Notes from the Drain

The H Stood For Huckleberry

noreply@blogger.com (Phillip Barcio) — Mon, 10 Dec 2012 18:36:00 +0000

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

Post Occupied

noreply@blogger.com (Phillip Barcio) — Mon, 13 Feb 2012 05:55:00 +0000

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.

Everything Works Out When You Work Out

noreply@blogger.com (Phillip Barcio) — Sat, 04 Feb 2012 05:24:00 +0000

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?

If it won't reach...stretch.

noreply@blogger.com (Phillip Barcio) — Fri, 06 Jan 2012 20:31:00 +0000

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.

Da Bomb

noreply@blogger.com (Phillip Barcio) — Wed, 09 Feb 2011 21:40:00 +0000

High above the city of Pacifica, California, the self-professed foggiest city in the world, sits Milagra Ridge, home of decommissioned NIKE missile launch site SF-51L. Here, 400 yards from a young housing development, two cemented-over launch pads for nuclear tipped ground-to-ground missiles are gradually being reclaimed by grass, underbrush...and now, moss.

Click the video below to see a slideshow of mossymossy's day trip to Milagra Ridge, with some special thanks to the Gap Band!

Visit a mossy softness for more!

Love Guns

noreply@blogger.com (Phillip Barcio) — Wed, 02 Feb 2011 22:43:00 +0000

Thank you to our friends back east for sending pictures of the blizzard of 2011! Our condolences go out to the Daniel family in Chicago...

And to my dad and Audrey's family back in Indiana...

And to anyone who had to commute yesterday on Lake Shore Drive:

Yes, the weather has been extraordinary here as well. Why, it dipped all the way down into the 60s yesterday! We almost had to bundle up for our picnic at Battery Townsley!

While planning our picnic, we researched possible uses for old nuclear missile silos. At Fort Cronkhite, the Marine Mammal Center is using decommissioned NIKE missile silo SF-87L for the storage of veterinary supplies.

Up the hill from Fort Cronkhite, embedded in the coastal cliffs, lies a massive firing platform constructed during the build-up to WWII for the placement of large guns to defend the Golden Gate from a Pacific attack. This is Battery Townsley.

On July 1, 1940, the first 16-inch round ever fired from the Pacific Coast of the continental United States was fired from Battery Townsley. The battery sits idle now, quietly acquiescing to the salt, wind and fog.

Mossy Mossy thanks you for your service, Battery Townsley. And we heart you!

To see more from Mossy Mossy's visit to Battery Townsley, visit A Mossy Softness!

A Salute From Fort Ord

noreply@blogger.com (Phillip Barcio) — Thu, 27 Jan 2011 21:11:00 +0000

Sunny days and cool breezes off Monterey Bay. Cyprus, sage brush and sardines.

Kind of makes you want to shoot something, doesn't it?

For seventy-seven years, Fort Ord was the most desirable domestic assignment in the U.S. Army. It's idyllic location meant reliably awesome weather, gorgeous scenery, fresh, local brussels sprouts and artichokes and delicious seafood year round.

Many a lazy afternoon was spent by many an American boy firing live rounds of artillery over the wind swept plains and soft rolling, seaside hills surrounding the Fort's clapboard bunkhouses.

Jimi Hendrix did his basic training at Fort Ord. Clint Eastwood and Jerry Garcia both once called the Fort home. A portion of the base was set aside in the 1980s as the first federal nature reserve designated for the protection of an insect, the Smith's Blue Butterfly.

When the Army decommissioned Fort Ord in 1994, the coastal artillery range and beachhead were designated toxic Superfund sites due to excessive lead dust (from the bullets) and the prominence of unexploded blow-uppery of various kinds.

A brief, lawsuit-worthy attempt at remediation by the Army followed, and the area was converted into a State Park in 2009.

Today most of the area is still poisoned.

The California coast is littered with relics of war. Echoes in the agriculture remind me of the cost paid by so many so I could walk here free today. I am thankful for their sacrifice. And I hope for a day when we can more easily sacrifice our pride than our children. I hope for a section of this earth to one day be set aside for the preservation of humanity.

I understand war is necessary. I just don't believe it is necessary as often as we are told. And when I see the bare feet of my neighbors' children running care free through the lead-poisoned sand of the Fort Ord dunes, I wonder with what sincerity our government is working to keep us free.

But they are busy, I know.

So we all must do our part.

A Salute to Fort Ord from Mossy Mossy!

For more photos of Mossy Mossy's day trip to Fort Ord, visit A Mossy Softness.

A Mossy Softness

noreply@blogger.com (Phillip Barcio) — Thu, 20 Jan 2011 20:31:00 +0000

Introducing a new project by mossymossy.

Recipe: One jar of honey and a carton of yogurt...

...one bucket of wild moss...

...one decommissioned NIKE nuclear missile silo..

...add love. Stir.

Visit amossysoftness.com for more.

Blog Therapy

noreply@blogger.com (Phillip Barcio) — Thu, 13 Jan 2011 02:22:00 +0000

Twenty-six and a half months ago I moved to San Francisco. I came out here with three other souls. One of our little band of friends has since gone on to the next life. Three remain.

