion being arriving at a workable definition of the word "god," the interviewer was attempting to establish a suitable definition so the participants in the discussion could agree to move forward into other topics within the conversation.

There was a Rabbi and a fundamentalist Christian reverend and a Catholic bishop, and they were all bickering back and forth about various disqualifying characteristics of their perceived opponents definitions.

Meanwhile the fourth member of the conversation, the Dalai Lama, kept calmly, incessantly repeating, "God is love."

"'God is love, God is love,' he kept saying," my dad told me. "Everyone else was arguing, but all the Dalai Lama kept saying was, 'God is love.'"

Expectations of what things should be get in the way of my ability to just let things be.

When I let go of my desire to be in control, wondrous miracles occur - my definition of a miracle being, "that which occurs which I did not expect to occur."

I did not expect to Elijah to love the beach.



It was a miracle how he ran like a child across the sand, chasing the waves into the sea, then retreating as they chased him back onto the shore. I felt his heart unlock and open up to the ocean. He sat in the sand by our side and surveyed the impossible landscape. How a dog born in a barn and raised on a farm could embrace so easily this alien horizon so inspired me that I almost wept. It makes a man happy to please another creature, on any level, even so simply as taking an old dog to the beach for the first time.

After the beach I felt my heart open again, wider still, as we attended the Free Farmer's Market, a neighborhood vegetable giveaway in the Mission, two blocks from our home.



By virtue of our address we are welcome any Sunday, between 1 and 4 in the afternoon, to come by 23rd and Treat Street and help ourselves to free, organic vegetables and greens, organic citrus fruit, organic artesian bread and free plant starts, courtesy of a man who calls himself "Tree."

"Tree" started this neighborhood garden so that, in his words, "People from the neighborhood would have a reason to meet each other and say hello, and so working people could get their hands on some organic, fresh food that doesn't cost an arm and a leg."

Tree maintains the public garden and solicits unsold organic produce donations from the various farmer's markets around the city. He gives everything away for free, including advice on how to maintain the starts. (Click the title of this post for a link to the free farm stand's blog.)

In exchange for our mere presence we were rewarded with a free persimmon, bok choy, a bushel of Russian chard, three tomatoes, a bag of walnuts, a green fig, an uncut loaf of spelt bread and a chard plant start, which we took home and planted in our back yard.

Along with the lemon tree, the eucalyptus and the two banana trees, Eli and Pico will watch over it, nurture it, love it, and we will all hope for each other to grow.

Things that were once a part of us are gone.

Stitches and staples.

Audrey took the DIY approach to the removal of her stitches, like the stud that she is.

I, however, heeding logical sounding advice I read on the internet that the amateur removal of surgical staples frequently ends badly, made an appointment with my new family doctor. What better introduction to a healer than, "Hi. I apparently fall down for no reason sometimes and split my head open. Other than that don't expect to see me much."

Noticing Audrey clutching my hand as he worked, yet sensing I was not actually in any pain, the doctor whispered in my ear, suggesting to me that, "If someone wants to give you sympathy, the least you can do is act like you need it. I mean this hurts, right?"

Never waste an opportunity to receive love.

I fake grimaced and squinted. Audrey squeezed harder on my hand.

"Will I ever play the violin again, Doc?" I asked

"With practice," he said.

"Not really worth it," I replied.

To quote Modest Mouse, "The universe is shaped exactly like the earth. If you go straight long enough you end up where you were."

We ended this part of our adventure where it began: With a smoothie.

Make Good Options

The door opened and I saw that outside was a world full of flower petals and sunlight where the ocean roared and beautiful secrets whispered in the wind. I never hesitated. I walked out into it and became amazed I had ever been able to exist anywhere else.

Sushi at Barracuda. Delfina's Pizza. Sweet nothings at La Bohemme.


A person made of money and inclined to make the effort could eat at a different, independently owned San Francisco restaurant each meal every day for a year and not even exhaust half of their options.

Or if its the ocean you'd rather devour, how do you take it?

With or without mist?


With or without bonfires?


With or without the wonders of the world?



Leaving has nothing to do with leaving. It has to do with arriving, someplace else.

I am Lucky.

My relationships embrace me before the world has a chance.

I awake to Pico showering me in precious expectation. She allows me to participate again in saving her, with insulin, with kitty treats and gentle adoration. She saves me in return by giving me a purpose.

I take Eli on a walk. He takes me down streets I never would have noticed. Fertilizing the cactuses in front of the windmill house, he gives me a reason to stand on the sidewalk staring at the architecture. By each other's sides we are brothers. Together we attract the smiles of strangers.

