July 27- August 2nd

A new weekly post on the blog just about the odds and ends and magical thoughts of life as it happens.


It takes approximately the whole duration of Saint Motel’s “Daydream/Wetdream/Nightmare” to leave the Franklin and Sacramento stop on my bus, get off at Gough, and walk down to the front entrance of my apartment building. It’s not bad, and especially as you listen to Saint Motel, you practically dance the whole way.


It’s a love/hate with the buses of San Francisco. Muni is the patron mobile saint for all and any; with a sound mind or less-than-fortunate hygiene and even if you just want to catch some shut eye on one of its smeared matte brown plastic seats, its arms are open to you! So long as you can prove payment of fare for a paper receipt given at $2.50 a pop. I’ve been riding Muni all the years I’ve set foot in San Francisco, and I’m proud at how savvy I’ve grown in navigating the lines and twists and turns– if they gave medals for bus surfing, I’d have a fair shot on the podium (especially for someone who can do it in stilettos). When i say that I know the bus, it’s not just by the book and maps, too, but the streets. There’s certain lines you shouldn’t ride alone on at night and other where they’ll routinely surprise riders with Muni officers checking to see if you paid the fare. There’s the bus that doesn’t phase you with the gum wrappers or spit and buffalo chicken wing bones on the floor. And I know all too well that sexual harassment can happen– at any given moment, even on what’s considered the safest of the Muni lines.

But there is the wondrous saving grace of this wasteland on wheels: seeing the city in new ways, and its people. More so fascinating– you are one of them.

Santa Cruz 2

I’m at the peak of myself being a confident, self-assured little lady now since being in the city. Honest. Sorry not sorry. After a year and a half working retail and odd jobs with bad writing and losing old friends that made you feel like a terrible human being and student loans, as well as gaining new opportunities like a chance to live in SF– just as losing as who you believed to be the love of your life– damn right you’re going to come out of it all as a queen. And this great and terrible tirade of Paris the Invincible is only allowed to go uphill from here. Tonight I’ve started reading Amy Poehler’s Yes Please and it is a hoot and I want to get on the level of Ms. Poehler. It’s her strong voice and humor that’s easy to grasp and then a few minutes later, I put the book down and take up my notebook and pen. I want to write again all of a sudden– I know I am happiest when spilling out words.

Santa Cruz

I am also happiest spilling out words when sitting beneath a warm sun, sand spilling over you from all angles in the light breeze that skims through a beach on a Saturday afternoon. It’s been two years since I last came to Santa Cruz. It might be the most ridiculous thing to even attempt writing at the beach because of petty hindrances of poor back support and wasting ten dollars on a chevron blue beach towel you’ll only ever use once. There might be flies, there might be too much seaweed, and the bag of curly fries will surely stain your favorite notebook with grease. And those factors may be a bitch to anyone– but I’m not anyone. I simply am a young girl grateful for a day to finally do something she likes and to get away from a city she loves for uncertain adventures. San Francisco, I sure love you, but summer is also the time for Santa Cruz. And given this terrible and long past week where you just needed to treat yourself to some cotton candy and deep fried everything, Santa Cruz had my back.


Maybe it’s just being invincible that makes all of us here in the Bay Area insane. In heading down to Santa Cruz for the day, the nights were left to explore the night with a good friend from college and her roommate around San Jose. And seriously, the balls these people have– old age won’t stop you from turning it up on the dance floor of Rosie McCann’s, nor will a croaking voice discourage you from singing karaoke in the most lively dive bar I’ve ever drank at. The place was Woodham’s and the songs were whatever people thought they could sing best– SJGarden3and here’s something you can learn from people who sing karaoke: they really give a shit. Not about the quality of singing, but the passion put into your performance. I was a silly bopping songstress with absolutely no game in my performance, but I smiled and jazz handed, and in a duet with my friend, soloed on an air guitar. Yeahhhh, just don’t stand there and look miserable– don’t give into your voice! It’s pure entertainment for laughs and to commiserate with strangers over the tunes chosen, breaking down the weird barrier of creepiness and drunken stupor that usually plagues anyone in a place like that– but not for Brandon who climaxed during his rendition of “Careless Whisper” as an inside joke to the bouncer, for John who gave good advice on picking songs that really showcase you, and surely not Reese, who went solo in the night singing “Feeling Good” and Dionne Warwick because her 15-year-old daughter obviously could not accompany her to the bar. The true spotlight went to Allison behind the bar– constantly taking orders and mixing drinks with the mic tucked between her neck and shoulder as she belted out beautifully Lorde and Metallica.

San Jose didn’t feel like a real place. It’s a city that some would see as an extension of San Francisco, or a capitalist-driven bore that thrives off all the techies planted here in Silicon Valley. To me, it’s a wonderland of sorts; not what I expected of its sights and sounds and people. In a place where the sun drenches over 3,5000 rose bushes and redwoods only blocks away from a piece of the Nile at the Rosicrucian Eygyptian Museum whilst sipping on a Mocha Borgia that is simply a Terry’s Orange in a cup– you’d be happily mad here too.


From all that occurred this weekend, I must sound mad. Maybe I am, or maybe I just enjoyed too much of a good thing for only a few days and I’ve not adequately expressed how it all made me feel. Well, I feel good. And with passing weekend, it can only get better too. Just be bold, and don’t expect anything. The moment you start planning it only means that you’re limiting yourself, and if you’re an invincible, it just seems like a silly thing to limit one’s self, doesn’t it?


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