For the first sixteen months of life here, I averaged one new post on this blog every six days. I also started two photo blogs and took a volunteer position writing online art reviews for a magazine in Berkeley.

This period of time was the most prolific period of self-expression I had experienced since I lived in Chicago in 2002. Audrey and I got engaged in Chicago, on August 8th. I proposed in the grass in front of the aquarium, beside Lake Shore Drive, with the skyscrapers of the windy city giving witness to my hopes and dreams.

Audrey said yes, and then less than a year later Audrey and i left Chicago and moved back to the city where we had met, Indianapolis, with the goal in mind that Audrey would finish an art degree she had walked away from years earlier to travel the world as a flight attendant.

The six years we spent in Indianapolis were bittersweet for me. My mother was diagnosed with Stage Four Kidney Cancer, a death sentence. A feud started between me and my sister Karen over politics and religion. A feud also broke out between my mom and my sister Sheryl, over my mom's smoking and some issues of mutual respect, or a lack thereof, if I remember correctly.

My father began work on a new house he and my mom had planned to build in the vacant lot next to the house I grew up in. He and I tore down the great pear trees, and the maples, the mulberry bushes and the walnut tree. We eradicated the brick walkway my father had laid by hand. We removed flower beds and overturned the very blades of grass on which the precious countless starry nights of my youth were spent.

A back hoe came and dug a foundation for the new house. A swirling, primordial mudpit took over where once squirrels and little children had frolicked.

As winter slowly passed, my mother fought for her life. Sick with spine-wracking chills she laid in hospital beds recovering from chemo, my father, my sister Cyndi and I by her side.

Our old house was on the market. We suffered the weekly insults of fools as they toured my childhood home with heartless real estate agents, shredding the decor and the layout with their mean words. This house in which my parents still lived, this home in which my life had come into being, was to me, and to my parents, a museum of our love, our struggles, our victories, our sadness, our losses, our dreams and our conviction that we were worth loving, worth remembering, worth saving.

During this time, our two family cats, Heathcliff and Patches, passed away. And my father's mother, Stella Barcio, passed away.

Come February of that winter, mom let go. She passed in the presence of my dad and me and Audrey, her loving partners in an incredible life.

Soon afterwards, the house sold. The new house was completed. Dad moved in. Then Rudy, our beloved cocker spaniel, a Christmas present to my mother, joined his best friend in the next world.

It was only my dad and I and Audrey left in Indiana. We watched from right next door as the new owners of the house where I had spent more than 30 christmas dinners gutted the place, threw the parquet floors into a dumpster, bulldozed the greenhouse and uprooted the garden.

My dad and I spent many Saturday nights engaged in what became a helpful ritual: Church at 6, pasta and NPR at 7. Conversation and reflection until we couldn't take it anymore.

I do not know how we got through that awful time. But right when we were beginning to see the light of day, Audrey's father, Bob Liphard, was killed in a motorcycle crash.

I remember feeling like everything was haywire. I became intolerable to be around. I found myself insulting people I loved, screaming at nice people at parties, arguing over the most petty things. I stopped going to karate. I started losing skin on my fingers and knees, a condition called psoriasis, apparently stress related.

Simultaneously I became obsessed with the idea of trying to save the little, decrepit neighborhood Audrey and i had moved to. I lobbied absurdly hard for Audrey to support a folly I had dreamt up, an idea to buy little, unloved houses from their slumlord owners, and rehab them. We bought three such houses. One of which (below) we restored and lived in.

My dad and I spent hundreds, if not thousands of hours at another one of them, which came to be known as the Lexington House, gutting it and transforming it into a new space, a cute something out of the ashes of a sad something else.

(Before...)

(After...)

I also became fanatical about a neighborhood mural project, designed to turn despicable alleyways into art destinations, instead of the meth-head whore magnets they had become.

This was maybe me trying to say something to the world. I have no idea what. Maybe that ugly things turn into less ugly things sometimes if you give them time and attention and love.

I sympathized with the little sad houses and the garbage-ridden alleys. I sympathized with defeat. I sympathized with failure. i sympathized with death. What can I say? I became my reference group.

This was a time of strange days and long nights in the hillbilly neighborhood I was so busy trying to foible. It was a time of arguments with Audrey, of awful sights and sounds. I remember looking out my window one night, at about three in the morning and seeing a poor street cat being ripped in half by two wild dogs on the sidewalk in front of our house. I banged on the window and screamed at the dogs. Then I got a plumbers wrench from the shed and i walked the streets looking for the killer dogs. i found one, laying still behind a neighbor's garage, feasting on its share of the kill. I stood and stared it in the eyes for a good minute. Then I sat down in front of it and contemplated smashing in its skull. It would kill again, there was no doubt in my mind.

I wish I forget that night. But when i recalled the experience the next day to a friend, he just laughed and said, "Nature is unbelievable violent. Animals kill each other in order to survive. Don't let it bother you."

But this was a city of a million people. It wasn't the jungle. It was a neighborhood.

