As my dad points out, work is called work because they have to pay you to do it.
Tell the youngsters that there are days, believe it or not, when adults would actually rather be tending to work than what else happens to be going on.
Today Pico is experiencing a bump in the road of perfect health. In my pain and worry I made the mistake of looking on YELP for reviews of San Francisco Veterinarians. According to the internet reviewers of the world, every business sucks. Every restaurant has horrible food, every store has terrible customer service and every vet is mean and uncaring.
Apparently only the disappointed rabble feel inclined to review things. The satisfied majority pushes onward toward other exciting, rewarding experiences which they will no doubt also not YELP about.
What's a worry wart to do?
My friend is sick and neither of us have a reliable relationship with a doctor yet.
I ask that anyone who feels pity for vulnerable kitties and melting tough-guys do one of the following for Pico today:
1) Say a little prayer that she quickly returns to her happy, pooping on the floor self;
2) Put "the vibe" out that everything turns out okay; or
3) Just call me or email me with a kind word.
What is the point of companionship except that it provides comfort when things go awry?
I am happily putting Pico in the car now to drive to the Inner Richmond, to the one vet that has an appointment available on this short work day.
We do all we can do, and the rest we have to wait and see.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Friday, December 26, 2008
Smiling Happy Criminals
Christmas came in the airwaves this year. We couldn't be in Indiana, but our smiling faces joined the party anyway, thanks to SKYPE.
During our video conference with Audrey's family in Lafayette, I showed off my new California driver's license. Noting my enormous smile, Audrey's sister Cheryl said the state of Indiana just passed a law outlawing smiles on Indiana driver's licence photos.
Outlaw smiles and only outlaws will smile!
According to Ron Stiver, Indiana BMV commissioner, the reasoning behind this effort is so that face recognition software can be utilized to more easily identify people with fraudulent IDs.
There are few joys associated with getting a new driver's license. The one possible moment of happiness involved in the process is that brief, passing minutia of love that accompanies the physical act of smiling. A person cannot simultaneously be livid and smiling.
I remember my friend Scotto back in Indiana got robbed earlier this year. A car pulled up to his garage and a guy got out, walked into Scotto's garage, stole a bunch of stuff and put it in his trunk. Scotto confronted the thief as he was making his escape, but the guy just drove off. Scotto successfully got all the numbers off the guy's license plate, along with a detailed description of the vehical.
Scotto reported the crime to the police. He told them the thief had an "In God We Trust" license plate, and he gave them the numbers along with the make, model and color of the car.
The investigating officer told Scotto that the In God We Trust plates also have a letter on them. Scotto didn't get the letter, only the numbers. The officer told Scotto they could not track the thief without the letter.
Scotto noted that the BMV has on file the make, model and color of every vehical they register. Since there are only 26 possible variations of these numbers with a letter, he wondered why the police could not cross reference the license plate numbers with the BMV records to come up with a match. Chances are very good there are not two cars registered in Indiana with an In God We Trust license plate with those exact numbers, that exact make, model and color.
The investigating officer apologized and said there was nothing he could do.
Police in Indiana do not reliably utilize the tools they already have. What is the point of accumulating more tools?
If anyone is interested in following the money, my guess is that someone in the Indiana government is a friend, relative or investment partner with someone in the face recognition software business. Outlawing smiles maybe has nothing to do with police work. It maybe has everything to do with implementing procedures that require government expenditures toward the purchase of products that make someone rich.
Sorry. Does this smile make me look jaded?
During our video conference with Audrey's family in Lafayette, I showed off my new California driver's license. Noting my enormous smile, Audrey's sister Cheryl said the state of Indiana just passed a law outlawing smiles on Indiana driver's licence photos.
Outlaw smiles and only outlaws will smile!
According to Ron Stiver, Indiana BMV commissioner, the reasoning behind this effort is so that face recognition software can be utilized to more easily identify people with fraudulent IDs.
There are few joys associated with getting a new driver's license. The one possible moment of happiness involved in the process is that brief, passing minutia of love that accompanies the physical act of smiling. A person cannot simultaneously be livid and smiling.
I remember my friend Scotto back in Indiana got robbed earlier this year. A car pulled up to his garage and a guy got out, walked into Scotto's garage, stole a bunch of stuff and put it in his trunk. Scotto confronted the thief as he was making his escape, but the guy just drove off. Scotto successfully got all the numbers off the guy's license plate, along with a detailed description of the vehical.