We return home to 66 Balmy and Audrey joins us in consciousness. Monday officially begins. Time to get moving toward dominion over our dreams.

San Francisco is shouting, "I give you mountains! I give you the sea! I give you organic, free trade coffee and free wireless internet!"

All it expects in return is our best.

The Best Things in Life Are $1.50 and Under.

What inspires human beings to take chances? To risk life and limb? To put everything on the line?

Today I left the safe confines of my home, travelled blocks out of my way, deviated from my plan, and for what?

I had to find out what a $2.50 donut tastes like.

Dynamo Donuts features handmade donuts, the selection of which changes hourly.

My selection was one Orange Ginger and one Chocolate Chili Spice. Saved for the next guy was Bacon Apple Walnut Glaze, with real bacon.

I value the Orange Ginger closer to $1.75. The Chocolate Chili Spice, sixty-five cents.

Death of an Economist

Back in Indianapolis I was a Realtor for a few years.

I never misled a client as to what their property was worth. Still every seller I represented insisted their house was worth more than I said it was worth. And every buyer insisted it wasn't worth what the seller was asking.

Maybe they were right. Maybe so was I.

A commodity is worth whatever a buyer will pay. Indiana has an oversupply of houses. The only way value can be established is for someone new to come into the market - a person moving from another State, or a person leaving an existing household to start a household of their own.

A population increase.

But the population of Indiana decreases, reliably, each year. The percentage of Hoosiers willing and able to buy a home decreases even more rapidly than the gen-pop due to brain drain. The basic principals of capitalism therefore dictate that existing, unoccupied houses in Indiana are worthless.

Unless...

Unless there is an emotional connection between a person and a house.

People will pay any price for love.

Hoosiers are romantic. They imagine that when they put their house on the market, someone will come along and fall in love with it. But no Hoosier is stupid enough to fall in love with a house. That would mean they would have to admit to their disapproving relatives and friends that they made an emotional purchase. They would be mocked at Thanksgiving dinner for overpaying. They would be ridiculed when it came time to resell. They would be told, "I told you so."

No one likes to feel like a fool.

That's why the average time on the market for a house for sale in Indianapolis is more than a year.

The reason I continued to go to work every day is because I thought I could be of use. I thought I could teach my clients that the economy works fine. The way to fix Indiana's problems, from pollution to education to gangs to crime to political reform, and to restore the value of its real estate, is to face the fact that Indiana has a declining population, and that every new house means an old house will be abandoned, boarded up, burned, filled with squatters and rats. Every new neighborhood means an old neighborhood will die, along with its businesses, its churches, its soul and the soul of the State.

Oversupply and suburban sprawl, inspired by consumerism and fear, are turning Indiana into a demon.

Hoosiers blame the Mayor, the President, the foreigners and the corporations, but they themselves are the guilty ones, the multitudes fleeing the city and its challenges for the suburbs, eradicating nature to make room for bigger televisions.

In San Francisco, selling real estate is like selling toilet paper. People will pay whatever it costs.

Selling something to someone who needs it is boring.

All of the mechanisms I developed to cope in Indiana are leaving me. They are useless here. Salesmanship. Sarcasm. Intollerance. Anger. I release them into the ether.

Here to help me recreate myself are my new friends:

Spanish Mr. Bubbles!

Inca Giving the Finger!

Giant Pile of Yucca Root!

And Mr. or Mrs. Varmint on My Skylight, who reminds me every morning......I am one of many, all of whose needs are legitimate, all of who call this place home, all of who must be considered for the promise of America to be real.

Who Remembers the Past is Doomed to Repeat It

If you look for beauty you never run out of beauty. You find it even in the gutter.

This is my head now. Isn't it beautiful?


This is my street.


I love you street!

People get used to what they see. They become accustomed to the sight of their own face. It becomes reality. It becomes their myth.

"I am this," they say. "The world is this. Everything is this."

Alternatives seem impossible.

But transformation comes.

Last night we watched the election results on our laptop at Sugarlump, an organic coffee house in The Mission. As Obama pulled ahead of McCain someone from back home said to me on the phone, "You better start going to church," a reference to her theory that Barack Obama is the Anti-Christ.

Look for something and find it.

Audrey and I turned the computer off, left the coffee house, walked over to the Castro, wandered through the streets with jubilant throngs laughing and screaming silly, beautiful things at each other.

To hell with the ghosts.

Yes, Obama has destroyed everything, thankfully!

Now run to the aftermath. The future is in the rubble.

Meet the Poopniks

The city screams, and we hollar back.

Art spills out of the cracks of San Francisco and splatters on the walls.