We experienced love and joy periodically, and profound moments of artistic bliss. Audrey and I accepted an opportunity to become the managers of a local art gallery called Big Car. Big Car was a collective of misfits who made beautiful art and wrote hilarious things on blogs and in little hand-made books. big Car made music happen and film happen. Big Car took dark, hapless Indiana nights and turned them into feverish beer-fueled art attacks. I cherish Big Car still.

I also witnessed my neighbor, a young art student who I barely spoke to, kill himself by dousing himself and his room in gasoline and then shooting himself, ending his life and igniting the gasoline. I heard the gunshot. I saw the smoke pouring out from under the gutters. I alerted my friends on the other side of the duplex and called the fire department.

This was six years of fantastic transformation, filled with atrocious, horrible moments and passionate loving embraces, contradictions as wild and varied as the universe offers any man in any place.

I played witness and victim to these years and their exploits.

When we left Indiana for San Francisco, we left behind unfinished business. One of the little houses we bought for $20,000, hoping to restore it but lacking the fortitude, still sits gutted, awaiting a transformation that may never come.

Our arrival in San Francisco reminded me that it was possible to see beautiful things again without assuming they were going to explode in my face. I have gradually come to a peaceful place in my heart. Over the course of the past two+ years I have been traumatized by the loss of my beloved pet, Pico, and I have suffered the rapid erosion of my relationship with both of my half-sisters. I have lost friends and been held to the fire for miscalculations and errors in judgement of my past.

I have continued to see bad things happen, some too painful to reveal.

But the miracle is this: I am not discouraged. i am hopeful my friends who knew me when I lost my mind will understand and get to know me again. I am hopeful my half-sisters will move on and let me move on and not hold grudges. I am hopeful I didn't leave so big a mess in Indianapolis that it can not one day become a legacy of love.

Over the past eleven months, since I took a job as GM of a cocktail bar, I have averaged one blog post every two months. The sixteen months prior to taking that job I averaged one blog post every six days.

I have been in a cocoon of sorrow since Pico died. I have felt like I have no friends. I have felt unloved and at times worthless.

There was not much I would have blogged that would have been worth the trouble.

Lately though, I feel my old self coming back. My psoriasis is clearing up. I no longer expect everyone I love to die every waking moment.

In the words of Monty Python, "I'm feeling better. I think I'll go for a walk."

Thanksgiving Week of Indiana Memories #2: Harvester of Peppers

noreply@blogger.com (Phillip Barcio) — Wed, 24 Nov 2010 17:48:00 +0000

Today I awoke to the anticipation of a visitor from back home.

He isn't Santa Claus, but he does make toys in his barn every year at this time for disadvantaged children in Indianapolis. Here is a picture of one of the rocking horses he made two years ago.

I am talking of course about the Harvester of Peppers: My Dad.

This month I received in the mail my share of the harvest, thirty or so plump, green, spicy Italian peppers nurtured in the garden behind the house back on Indianola Avenue.

Carefully I strung them up and hung them in front of a window in our sunroom on Pine Street in San Francisco.

Serendipitously today they are ready to fry.

Cyndi is on her way to Houston to visit with the Texas Barcios. Our best wishes and sincerest thanks go out to all of them, and to all of our friends around the world this year.

Thank you for being in our lives.

If you ever get the mind to re-enact On The Road, don't forget to remember we have two extra rooms out here ready to crash in for some wild times in Frisco.

Happy Thanksgiving. We hope to see you soon.

--Phillip, Audrey and Elijah

10-10-10, good buddy.

noreply@blogger.com (Phillip Barcio) — Sun, 10 Oct 2010 17:31:00 +0000

Among the many travesties our government has perpetrated upon its citizenry is its recommendation five years ago that CB users cease to utilize the official Ten Code, "in favor of regular language."

I can't help but wonder, "What do they think a code is?"

Alas, we bid farewell to "10-4" (affirmative), "10-30" (danger), "10-26" (estimated arrival time), and "10-20" (location, as in "What's your 20?")

Sadness.

But I would rather light a bonfire than curse the fog.

Today, on the unique and estimable date of 10-10-10, in honor of my dad, a classical scholar and lifetime Libra (staunch advocates of the number 10), on whose birthday this once-in-a-lifetime date falls, I hereby announce, in defiance of the administration, the creation of the "10-10-10 Code."

Here's what I have come up with so far:

10-10-10-1: "Huckleberries are ripe"

10-10-10-2: "Dogs on a hill"

10-10-10-3: "Flippers on Market Street"

10-10-10-4: "Spaghetti day"

10-10-10-Niner: "Free tater tots at Trader Joe's"

10-10-10-465: "Box of corn on the street"

10-10-10-6: "Owl cups"

10-10-10-50: "Sleepy doggy"

10-10-10-32: "Weekend in Napa"

(Use: "Honey, we're gonna need a 10-10-10-32 pretty soon or I'm gonna pop.")

And of course my favorite, and the most useful on this particular day...

10-10-10-72: "Happy Birthday!"

Please join me in celebrating the birthday of a great man, Bernard Francis Barcio, and also in expanding the very useful and intriguing 10-10-10 code!

With your assistance we will extrapolate the full potential of 10-10-10 in order to amuse ourselves, and yes, also to undermine the civil authority by communicating brief, coded outbursts of emotion and information over electronic devices.