Scotto reported the crime to the police. He told them the thief had an "In God We Trust" license plate, and he gave them the numbers along with the make, model and color of the car.
The investigating officer told Scotto that the In God We Trust plates also have a letter on them. Scotto didn't get the letter, only the numbers. The officer told Scotto they could not track the thief without the letter.
Scotto noted that the BMV has on file the make, model and color of every vehical they register. Since there are only 26 possible variations of these numbers with a letter, he wondered why the police could not cross reference the license plate numbers with the BMV records to come up with a match. Chances are very good there are not two cars registered in Indiana with an In God We Trust license plate with those exact numbers, that exact make, model and color.
The investigating officer apologized and said there was nothing he could do.
Police in Indiana do not reliably utilize the tools they already have. What is the point of accumulating more tools?
If anyone is interested in following the money, my guess is that someone in the Indiana government is a friend, relative or investment partner with someone in the face recognition software business. Outlawing smiles maybe has nothing to do with police work. It maybe has everything to do with implementing procedures that require government expenditures toward the purchase of products that make someone rich.
Sorry. Does this smile make me look jaded?
Passerby.
I didn't have a light. But he asked for one so politely that I genuinely felt sorry I couldn't help him out. Not that I wanted to enable his smoking habit. For some unexplainable reason I just wanted a deeper connection with this person. It might have been his smile.
It is a feeling of loss to wish you knew a stranger better. This is what seperates me from a mirror. I hold on to the images after they're gone.
It is a feeling of loss to wish you knew a stranger better. This is what seperates me from a mirror. I hold on to the images after they're gone.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
One man's trash.
It appeared in the night. No one knows where it came from. Is it garbage? Is it art? Does it belong here?
Is it wondering the same thing about me?
Announcing Real San Francisco, the new blog by Phil Barcio.
Exclusively featuring photographs of stuff I see on the ground.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
A Place of Relaxed Eyes
Attn: All Team MembersRe: Update from Mission Control
With the holidays approaching, we here at Mission Control want all team members to rest assured that we are aware of increasing tension surrounding the continued drain on resources caused by system-wide critical upgrade program known as Job Search: SF Bay Edition.
In an effort to assuage lingering doubts that the approaching holiday might somehow be less merry, jolly, elfy, etc. this year than in seasons past, we are happy to hereby announce that at 10:38 last evening "JS:SFBE" concluded work on phase two of its upgrade, the final phase.
100% of total energy reserves are now available once again to run "Life."
Activity Report:
Username: PHILLIP
Jobs Secured: 2
JOB ONE:
Title: ASSISTANT GM
Location: RAMBLAS TAPAS
Sub Directory: VALENCIA STREET, MISSION DISTRICT
Start Date: 12.21.2008
Distance from Mission Control: 1.5 MILES
Approximate Salary: CLASSIFIED
Operational Parameters: FULL TIME
Benefits: FULL
JOB TWO:
Title: BOOK EDITOR
Location: SCHOOL FOR SELF HEALING
Sub Directory: OCEAN BEACH, OUTER SUNSET
Start Date: 12.17.2008
Distance from Mission Control: 7.3 MILES
Approximate Salary: CLASSIFIED
Operational Parameters: CONTRACT
Benefits: POMEGRANATE TEA, DARK CHOCOLATE
We here at Mission Control wish to express our thanks to all team members for sticking with the mission thus far despite any specific far reaching goals or plans.
"Gratitude is not only the greatest of virtues, but the parent of all others."-Cicero (106 BC - 43 BC)
Cinnamon buns awarded all around.
Celebration ensuing currently at Java Beach. All team members invited to attend.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
The Overthinker
When I was a Realtor back in Indiana, I used to ask every new client I met a frank question about whether or not they actually needed my services: "Is a real estate transaction the necessary and correct next step in your life?"
I had gotten the question off a marketing website and liked it, so I used it every time.
Often, after honestly expressing their fears, expectations and long term goals, they realized the answer was no.
The strategy lost me a lot of business, but it gained me self-respect. It made me feel less like a salesman and more like an ally.
