Crazy Town


And it’s not because I am leaving and my emotions are in a ruckus.




Now that this is out of my system, back to the blogging at hand.  Although I don’t know how good this one is gonna be, frankly the entire world is exploding.

Literally, illegal fireworks, helicopters, sirens, screams (mostly of joy, from what I can tell at this point), honking–lots of honking.  I am at what feels like the epicenter of the madness, but from various check ins around town, everywhere in town is the epicenter.

The Mission, however, truly does feel like ground zero.

I was looking for parking when it suddenly dawned on me that I was in a very intense little pocket of San Francisco if I was to get caught in the celebration.  I was on Albion Street next to Kilowatt and the third to last pitch was being pitched and the crowd exploded and I got a horrid hot flash of anxiety.

Not my car.

Not my car.

Not my fucking car.

Park now.

I saw the cops in riot gear and I sent a little prayer to the heavens, please, God, help me find parking.

I am not one to pray to the parking gods, I think that is silliness, but I just fucking did.

I found parking.  And I believe I will be staying over night in San Francisco.  I cannot fathom even attempting to move, it would be folly.  Especially since I am parked at 15th and Julian.  I would have some crazy people to get through and it is just not worth it.

Not that I don’t doubt the fans deserve to celebrate, they certainly do, I just do not need to risk some one else’s property to get back to the East Bay.

And I tell you what, it was hard enough for me to leave the East Bay today.

I did not want to come into San Francisco.  I did not want to say good-bye.  I did not want you to see me cry.

Boy howdy did you see me cry today.

A lot.

Oh well.

It was worth every single tear shed.  I love this city, crazy with glee, morose in the fog, rainy, sunny, cold, windy, salty San Francisco.

I can officially say I will be leaving my heart in San Francisco.

I may come back to retrieve a piece of it or two, but this is my home, irretrievably and for always.  San Francisco is my home.  You have treated me so well, so special, so sweet.

You have been a dirty hooker too, but we won’t talk about that right now, we are waxing nostalgic.

I remember one day sitting at the top of Dolores Park looking over the city and I just did not know what was going to happen, how I was going to stay, and how that was going to look.  I did not want to go back to Wisconsin, I did not want to give up the ghost, I had been infected by this city and I could not shake the feeling that I was supposed to be here, here, home, here in the Mission.

“It’s kind of weird how many furniture stores are on this street,” Stephanie said to me as we walked down Mission Street over ten years ago.

I had just gotten a look at the room I was sub-letting in the Mission on 20th and York.


Sorry, got distracted.

This is harder to do than I thought–both acknowledging the feelings coming up around leaving and just writing my blog in the center of the madness.  I snuck into the shop to use the bathroom and print of my bicycle invoice to take on the plane with me–I have no intentions to pay customs on my bicycle as I come into the country.  I just printed off two copies, one for the bike box and one for me to carry on the plane.

I got a sweet, sweet, sweet message today from Barnaby.  He is just such a pumpkin.  He called me internationally to tell me he will be meeting me at the airport and we will go to the apartment and drop my stuff and then go to a cafe in the neighborhood (this is good I will want to have a bite of breakfast–landing at Charles De Gaulle at 8:40a.m.) then off to see folks and he has even arranged to hook me right into the necessary fellowship that I so need and crave.

He also said it was really, really, really cold.

I have not checked the weather yet and I am realizing that it may really be a good idea to get a winter coat before I go.  I love my Chrome hoodie and jean jacket layer combo, but it may not really be enough.  I am going to give it the old college try before I go to get myself an appropriate coat–the one Matt gave me too big, the one I got from my mom in Florida, not quite a good fit after I kept trying to make it so, so…time for a winter coat.

I have not thought about a winter coat is so long.


This whole thing is crazy.

Crazy wonderful and wild and weird and overwhelming.

I sat at the top of Dolores Park and cried.

I did not want to go home, I did not want to go back to Wisconsin, which had stopped feeling like home already and here was San Francisco, a jewel, a haven, a home and I was not ready to give it up.

I did not have to, as it turned out.

I do not have to now either.

It will always be home base.

Just not where I lay my head any longer.

They say home is where the heart is and as I make the last of my adieu’s, I can say this much is true.

Oh God.

That was a horrendous bad big firework and now the cops are here.

It’s time for me to go.

I love you San Francisco.

Please don’t burn yourself to the ground tonight, I want a city to come back to and visit down the road.



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