10-10-10-72, Dad! See you soon!!!

Some Words About the Fallen

noreply@blogger.com (Phillip Barcio) — Thu, 06 May 2010 16:31:00 +0000

The earth shook Tuesday and the sun burned out. All the trees fell down and the ocean dried up. The sky went black and my heart broke.

Now I enter into the official record the name of a great spirit.

Pico Barcio.

Kitty Boo Boo, Tumbleweed, Boo Boo Kitty, Shabu-Shabu, Snookums, Boo Boo Snookums, Cuddly Wuddly Boo Boo Snookums, Sneaky-Sneak, Pico Boo Boo, Stinky-Binky, Princess, Sweet Baby.

Favorite Things: Stretchy-Stretch, Sunny Spot, Poofy-Poof, Comfy-Cozy Spot, Lap Time, Bweky-Bwekfast, Munchy-Crunchies, Crunchie-Munchies, Back-and-Forth, Up the Stairs, Outside, Bewy-Wub, Foot Rub, Sleepy Sleep.

Best Friends: Audrey, Elijah, Phillip.

Remember May fourth. Pick a purple flower on May 4th and give it to a true friend. May 4th is Pico Day. The last day I got to spend with my friend.

We took a walk together in the park with Audrey. We cried together and hugged each other. We slept on the floor side-by-side with Eli.

We looked out at the bay together and wondered how it was possible to hurt this much inside.

Now there is a sadness in me, and in our home.

I get up to give you your vitamins but you're not waiting for me anymore on your little pillow. I see you in my mind's eye looking up at me, purring. I see you at the door trying to get outside. I see you curled up in a ball in the sunny spot on the couch, on the bed, on the table. I see you looking out the screen door back on Prospect Street in Indianapolis. I see you sitting in the grass back on Gunnison Street in Chicago watching the bugs whizz by. I see you purring on the rug in Marcy Village. I see you flipping in the air trying to attack my hand back in Houston. What a Globetrotter you were, Pico. You always went along with me. You were a true friend.

Thank you for accompanying me in this life and on this journey. Thank you for coming out here with Audrey and Eli and me to California. Thank you for visiting the Salt Flats with us. Thank you for walking on the beach with us in Monterey. Thank you for your gentle, loving presence every day. Thank you. I love you.

I'm sorry we didn't have more time. We were not ready to say goodbye. But I know you were in pain. I see your face in the stars looking down upon me and smiling.

You were a good kitty.

Give a hug to Dweezil. Jump up on Lillian's lap. Rub up against Bob's leg. If you have a chance, look up Rudy and Patches and Heathcliff and Olive and Nemo. Tell them we all said hi.

And remember this Pico: I will never forget you, Princess. I am thankful for your companionship, and I am devastated by this loss.

Tell My Wife I Love Her Very Much

noreply@blogger.com (Phillip Barcio) — Sun, 14 Feb 2010 18:38:00 +0000

When there isn't as much time as I would like

for roses and champagne

I rely on poets to explain

to my lover that I adore her.

That I miss her.

That we work too much and kiss too little.

That I think about crawling around with her on the floor, rolling around with her in the sand, running around with her in the hills, spinning around with her in the waves, and it makes me smile to see her face in my mind, her eyes looking into mine.

I want to tell her I love her, but I've told her so many times. I want to make it different this time, in some small way.

Remember this song, baby? My sister sang it to us at our wedding reception in Key West.

Remember the song I sang to you? My mom, laughing and crying at the same time, told me not to quit my day job. (I don't think I even had a day job!)

That was a smart thing I did, asking you to spend your life with me.

Thank you for saying yes.

I love you!

La Vita Nevosa!

noreply@blogger.com (Phillip Barcio) — Fri, 12 Feb 2010 17:08:00 +0000

On the heels of yesterday's Snow/Journey post comes more pictures from more of my loved ones in various places tenaciously enduring the blizzard of 2010.

This is my cousin Kathy in Virginia:

That shmoo to Kathy's right is actually a Toyota Prius, believe it or not.

My sister Cyndi in Dallas who started yesterday in disbelief that a tiny dusting of white would keep Texans out of their trucks, off the road and away from work watched helplessly out her office window as the city received 9.8 inches of snow before day's end. Here's more on that story. And here's a photo from Cyndi from the front line of the biggest snowfall in Dallas history:

All I can say to you cold souls is you have my respect.

And better you than me.

We'll keep an eye on all of this as long as we can...

...and if you can dig an airplane out and get enough ice off the wings, come out for a visit. I'll get you the friends and family discount at Starwood!

Keep those snow pictures coming!

noreply@blogger.com (Phillip Barcio) — Thu, 11 Feb 2010 18:11:00 +0000

Back when we used to live in Indiana we spent as much time as possible with our friends and family who kept us sane despite all the crazy happenin's back in that state.

In particular, one group of awesome folk we hung out with alot was named Eric, Maya and Rigby.

Here are the only pictures I have of Eric and Maya:

Rigby was Eric and Maya's son. He spent most of his time looking for the ball and asking where the ball was.

