Posts Tagged ‘Millennials’

Adding Insult

September 8, 2016

To injury.

Gah.

I got up early this morning to deal with the scooter and was actually nicely assuaged by the fellow at San Francisco Scooter Centre when I chatted with him about my scooter getting knocked over and not starting, the busted brake, et al.

He told me to use the other brake, shouldn’t be a problem, ride it on down to the shop and they’d have it fixed up in a jiffy.

Well.

Fuck, that’s nice.

Awesome.

I took a Lyft to the scooter, which I had left parked over night on the street that I work on and pretty much knew that it was worse for when I had left it the minute I was exiting the car.

God damn it.

The back basket had been broken into.

Yes.

I left my fucking Corazzo $250 motorcycle jacket in the basket.

Fuckity, fuck, fuck, fuck.

I had spaced it.

I know better, but I was just overwhelmed last night and had marched right on over to the Mission Police Station to file my report.

Also.

Motherfuckers.

The head lamp was stolen.

I mean, clean gone.

I didn’t even know that was something of value to steal.

Enjoy that tasty crack, yo.

Fuck me.

I called Scooter Centre, I told them what had happened and that the scooter would not start at all, I suspect that the wiring had gotten mucked with when the headlamp was ripped out.

The guys were quite kind and helped me with all the things.

I have a two year road side warranty so they sent over a tow truck, free of charge, and I handed off my scooter to Dave, really a sweet old guy, who loaded it up, took my keys, and dropped it off within twenty minutes of having arrived.

He sent me a text that it was delivered to the shop two minutes before I started work.

I made a second trip to the cop shop, as it turns out the theft of parts and the theft of my jacket were separate incidences to the scooter getting rammed into yesterday.

Police report number two did not get fully filed, I didn’t have enough time to do the paperwork and process it there, so I get to do that online tonight.

Or maybe tomorrow in the morning.

I called Scooter Centre this evening around 5:30 p.m. and they said my scooter would be ready by noon tomorrow.

Hopefully so.

I would like to put this all behind and move the fuck on.

I just spent some time on line looking at scooter jackets to replace mine and they are more expensive than I recalled, but I have to say, my jacket was so nice, it was wind proof and sturdy–reinforced elbows and back padding– and I really felt a lot better wearing it than not wearing it.

When I go to pick up the scooter I’m going to see if they have any jackets in my size at the shop.

They carry the brand and though I doubt they have a pink one on hand, I will see if they have something there.

I would rather walk out the shop wearing one than wait for one to come in the post.

Although if they’re too expensive I’ll just get one online.

I found one on sale for $199.

Here’s the jacket I had.

It was pink.

I felt all sorts of Pink Lady tough when I was wearing it.

Also noticeable on my scooter, it’s reflective as well.

I ran into a friend tonight and she asked after my scooter and when I told her that my jacket had been stolen too, she said, “oh no!  Not your pink jacket!”

Yeah.

Unfortunately so.

I thought about it though and realized that I am pretty lucky, even though I was none to happy, especially as I walked over to the Mission Police Station for the second time in twelve hours, I was going to the cop shop voluntarily.

I was not arrested for anything.

I had not hurt anyone.

Further.

I wasn’t hurt.

Yes.

My fucking pocket book is taking a beating, but so it goes.

The same police officer that I made the initial report to was there and we chatted, she was super kind and helpful and though I left still upset, I was soothed fairly quickly.

Things just don’t always go the exact way I want them to.

But.

They do happen for a reason and I’m willing to have surrendered to taking cars for the last two nights to get home.

I get to do that.

It’s a nice perk of urban living.

Granted.

The two young tech start up Millennials that were chatting about Body Rok and their tech start up dating app were obnoxious to listen too, (I wanted to smack both of them in their young, white, wealthy privilege, they weren’t racist, but man they were super ageist and the lilting over high voice of the young woman was so grating to listen to I wanted to shake her and ask her to speak with her real voice) I was still grateful to be in a car, heading home out by the beach, with the window rolled down, the feeling of the wind refreshing and brisk and summery.

For San Francisco.

Over heard in the park today.

“It’s just too fucking hot, I can’t do anything.”

haha.

It was 80 degrees.

That is not too hot, although it feels like a heat wave when just a few weeks ago it was foggy and about thirty degrees cooler.

The summer does seem to be here.

Which is nice since I have a date Sunday to go for a hike in Glen Canyon.

Heh.

That was unexpected.

And wouldn’t have come to fruition if I hadn’t been on my phone yesterday in the car on the way home from the scooter snafu.

So.

Even though it was not my plan, my idea, or my desire to have a night off from the scooter, it did precipitate some actions that led to me getting asked out on a date.

More about that later.

Or not.

I’m not too certain I want to share any details right now.

Suffice to say.

I’m excited and said date falls within the parameters of the type of men I want to be dating.

My scooter will be running by that point.