When I arrived in San Francisco I fully intended to continue selling real estate for a living. Then something unexpected happened. During my interview with Pacific Union, the market leader in luxury San Francisco real estate, the Managing Broker asked me a question: "Do you passionately believe that selling real estate in San Francisco is the necessary and correct next step in your life?"
Immediately I realized the answer was a resounding no. In order to be an ally to myself I knew there were other things I had come 2000 miles to do.
For the past six weeks I have been on a vision quest, interviewing for several different occupations. Chocolate shop manager. Staff writer at a vineyard. Marketing assistant for an independent record label. Assistant GM for a Tapas restaurant group who is pioneering the way in ecologically sustainable business practices in their industry. And several others.
Now the time has come to make a choice. I have more than one offer. (Every Realtor's dream, right?)
My favorite subject in college was sociology, the study of individuals' behavior within a society. My favorite topic was the question of what specific behavioral qualities separated human beings from the rest of the animals.
I never did hear an irrefutable answer to this question, and I continued to wonder what the answer might be.
I have heard that animals don't lie. But deception is so key to the survival of chameleons that we borrow their name to describe humans who most effectively display the propensity to deceive.
Mark Twain pointed out that "humans are the only animals who blush, or need to." But monkeys blush, too, it turns out. And possibly need to.
The only answer I myself ever came up with is that humans are the only animals that go out of their way to improve on what other members of their species have done in the past and are currently doing.
I've never seen a squirrel attempt to push squirrel culture forward into new realms of accomplishment. Possibly this is due to the lack of adequate documentation of squirrel culture, or the lack of availability of such documentation in squirrel language.
If my very humanity is based on my ability to innovate and alter the future of my species' culture, I suppose I should seek an occupation that affords me that chance.
Out of all the employers I have interviewed with, only one has broached the subject of what new, and uniquely mine, I feel I can bring to the organization. Sadly, the offer that employer made me has the lowest salary of all my options.
Out of a desire to pay bills, I initially rejected that offer. But last night I saw a t-shirt on my way home portraying a grainy photograph of four Cherokee men posing next to a campfire, holding rifles in their hands. Underneath the picture it said, "Homeland Security."
Humans reinvent old behaviors and call them new behaviors.
America was the Cherokee's terrorist. Now bloodshed, manifest destiny and injustice threaten to end America's reign exactly how it began.
We should just admit the record is skipping and play another tune instead of listening to it over and over, grumbling about how awful it sounds.
I already know how it feels to not innovate. What I don't know is how it feels to be asked for new ideas every day by people with sincere interest in putting those ideas to the test.
Yes, there's good money to be made repeating the old behaviors that have never brought me peace. There may be less money today in innovation. But the potential exists there for a different kind of tomorrow.
What would a squirrel do?
Monday, December 15, 2008
Timeless Beauty
Although I have yet to find someone willing to pay me money to write for them, I have made plenty of connections to people willing to exploit me.
Happily!
I freely write anyway. Why not write for free?
My current unpaid assignment is for Tikkun Magazine in Berkeley. It is to write a profile of an artist named Mark Dukes.
Dukes is an iconographer. He recently finished a project he has been working on for ten years.
The project is a wall mural depicting 90 dancing saints, joined hand-in-hand, circling the massive, domed ceiling of St. Gregory’s Church, located in San Francisco’s Portrero Hill neighborhood.
The art world is strewn with remnants of entire careers that didn’t span ten years.
Dukes spent ten years on a single painting.
For comparison, it took Michelangelo four years and seven months to complete his work on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.
If time is something to be measured and tracked, it may seem that Dukes spent a disproportionate amount of a finite substance working on something essentially ethereal.
But time is an illusion.
Elements come together and collaborate in the creation of things. For anything to come into existence in this world, steps must be taken. Formulas must be conceived and adjusted. Ideas must percolate. Style must be established then abandoned then reworked until finally the thing can be.
Everything, all of it, the buildings, the subways, the cars, the clothes, the bicycles, it was all once just an idea in somebody’s head. How long did it take to invent buildings? How long did it take to make clothes?
Creation takes as long as it takes and that’s how long it takes.
Process reflects only an image of the maker, not what is made. Many a thing goes through a process of creation that seems to be conflagrated, nothing but a series of random disasters, but somehow in the end becomes something beautiful, useful, even vital.
Earth is the ultimate example. Earth is art.