Here's the ball:

While Rigby was looking for the ball, Eric and Maya and Audrey and I spent our time looking for ways to move out of Indiana.

We talked a lot about how much we hated snow and how four months of dreariness and grey slush and constantly running the furnace made all the other things we didn't like about Indiana, like the crooked politicians, the coal plants, the arsenic in the air, the polluted water, the industrial pig farms, the KKK, etc, seem so much worse.

Then one day Audrey and I moved to San Francisco. A few months later Eric and Maya moved to Washington D.C. where cool people like Eric and Maya and Rigby are desperately needed.

Then two days ago Eric sent me this picture (below) of Rigby (left):

Eric is an engineer, as you can probably tell.

Then another person who moved away from Indiana, my sister Cyndi who moved to Dallas, sent me this picture of the weather in Dallas this morning:

Cyndi said only six of the 25 people in her office came in to work because of the three tenths of an inch of snow they got.

Cyndi of course went to work because it takes at least fourteen inches of snow to make a Midwesterner consider the possibility of not driving.

Anyway where I'm going with all this is that I've been thinking alot lately about snow and friends and family and how our friends the Daniel family in Chicago have been buried in snow for the past 3 months and how my dad and Audrey's family are still back in Indiana and how they have gotten a bunch of snow this year, I mean a BUNCH of snow, and how it seems to be snowing everywhere the people I know have moved to, and how it never snows in San Francisco, EVER!

Then I started thinking about how i just recently realized the band Journey is from San Francisco, and how I like a lot of Journey songs.

Then I thought I sure would like to rub this all in everybody's face somehow, I mean in a loving way.

So for all of you trapped in the drudgery of winter, wherever you are, here is a message of love to you from Audrey and me and Pico and Eli:

My Letter of Resignation

noreply@blogger.com (Phillip Barcio) — Wed, 10 Feb 2010 18:09:00 +0000

To all Ramblas Managers, Investors, Associates and Staff:

Re: Phillip Barcio

In life there are times when it falls on a person to convey news that may not be well received by the ones he or she loves. This is one of those times. So I feel it best to be direct.

I have accepted a new appointment as the General Manager of Clock Bar, Michael Mina’s lounge in the lobby of the Westin St. Francis, on Union Square. My employment with Clock Bar begins on Monday, March 1, 2010.

My time at Ramblas Tapas has been the most enriching, rewarding and entertaining experience of my professional career. It is ending sooner than I imagined it would, or would have liked.

I hope each of you with whom I have shared this wildly successful growth experience will understand that this is the necessary next step in my professional life. The opportunity at Clock Bar with which I have been presented is one which has the potential to position me to achieve the long range life goal I share with the love of my life, Audrey, to operate our own restaurant. Such a goal requires that I attain relevant, daily experience above my current position as AGM.

It is my conviction that there is no greater reward in life than knowing you have contributed positively to the emotional, spiritual and professional progress of those you hold dear. If all of you feel the same as I do about the bonds we have created with each other at Ramblas then you share my heartfelt appreciation for the unique moments we have created together, and the quantifiable success we have accomplished.

Thank you for enriching my life and helping me get better every day.

Throughout the month of February, it is my highest priority to set the stage for Ice’s success as the new Chef at Ramblas.

Remember that what we think about, we bring about. It is my hope and my expectation that each of you will focus on the positive and open your hearts to whatever new paradigm emerges as we transition together to this new place.

Avoid cynicism, remember the lessons about service and integrity that we have learned together and carry on the work we started, whether at Ramblas or in your other endeavors.

I will miss all of you, and this wonderful place, more than I can express in this font. Perhaps I should have used Times New Roman. As my dad says, “Love the ones who love you, and to the rest, succhiarlo!”

I love all of you and I hope you have gotten the chance to learn how to love me.

Phillip Barcio, Assistant Manager, Ramblas Tapas

Wrestling with Traffic

noreply@blogger.com (Phillip Barcio) — Sun, 24 Jan 2010 16:21:00 +0000

My 15 block commute to Ramblas: Part 1

Sandy Claws

noreply@blogger.com (Phillip Barcio) — Sat, 26 Dec 2009 18:19:00 +0000

Time gave us a wonderful Christmas present this year: three days off in a row together.

We spent the first day downtown sightseeing. The ice skating rinks and glittery lights got us in the mood, but nothing says Christmas like a man snoring loudly in the Macy's furniture department while his wife shops.

Walking through the Ferry Building bookstore we found a book of quotes about San Francisco. My favorites:

"You are fortunate to live here. If I were your President, I would levy a tax on you for living in San Francisco!"
--Mikhail Gorbachev

"San Francisco is a golden handcuff with the key thrown away."
--John Steinbeck

And this from John Lennon and Yoko One: "We're crazy about this city. First time we came here, we walked the streets all day, all over town and nobody hassled us. People smiled, friendly-like, and we knew we could live here. Los Angeles? That's just a big parking lot where you buy a hamburger for the trip to San Francisco."

The next morning we treated ourselves to chicory coffee and beignets at Brenda's French Soul Food then we packed Pico and Elijah into the car and headed south for a stay in a beach-front, pet-friendly hotel in Monterey. Along the way we traded picture-texts with our friends the Daniel Family as they drove from Chicago down to Atlanta for the Holidays.