Inspired by new surroundings, Elijah has started research on his first original literary work: "High Altitude Pooping: A Dog's Guide to San Francisco."


As for our first night in the city, in hindsight, perhaps we should have taken time out and relaxed, been wise, drank some water, like Pico, and tested out the pillows.


But what's the point of retrospect? Instead, education met us in our exhuberance and in our mistakes. No longer are we tourists, but locals, initiated for better or worse, starting with old friends and young wine...


...and ending with stop number two on our Emergency Rooms of America Tour.

San Francisco General. Where the wild things are.

Blood spills out of the crack in my head and splatters onto the sidewalk.

As the latest person to randomly fall unconscious in the street in front of City Lights Bookstore, my only regret is that wildness was not the cause, but sudden blackout from dehydration and fatigue.


Pride of the Beatniks I am not.

At least now I know what it feels like to get surgical staples in the head.

It feel like staples. In the head.

If California is your home, welcome home.

Tahoe National Forest welcomed us to the Golden State.

Very little pestilence can survive above 5000 feet. No snakes. No mosquitos. No ticks.

Only Starbucks.

At least the view across the street from Starbucks is of something besides another Starbucks.The mystery of what awaits us in paradise continues, despite our arrival. After five solid days of clear blue skies, torrential rain today obfuscated our view of Lake Tahoe, Sacramento, Napa and Berkeley.

Only the most grandiose features of Heaven apparently peek through the clouds.

Nevada: When The Fun Stops

It is a poverty when you're pretty good at whatever you do but your competitors are champions.

Nevada knows what I'm talking about. Like the proverbial Olympic runner who would have won gold if he was just half a second faster in the 100, Nevada is surrounded by slightly more better states.

Skiing is better in Utah. Camping is better in California. Cults are wierder in Colorado. Wyoming's got Yellowstone. Arizona has the Grand Canyon. New Mexico gets all the good UFOs.

What I'm saying is that Nevada needs gambling. Nevada needs prostitution. Why else would anyone go there except on their way somewhere else?

At the precise geographical entry point of Nevada coming from the east on I-80, actually cuddling the State Line, is a massive, sparkling casino. Behind it is an exploding bouquet of neon signs and billboards for gambling addiction hotlines and brothels.

Yes, brothels, too, need to advertise in these difficult times.

Redundantly, across the highway, is a sign reading, "Welcome to Nevada!"

If you're thinking of hitting Nevada, it's a safe bet you are coming for one of two reasons, all preceding and subsequant puns intended.

Even though one night in a hotel in Reno by no means qualifies me as an expert on the place, especially since I spent the evening in the hot tub with Audrey, I will do what I can here to set you up so your next trip to Nevada is a success.

As far as gambling goes, you don't need any advice. You are either going to end up here:

Or here:


Either way you smell terrible when its over.

For those of you thinking of sampling Nevada's other natural resource, you will find the following information helpful, courtesy of the Pussy Cat Ranch, a link to which I found on the Chamber of Commerce website for the city of Winnemucca, Nevada:

Brothel Etiquette Guide
1) Behave Like A Gentleman In a Legal Brothel.
2) If you are sitting at the bar having a drink and a Lady introduces herself to you, offer to light her cigarette, even if you don't smoke.
3) Control Your Alcohol. It's a fact. Alcohol does have an affect on your libido.
4) Tip The Bartenders.
5) When Asked, Give The Ladies A Dollar For The Jukebox.
6) Looking nice creates a good first impression with the Ladies. And good hygiene on your part goes a long way for a good time.
7) No Knifes, Guns Or Weapons Of Any Kind.
8) Condom use Is The Law. Don't try to bargain your way out of it.
9) If You Get Walked, Don't Take It Personally.
10) Relax And Have A Good Time. Act as if you belong there. Soak it all in.

Being as I was raised in a non-prostitution-friendly state, I admit I do have a few questions about this list.

1) Imagine doing something that would get you "walked" from a whorehouse. Now imagine not taking it personally.

2) What exactly do they mean by good hygiene on your part?

And 3) Soak what all in?

Day four. SL,UT

It seems upon entering Utah from the Wyoming side that you have driven into the Garden of Eden, but with fewer liquor stores.

The majesty of this paradise is marred only once, by a single, unsightly blemish - a place referred to by the locals as SL,UT.

Salt Lake City. A clutter of strip malls, fast food joints and Olympic relics filling every cranny of a ruined valley bizarrely surrounded by the most enchanting mountain landscape in America. The architecture whispers, "Nature is so beautiful, I don't have to be."
Immediately beyond the city lies a duo of stunning natural wonders: The Great Salt Lake...

and the otherworldly Salt Flats!


Mmmm...salty!