The story of the process is irrelevant. All that matters is the beauty, the usefulness, the vitality.
Every wasted argument over evolution vs. creationism vs. whatever other process supposedly got us here only ultimately offends.
Evolution doesn’t make me love. Creationism doesn’t hold my feet atop the ground.
Love itself calls me to it. The ground itself lifts me up.
We products of earth, each of us, are creations, collaborated upon. Each of us is a work of art. We exist independently of time. We are never complete for long.
If we only contemplate petty measures of each other’s worth based on immature concepts such as the passage of minutes and hours and days, we not only confuse our value and mistake our purpose but we defy our nature, and become liars.
Happily!
I freely write anyway. Why not write for free?
My current unpaid assignment is for Tikkun Magazine in Berkeley. It is to write a profile of an artist named Mark Dukes.
Dukes is an iconographer. He recently finished a project he has been working on for ten years.
The project is a wall mural depicting 90 dancing saints, joined hand-in-hand, circling the massive, domed ceiling of St. Gregory’s Church, located in San Francisco’s Portrero Hill neighborhood.
The art world is strewn with remnants of entire careers that didn’t span ten years.Dukes spent ten years on a single painting.
For comparison, it took Michelangelo four years and seven months to complete his work on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.
If time is something to be measured and tracked, it may seem that Dukes spent a disproportionate amount of a finite substance working on something essentially ethereal.
But time is an illusion.
Elements come together and collaborate in the creation of things. For anything to come into existence in this world, steps must be taken. Formulas must be conceived and adjusted. Ideas must percolate. Style must be established then abandoned then reworked until finally the thing can be.
Everything, all of it, the buildings, the subways, the cars, the clothes, the bicycles, it was all once just an idea in somebody’s head. How long did it take to invent buildings? How long did it take to make clothes?
Creation takes as long as it takes and that’s how long it takes.
Process reflects only an image of the maker, not what is made. Many a thing goes through a process of creation that seems to be conflagrated, nothing but a series of random disasters, but somehow in the end becomes something beautiful, useful, even vital.
Earth is the ultimate example. Earth is art.
The story of the process is irrelevant. All that matters is the beauty, the usefulness, the vitality.
Every wasted argument over evolution vs. creationism vs. whatever other process supposedly got us here only ultimately offends.
Evolution doesn’t make me love. Creationism doesn’t hold my feet atop the ground.
Love itself calls me to it. The ground itself lifts me up.
We products of earth, each of us, are creations, collaborated upon. Each of us is a work of art. We exist independently of time. We are never complete for long.
If we only contemplate petty measures of each other’s worth based on immature concepts such as the passage of minutes and hours and days, we not only confuse our value and mistake our purpose but we defy our nature, and become liars.
There is apparently something in San Francisco called a "rainy season."
We're trying to push through December but December keeps pushing back.
Scientists say that human brain activity associated with memory perception increases along with increased proton activity in the air, which is common on rainy days.
Either they're right or I just miss my family and friends lately.
Nostalgia, having no choice, having filled every other nook and cranny, invaded my dreams last night.
I awoke this morning fresh from a dream about rum balls. My mom made the best rum balls ever in the storied history of rum balls, which, if someone else hasn't already, I look forward to writing.
Assuming no outrageous surprise waits for me in the coming weeks, this will be the first Christmas I spend away from Indiana. Away from my dad. Away from my sisters. Away from Audrey's family. Away from tradition.
So I embrace the new.
Traditions are all invented by someone. Without whoever invented the original Barcio Family Christmas, I would not have the benefit of the melancholy I feel now, tugging me back to Christmases past.
Stoneycreek Farm, Christmas tree hay ride with my dad. Hot apple cider and hot chocolate. Monument Circle tree lighting ceremony downtown. Giant, plastic, toy soldiers lining the street.
A trip across the bay to Alameda Island yesterday confirmed what Audrey and I suspected all along: Christmas decorations look great on tropical plants.
We take a little bit of the past with us wherever we go and add it to whatever we find.
Our friends and neighbors back in Indiana who used to receive tiny packets of rum balls in their mailboxes will have to make other arrangements for awesomeness this year, a challenge I am sure they are up to.
Meanwhile, Audrey's all-organic version of Lillian's famous recipe will soon grace the about-to-be-delighted palates of hundreds of unsuspecting San Franciscans who don't yet know how lucky they are to have made our acquaintance.