Seeing the Daniels in the car smiling and laughing and eating donuts reminded us once again of our powerful love for the people back home. And their photos of the slush and snow and miles of dead cornfields as they drove through Indiana reinforced our passion for where we are now.

As soon as we arrived at our hotel we hit the beach.

We toured Cannery Row the next day, Carmel by the Sea, Pebble Beach and Big Sur. We saw the 250 year old "Lone Cyprus," pelicans, sea lions, sea urchins and squirrels living in the rocks beside the sea.

If you enjoy happiness and squirrels and clear blue water and pictures of kitties and doggies and big Christmas smiles, please click on the video below and share our Christmas memories.

In the words of Billy Graham, "The Bay Area is so beautiful, I hesitate to preach about heaven while I'm here."

I lift Patches up in prayer.

noreply@blogger.com (Phillip Barcio) — Sun, 20 Dec 2009 07:09:00 +0000

Love is a happy criminal, joyously stealing our focus away from our work and the lesser responsibilities of this life.

Our friends remind us that we are more than this world can possibly hold or understand.

Love reminds us, even when it is most difficult, to smile, to be content and to follow the path of peace.

Balmy Casa has lost a brave soldier--a friend to Pico and Eli, a rambunctious challenger to Mouse, a guardian of the compost bin and licker of the grill. We say goodbye now to Patches.

Patches, we barely knew you. And we'll never forget you.

To our neighbors and friends Erik and Kristen, thank you. You are loved for your compassion, humor and gentility. Thank you for escorting the friend you brought into our lives into the ever-after. She clears the way for us now wherever's next, bravely swatting at the departed souls of bigger cats in the next life.

Patches, you were a welcome and endearing member of our little habitat. Wherever you are now, licking the sweet grease from heaven's spatulas, may you dream forever of sunny spots, tomatoes, banana trees and cheese.

If they have belly rubs in the next life, may you finally get your fill.

Thanksgiving Roll Call

noreply@blogger.com (Phillip Barcio) — Thu, 26 Nov 2009 16:37:00 +0000

What am I thankful for?

Friends!

Family!

Pie!

San Francisco!

Random word verification combinations!

Ocean Beach!

Jellyfish!

My favorite song right now!

My Marriage!

Day of the Dead!

Dolores Park!

My job!

Sleepy Time!

Proposal for an Art Project

noreply@blogger.com (Phillip Barcio) — Fri, 13 Nov 2009 17:32:00 +0000

(The following is a transcript from a meeting that never happened between people who don't exist discussing an art project that would be great to do in response to events that really did happen this week in America.)

Cruz: Hi everybody, thank you for coming to this meeting of the Arts Council for Democracy. I want to start off by saying this coffee is delicious. Make sure you thank the guys over at Four Barrel next time you're in, and they want me to let you know the public is invited to their coffee tastings every Thursday at two. They'll teach you a thing or two.

(laughter from group)

Now I'll hand the floor over to Suzy who has a report on the progress of Project C.

Suzy: Project C, you know it better as the Confessional Project, or Congressional Confessional, is almost ready to debut. We need a couple more actors and we'll have the whole troupe, and we still need a truck. Did anybody happen to buy a truck this week?

(laughter)

Suzy: Rats, I guess not.

Cruz: Never hurts to ask!

Suzy: No, well, I don't know, sometimes it hurts to ask.

Cruz: But, that's another story.

Suzy: Yes, a very sad story between me and my girlfriend.

Cruz: Ooh. Okay, but we digress.

Suzy: Yes. Sorry. Anyway. The actors. We have a George Washington and a fantastic Benjamin Franklin. We signed up a passable John Adams yesterday. He's working on his hair and his accent a little more. What we really need is a Martha Washington and a Thomas Jefferson. We've got to have Thomas. Without Thomas we won't get the press we need, and he has to be brilliant, educated, he really has to know his stuff. We can feed him his lines in the confessional, but if he gets interviewed outside the confessional, on the sidewalk, we need him to be able to bury anybody in good, solid understanding of constitutional principals. So ideally, a constitutional lawyer, philosopher and historian who also happens to be an incredible actor.

Cruz: And he has to look like Thomas jefferson!

(laughter)

Suzy: No, actually we're beyond that. I forgot to tell you our Benjamin Franklin is Ugandan.

(spattering of applause from group)

Suzy: Seriously, he really is. He's awesome. So anyone, man, woman, any race or age, anyone who fits all of the quantitative requirements of the Thomas Jefferson and is willing to put on the wool underwear and the poofy pants and ridiculous shirt and wear the wig, they'll do. We just really need he or she to truly believe, at least while they are out there, that they actually are Thomas Jefferson. That's the only way for this to work.