Heck.

It will be running tomorrow.

I’ll be skipping yoga to go get it, but hey, luxury problems, like I said.

My life is rich and full and surprising.

And.

Wonderful.

Even when I have things that were lost.

They’re just things.

The best things in life.

I remind myself often.

Aren’t.

Things.

Sorted, Satiated, Seduced

July 5, 2016

By my sweet foggy city.

Home.

It is such a nice place to be.

I am so grateful I put it all back in place to when I got home last night.

I unpacked and put away all my little treasures from the trip.

Some flower hair clips.

Two vintage cardigans.

A couple pairs of cheap earrings.

Some stickers.

Two pounds of locally roasted coffee, one from Mojo and other from Hey Cafe and Coffee.

Two pairs of new sandals.

And the little bit of swag from the conference.

I was a little wound up from getting home.

I got the butterflies and the happy sparklers of joy in my belly as the plane flew in over SFO International Airport.

It is this way every time I fly into the airport.

This feeling of happiness and glee.

This recurring knowing of being home, even before I called San Francisco home, it was home.

I still remember, sixteen years later, how it felt the first time I flew in over the city and how giddy I was with it.

Anticipatory joy and love and awe.

Awe that I was coming and getting to see the friend, a man I was in love with, romantically crushed out on, a man that though I did eventually get to have for one one night, was not the man for me.

But.

I will always be grateful for that unrequited love song that yearned in my heart for it led me to this city, this amazing space and land and confluence of fog and love and flowers in my hair and self-discovery.

And.

Of course.

No matter what.

No matter where.

It will always be home because it is where I got sober.

No other place can lay claim to that piece of my history.

So on top of the general body and soul and heart knowing, there is this deep pocket of grace that I am here.

I leave and return.

I tried to move to Paris.

That didn’t work.

I could see living in New York, it has it’s energy and allure and spark.

But.

Yet.

I am here.

And I continue to return and be soaked with gratitude every time.

I could live in New Orleans.

Oh, the hot humid sexy of it.

The big lushness of it, the flowers and trees, the moss in the trees, the drawl of the voices, the funky, bluesy, jazzy’ness of it, the art and the creative.

And also the underground dark scary spooky.

I suppose everywhere has pockets of wildness and dark.

But I could sense it closer to the surface there than a lot of places, maybe any other place I have been.

Death and sex and hot damp over abundant wildness.

It is there just skimming along below the pulse of warm air on your skin.

I can’t quite describe it, it is intense and dark and surreal and powerful and made my skin feel electric at times, the small hairs on the back of my neck rising in silent acknowledgement of the old the, wild, the barbaric yawp.

I feel it at times, in a different kind of way, but a dark wild way, in pockets of Golden Gate park when I would ride my bike through it at night.

Not always, but often, and though a different kind of energy then what I felt in New Orleans which was at once languid and violent, it too has a dark windy animal howl.

I am compelled by both those energies, softly drawn and also quite aware and wary that it is not my space to wander through.

I get to give it a wide berth.

The other thing about New Orleans was the architecture that was so heavily French influenced.

I do have a thing for all thing Francophile.

It is a definite and well defined influence that I really felt drawn too.

Plus, the colors.

Oh, so bright and many.

And that too, is something I find wonderful and compelling about San Francisco–the Victorians and the architecture here, gorgeous and bright and colorful as well.

I also recognized a kind of art and brightness that I normally associate with San Francisco and the Burning Man culture here.

In fact, at one point when I was in a little store on Magazine Street, I recall thinking to myself that I didn’t know New Orleans was such a Burner’s city.

Then I realized that it was Burning Man influenced, though, there may be some of that too–I know Burner’s Without Borders did a lot of work in Louisiana after Hurricane Katrina–it was Mardi Gras.

The store was full of costumes and feather boas and masks and at first I thought it was a store like you might find in the Haight that specializes in festival gear and clothing.

Nope.

Mardi Gras.

Either way, it’s dress up.

For me, though, although I flew my personal little self-expression flag high, I was not as comfortable with it in New Orleans as I am in San Francisco.

I felt at times, if I were to live there, I would tone it down a bit.

Then.

I realized.

Nope.

I am not toning it down for anyone.

I am wild and free and wonderful and live a happy, joyous, compelling life.

And so far.

That life has been focused and centered around living in San Francisco.

Even when the fog, Karl, sweetheart I did miss you, is so thick you can’t see the fireworks display in the sky on the fourth of July.

Even when I needed to unearth the heavy sweatshirt today.

Even with the tech kids and the Millennials and the people getting pushed out and the high cost of living.

Even with the extra traffic and the gentrification.

I still love it so.

I still get feathering tickles in my body of joy co-mingled with electric blue sparkles of anticipation and awe, the wonder of it all.

I get to live in San Francisco.

I.

So.

Am.

The luckiest girl in the world.

Seriously.


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