Love leaves, and then there's a space to fill with more love. Mom's passing brought me deeper understanding of my dad and my sisters. Moving away again has brought us closer still.
Love anticipates. Love weighs its options. Love remembers.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
A Picture of Hope
There is no need to wonder what a man getting a shoe shine is thinking. He is thinking, "I need to look my best. It is so important for me to look good that I am paying another human being to shine my shoes for me. My shoes. The bottom of everything. The exclamation point on the screaming awesomeness of me. Yes, the competition is so stiff where I am about to go that I cannot afford even the tiniest flaw."
A shoe shine is never the first thing a man does. It is the final preparation.
Have you ever seen a man with a wrinkled shirt or a messy haircut on a shoe shine stand?
No.
Because there is nothing more empowering than a shoe shine. It is the moment when a man tells himself once and for all, "I am worth something. I have hope."
Sitting there, feeling the gentle pressure of bristles pushing through leather, watching the other people walking by, he thinks, "I am as good as any of them are. I belong in this world. I deserve a shot. This shoe shine is going to put me over the top. I am going to look my very best, very, very soon."
A man getting a shoe shine thinks, "Once I get this job / promotion / date / client / account / recording contract / nomination, I am going to make a habit of getting my shoes shined all the time. Every week. Every day maybe. Yes, I'll get up an hour earlier every day from now on and buy a paper and a cup of coffee and come here and get my shoes shined. I'll be on a first name basis with the shoe shine guy. I'll get a jump on the day. That's what I'm a-gonna do. And I'll start listening to more jazz, too. And I'll eat right. And start going back to karate!"
Sometimes it works out for him. Sometimes everything goes according to plan. He gets what he wants, and he is catapulted into a world where daily shoe shines actually make sense.
Other times the competition is just too much for him, and nothing, not even a shoe shine, can put him over the top. He is denied.
Does the man for whom a shoe shine was no help ever go back to the shoe shine stand again? Does he look back fondly upon it as a wonderful thing, a silly, hopeful, private pleasure he afforded himself in a moment of bouyent aspiration.
No.
There is no need to wonder what that man is thinking.
He is thinking, "There is nothing stupider than a shoe shine. I have seven less dollars. I am a fool. I can't believe I gave that guy a tip."
A shoe shine is never the first thing a man does. It is the final preparation.
Have you ever seen a man with a wrinkled shirt or a messy haircut on a shoe shine stand?
No.
Because there is nothing more empowering than a shoe shine. It is the moment when a man tells himself once and for all, "I am worth something. I have hope."
Sitting there, feeling the gentle pressure of bristles pushing through leather, watching the other people walking by, he thinks, "I am as good as any of them are. I belong in this world. I deserve a shot. This shoe shine is going to put me over the top. I am going to look my very best, very, very soon."
A man getting a shoe shine thinks, "Once I get this job / promotion / date / client / account / recording contract / nomination, I am going to make a habit of getting my shoes shined all the time. Every week. Every day maybe. Yes, I'll get up an hour earlier every day from now on and buy a paper and a cup of coffee and come here and get my shoes shined. I'll be on a first name basis with the shoe shine guy. I'll get a jump on the day. That's what I'm a-gonna do. And I'll start listening to more jazz, too. And I'll eat right. And start going back to karate!"
Sometimes it works out for him. Sometimes everything goes according to plan. He gets what he wants, and he is catapulted into a world where daily shoe shines actually make sense.
Other times the competition is just too much for him, and nothing, not even a shoe shine, can put him over the top. He is denied.
Does the man for whom a shoe shine was no help ever go back to the shoe shine stand again? Does he look back fondly upon it as a wonderful thing, a silly, hopeful, private pleasure he afforded himself in a moment of bouyent aspiration.
No.
There is no need to wonder what that man is thinking.
He is thinking, "There is nothing stupider than a shoe shine. I have seven less dollars. I am a fool. I can't believe I gave that guy a tip."
Friday, December 5, 2008
The Really Really Free Market
I get asked for spare change almost every day by someone on the street. But I always say no.
It isn't that I'm stingy. It's just that, according to the principles of reality, there can be no such thing as extra money.
We have a system. People receive quantities of stored value (money) in exchange for units of perceived value (work). Said quantities of stored value are then utilized by said people to obtain accouterments (food, shelter, clothing).