Cruz: They have to channel Thomas Jefferson. That's really the point, not even being funny here, but if we can get the right person, with enough power of personality to channel Thomas Jefferson in front of the steps of the Congress the impact we can make might be personal. You know, we are not trying to embarrass anybody or just to make a spectacle. I mean, yes, installing confessional booths on the sidewalk in front of Congress is going to create a spectacle, of course it is, and seeing the founding fathers waiting in the confessionals for the Congress People to come out and confess to them their sins will definitely cause some to feel embarrassed, but what we truly hope to accomplish with Project C, the Confessional Project, is to inspire the hearts of our elected representatives to reclaim their heritage by channelling the wit and wisdom and appreciation for all people inherent in the original constitution.

Suzy: We are especially trying to get Jason Altmire out there in a Congressional Confessional, pronto.

Cruz: Yes, Pennsylvania Democrat Jason Altmire.

Suzy: You guys probably didn't hear this yet. Oh man. It's going to erk you. But it's just such perfect timing that we got these confessionals built at this time, and that we are ready to deploy them, the timing is perfect, as soon as we get a truck...

Cruz: Yes, a truck! Anyone!

Suzy: Listen. Let me tell you about Jason Altmire. yesterday, on the floor of Congress--the effing floor of effing Congress!--Pennsylvania Democrat Jason Altmire stood up and announced that he would not vote for the health care bill unless he was told it was appropriate to do so by Catholic bishop in his home district.

(excited murmering)

Cruz: Seriously. He is taking orders from the Catholic Church. A democratically elected United States Congressman, who is sworn to uphold the Constitution, is taking orders from the Catholic church.

Suzy: So there goes our separation of church and state. Our legislators are officially taking their orders from the church now. This is real.

Cruz: Tell them why he did it, Suzy.

Suzy: He did it in reference to an amendment Pro-Life representatives added on to the health care bill at the last minute. It is called the Stupak Amendment, and it threatens women’s reproductive rights by severely limiting insurance companies’ ability to cover the cost of abortions.

Cruz: A gigantic step backwards for reproductive rights, if anyone is interested. Not as egregious as a democratically elected legislator taking orders from church leaders, but still...a little egregious.

Suzy: We need to get a truck and we need to find our Thomas Jefferson and we need to get Congressional Confessionals onto the sidewalk in front of the House of Representatives ASAP and we need to give these poor sons of bees a chance to confess their sins against us. We are supposed to be who they worship. We are supposed to be the ones they serve. They can come to us and confess and ask to be forgiven and we will give them a penance. That reminds me, do we have the penances written yet?

Cruz: Yes we have one for each representative, so if any of them come over we are ready.

Suzy: What if Jason Altmire comes over. What's his penance.

Cruz: He has to write the First Amendment on a chalkboard a hundred times.

Suzy: Seriously?

Cruz: Yes, we have a giant chalkboard on wheels and everything.

Suzy: I love that!

Cruz: We just need a truck. One truck. Nobody has a truck? Anybody know how to steal a truck?

(laughter)

“How come there ain’t no money here? Hmm! Whitey’s on the Moon…” -Gil Scott-Heron

noreply@blogger.com (Phillip Barcio) — Sat, 26 Sep 2009 18:28:00 +0000

A fun game I like to play with my friends is called "This is happening."

The point of the game is simple: to try and stump everyone by knowing something about current events that nobody else knows.

The game starts when somebody says something that is happening right now and then says, "This is real. This is happening."

For example someone might say, "Human embryos are being baked into pies in Scotland and served to rich people. This is real. This is happening."

(A hypothetical example.)

Then if someone else is familiar with the story, that person says, "I heard that, too" then that person has to provide some additional, verifiable tid-bit certifying their au fait.

Like, "Embryo pie goes well with sake they say."

(Another hypothetical example.)

My friends at work and I have been playing this game, formally or informally, on an ongoing basis for about a year, trying in vain to come up with some story that hasn't made it onto the rest of our radar yet.

Last night we had a winner.

The winner's name: Jo Boyer.

Jo's winning entry:

"America is going to bomb the moon next month. This is real. This is happening."

Nobody stepped up with an "I heard that, too." We all just stood there like a bunch of moon imbeciles.

In the past, I personally have easily and with extreme prejudice struck down far more trivial and way less interesting entries--stories from the foreign press or community newspapers that should have easily claimed victory were it not for my relentless commitment to, shall I say, information gathering.

Missing this one set some of us to wondering if maybe we're slipping.

Congratulations Jo, and thank you for making us aware of something we probably should have already known about. And for the rest of you out there who somehow missed this story too, let me help you catch-up:

Original Story
Planning the Assalut: Why Bomb the Moon?
Protest Site (one of many)

In the words of The Pretenders, "We are all of us in the gutter. But some of us are looking at the stars."

The Story of My Life

noreply@blogger.com (Phillip Barcio) — Thu, 06 Aug 2009 16:41:00 +0000

Given three days off in a row, Audrey and I found three different ways this week to enjoy the Golden Gate Bridge, in order to see as much of heaven as we could on earth.

Day One, East of the Bridge: Treasure Island

In the bay between San Francisco and Oakland lies a man-made island, constructed in 1937 by the Army Corps of Engineers.

This is Treasure Island, World War II departure point for American soldiers embarking on their journey to fight the Japanese Empire, and home of the 1939 San Francisco World's Fair, ironically titled "Pacific Unity."

Currently covered in dilapidated, toxic, asbestos-filled naval buildings, and gradually sinking into the bay, this oddity of oddities is virtually abandoned today except for the Treasure Island Bar and Grill (home of the best garlic fries in San Francisco), plus a couple of movie companies who lease the abandoned airplane hangars, and a small community of impoverished families housed in makeshift barracks on the north end of the island.

The Island Bay Homes Community Housing Project offers not only a roof over our less fortunate neighbors' heads, but unrestricted views of the San Francisco skyline, including both bridges, the Bay and the Golden Gate, the construction of which the World's Fair was intended to celebrate.

This photo from the 1930s shows treasure Island being constructed (foreground) simultaneously along with the Bay Bridge.

By 1939, the year the Pacific Unity fair opened, Japan had been at war with china for eight years and out of the League of Nations for six. During the course of the fair, two participating European countries had to close their booths as their real-world borders were being overrun by Nazi forces.

Day Two, West of the Bridge: Baker Beach

Just west of the Golden Gate Bridge lies Baker Beach, famous for its views, both of the bridge and of the clothing optional sunbathers. (Eli and Audrey were a little shy their first time at a nude beach.)

Looming above Baker Beach is the affluent neighborhood of Sea Cliff, where mansions rise above cliffs of Serpentine, California's State Rock, seen here being dominated by Audrey.

Day Three, Over the Bridge: American Normandy

Right across the Golden Gate Bridge lies miles of vineyards and local farms, appropriately dubbed the American Normandy for its landscape, its coastline and of course for its cheese.

It is here among the idyllic pasteurs, happy cows and swaying palm trees that the current world financial crisis has manifested its positive side: The best use for an abandoned bank building ever.

Baker Creek Heirloom Seeds, whose home base is situated in the Ozark hills near Mansfield, Missouri, is the world's largest heirloom seed project. They opened their second location, the Heirloom Seed Bank, two months ago in the town of Petaluma, 20 minutes north of San Francisco.

As you may already know, massive food conglomerates have been endeavoring for years to genetically modify food crops so their seeds will not reproduce, forcing farmers and consumers to buy their homogenized produce.

Baker Creek Heirloom Seeds has stated the goal of turning all of Sonoma County into an heirloom seed zone, where every plant grown in this region is sustainable, unique and most importantly non-GM.

We picked up some American huckleberry seeds, Italian artichoke seeds and Mexican pepper seeds. The world is in our garden again.

While in Petaluma (previously also home to our friend Sarah, owner of AV Framing back in Fountain Square), I also managed to fall down for no reason for the second time since we moved to California. This time I only scraped my hands.

After coffee at a waterfront bistro, we took a short drive from Petaluma to the Cowgirl Creamery, home of some of our favorite local cheeses. We picked up a quarter pound of "San Andreas," an unpasteurized, vegetarian rennet sheep's cheese to enjoy with the bottle of Sorrentino Gragnana Audrey bought from work and made the journey through the coastal farmland of Pt. Reyes to the famous light house, where wild deer keep watch over the Lighthouse Watcher's apartment.

Three days, three ways to take advantage of the Golden Gate Bridge.

Please enjoy this happy slideshow of our recent adventures, if you like happiness.

Donut Picnics with my Wife

noreply@blogger.com (Phillip Barcio) — Wed, 22 Jul 2009 16:15:00 +0000

The first time in our love affair Audrey and I were on the same work schedule, I was waiting tables at Mezza Luna in Broad Ripple spending many a gun-shy hour staring longingly across the bushes at Audrey bartending next door at La Jolla.

I thought she was too young for me. Too adventurous for me. Way too pretty for me.

I still think I'm right about the third part.

The second time it happened was in Chicago. I was bartending at the Roxy Cafe in Evanston when Audrey quit her job as a flight attendant and started working as a server at Club Lucky in Bucktown.

Precious daylight hours together were suddenly bestowed upon us in the Windy City to invent a terrific romantic pastime: Donut picnics.

Donut picnics by the lake shore. Donut picnics in the park. Donut picnics at the museum. Donut picnics on the L.

Now that Audrey is back in the restaurant biz once again, we happily share the same schedule a third time, a first since we moved to California.

Donut picnic revival.

We finally have time together to get around to trying those seven thousand breakfast places we've been wanting to try. And to look for that herd of wild billy goats that supposedly lives near Glen Park. And to make that video we've been wanting to make for our friends so they would know what to do if they come and visit us for a week but we end up having to work one of the days...

Claudette's Greatest Hits

noreply@blogger.com (Phillip Barcio) — Mon, 06 Jul 2009 07:44:00 +0000

The world throws itself at our feet in a heap of art and love.

San Francisco is a matchmaker. Connections made so far: Terra Haywood, Brian Ransom and Anya Prinz, two bartenders and a server at Ramblas Tapas where I work, who became my team mates for the 2009 San Francisco 48 Hour Film Project.

In one weekend last month the four of us managed to write, shoot and edit a film together (starring yours truly as the Hit Man).

With narration composed and read by D.D. Porush and music by Yes Alexander with Slow Burning Lights, it is my pleasure to present to you our film, "Claudette's Greatist Hits."