The higher the perception of value is for someone's units, the more stored value they can accumulate and the more eclectic accouterments they can acquire (skateboards, balloons, personal assistants).
This paradigm is known as "the economy." Exchanges of value within "the economy" are known as "transactions."
So when someone on the street asks me if I have any spare change, I have no choice. The only honest answer I can give is no. Since I perceive no value in being asked for money by a stranger, there is therefore no basis for a transaction, resulting in the absence of an economy, necessitating the nonexistence of any money, let alone extra money.
This makes me sad.
But thankfully, the days when the economy is based on trading are ending.
What will a new economy based on sharing look like?
Human beings assembled informally, giving away whatever they have for free.
Other human beings taking whatever they believe they can use from whatever is being offered.
The economy of sharing proliferates giving. "Free trade" is a contradiction.
Think of it as a "hand-me-up."
It isn't that I'm stingy. It's just that, according to the principles of reality, there can be no such thing as extra money.
We have a system. People receive quantities of stored value (money) in exchange for units of perceived value (work). Said quantities of stored value are then utilized by said people to obtain accouterments (food, shelter, clothing).
The higher the perception of value is for someone's units, the more stored value they can accumulate and the more eclectic accouterments they can acquire (skateboards, balloons, personal assistants).
This paradigm is known as "the economy." Exchanges of value within "the economy" are known as "transactions."
So when someone on the street asks me if I have any spare change, I have no choice. The only honest answer I can give is no. Since I perceive no value in being asked for money by a stranger, there is therefore no basis for a transaction, resulting in the absence of an economy, necessitating the nonexistence of any money, let alone extra money.
This makes me sad.
But thankfully, the days when the economy is based on trading are ending.
What will a new economy based on sharing look like?
Human beings assembled informally, giving away whatever they have for free.
Other human beings taking whatever they believe they can use from whatever is being offered.
The economy of sharing proliferates giving. "Free trade" is a contradiction.
Think of it as a "hand-me-up."
Monday, December 1, 2008
Audrey begins her new job today.
And I have a second interview at one o'clock for a dream job of my own.
Future comes calling. We push toward something newish, marching ever toward healthier choices. Nothing putrid can last.
In the shadows clinging to their myths are the left-behind scowlers, waiting for history to repeat itself, watching stink-eyed as the present descends upon them and they slip into irrelevance.
I can see Audrey standing beside her desk, laughing, listening, adoring her new friends at work.
I visualize my handshake with the President of my new company, fresh, crisp W2 forms being slid in front of me to sign.
But then something says, "What if not? What if no laughing? No handshake? No W2s?"
Cynicism is a form of mental retardation.
Religion is no cure, despite its promise of something in the next life worth sacrificing for. Implicit in that placebo is acquiescence that nothing in this life is.
Logic and reason also fall short, relying too much on perspective. What appears to be sensible might not be, depending on one's point of view.
The only cure for cynicism is sheer will.
Simply refuse to believe that everything will fail.
Take hold of the relics of love and implant them in some material way in your life. Take a picture of love when you see it.
Invent ways to sustain love's tiny, withering echoes. That's the cure.
Future comes calling. We push toward something newish, marching ever toward healthier choices. Nothing putrid can last.
In the shadows clinging to their myths are the left-behind scowlers, waiting for history to repeat itself, watching stink-eyed as the present descends upon them and they slip into irrelevance.
I can see Audrey standing beside her desk, laughing, listening, adoring her new friends at work.
I visualize my handshake with the President of my new company, fresh, crisp W2 forms being slid in front of me to sign.
But then something says, "What if not? What if no laughing? No handshake? No W2s?"
Cynicism is a form of mental retardation.
Religion is no cure, despite its promise of something in the next life worth sacrificing for. Implicit in that placebo is acquiescence that nothing in this life is.
Logic and reason also fall short, relying too much on perspective. What appears to be sensible might not be, depending on one's point of view.
The only cure for cynicism is sheer will.
Simply refuse to believe that everything will fail.
Take hold of the relics of love and implant them in some material way in your life. Take a picture of love when you see it.
Invent ways to sustain love's tiny, withering echoes. That's the cure.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
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."
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, November 10, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, November 7, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, November 3, 2008
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
