Though I often feel the same way, as soon as someone says to me, “Sami, SD is boring,” I want to reply, “You’re boring. There’s tons of things to do here.” I think, as a tourist town, we want to protect our city from the ignorant criticism of visitors.
Still, maybe it’s just the softly trickling rain keeping me apartment-bound, but I am bored. Actually I’ve been carrying around a boredom monkey for awhile now. There’s sort of an ennui in happiness and stability, and this is not the best town in which to forage for chaos. In this heaven, we’re a bit oblivious to evil and all the fun it brings.
One time I was so bored I photoshopped pictures of a goat into my parents backyard and texted them to my brother, who lives in Berkeley.
I guess that’s part of why I got so wasted at Flick’s last night that the “kicky boots” and “bear arm” came out. Did I make out with Xanadu again? I didn’t wake up with her lipstick smeared on my face, so I’m guessing not.
This is a beach town, not a gritty cosmopolitan city with heated philosophical discussions in coffee shops. People flock here to relax, and the rest of us have to fight for our right to party. I am so lame. Sorry. The closest I’ve had to a political conversation with someone in the past 2 months was a fight I picked with a constitutionalist about minority rights.
I’m a bleeding-heart liberal (except when Ron Swanson talks about pretty, dark-haired women and breakfast food and I want to be him) in a conservative, military town. The young hippies here drive me just as nuts with their pseudo-spiritualities and adherence to the astrological calendar. I don’t have time to care when the moon is in capricorn and uranus is over my hammy.
Here’s what San Diegans think we do when we’re bored:
Go to Julian
Suntan regardless of season
Tourist it up at Seaworld, Balboa Park, etc.
Other outdoorsy stuff that sounds impressive on a dating profile.
This is what we actually do. Well, I do:
Drink alcohol. Beer is amazing here. Liquor is abundant and varied. Check out KnBs in Del Cerro.
Browse OkCupid. Mostly I use it to get new friends and you should too.
Paint my nails.
Thrift Shopping. If the sun is out and I have the day off, this is pretty much the only thing that will get me out in public. Because…
Backyard / front-yard day drinking with my parents. They have 3 parrots and we have screaming contests.
Arts and crafts. San Diego is one of the top 3 creative cities according to this bloke I discovered today named Richard Florida. I can always find a friend to do a photoshoot or collaborative paint, or make tutus.
Find a band practice. I don’t play music, but I like to doodle while other people abuse guitars for 3 hours.
Okayyyyyy I do enjoy nature crap. Sometimes. A night hike on Cowles will draw out good conversation with a friend.
Video games with friends.
Here’s a video of me playing Dead Space 2. Warning, I suck.
Do you agree that SD is boring and what do you do to stay entertained? Comment below. You don’t need an account or anything; it’s easy to leave a comment.
Sorry about the short post! My friend made me start over from scratch because my first draft was yet another lesbian rant…
About 40 seconds after I pushed my last post public, the sweat and nausea of shame descended on me like a Jim Beam hangover. Normally I have guts of steel with these kinds of things because I’m awesome so this was a weird and unpleasant experience for me.
“Every show I do is poorly promoted And if you like this it’s cause my little sister wrote it.” Click for music video.
I felt like my last post was way too cute. I’m adorable enough as I am without needing to ‘write safe.’ On a related note, I’m re-thinking my ban on curse words — vote below. Anyway, I’ve re-focused and this blog will center around my personal experiences rather than a slew of topical rants. Occasionally, though, I will need to gripe about general San Diego tropes. Who had ‘fun’ driving last Friday??
My aim is to collage together my exploits with more editorial content in an effort to distill a “VIBE” of San Diego subculture. Anyone not familiar with Tavi Gevinson’s work and her vibes needs to check this out. There’s nothing quite like living here, which is why they’ve dubbed us the Whale’s Vagina.
Anyway, enough with the meta, I want to talk about an encounter that is still stuck in my mind.
Manic Monday at the Brass Rail is my church. Even though (as the designated driver) I’m limited to one or two stiff, $2 drinks, it is one of my favorite nights.
But sometimes I really wish I could be wasted on Mondays.
I get all my awesome 80s clothes at the thrift shop just like Macklemore.
In Hilcrest we have two types of “tourists.”
1. Out-of-towners who may not be used to the San Diego flavor of gay and
2. Gawkers who visit any LGBT club like it’s a zoo.
These are not to be confused with the heteregulars (I just made that up!) who frequently join the party because they live nearby, like the area, like the drink specials, and/or have friends/family in the community.
Mondays tend to be quite a mixed night. We’ve got sexy sorority-types who show up way too early and entertain themselves with group photos. And make out with me when I’m looking particularly non-threatening and feminine. There are friendly gay boys who might spill a cocktail on you but won’t hesitate to say hello. Glittery accessories weigh down slight and strong wrists alike, sequins sparkle in the red light of the smoking patio, and the variety of drinkers spill together on the hard ground like the contents of a toxic stomach.
I am grateful for the straight visitors, both tourists and not, because their money helps support the venues that I love. Even the “explorers” tend to amuse me with their antics in a “Kids say the darndest things” kind of way.
This tale of fury is about one of the regulars, not a tourist. Sometimes the sense of belonging and community will get to their head and a straight guy or gal will act they’ve earned The Gay Seal of Approval™ and/or Badge of Honorary Membership. Some of my closest friends are guilty of this at times…whoops.
One such self-stamped mutual “friend” has been openly pushing my buttons since the day I met him. I’ll call him Chuck, as in chucklehead, because I’m mean like that. And the word chucklehead makes me giggle.
I say openly because he told me that “pushing” my “buttons” is exactly what he intends to do. Also, he’s actually doing me a huge favor because he’s teaching me to be more understanding and tolerant of male attention. It’s not his fault I’m so amazing and he’s attracted to me. He can’t help himself. He’s Italian and it’s “just the way they are.” I wish I could better convey sarcasm in text because I am typing so jaggedly that my nail-beds hurt a little….
My snake eats the cutest size of mice right now. It’s kind of depressing.
I told him that the mouse being electrocuted doesn’t realize it’s for the greater good. Probably came to mind because my date that night experiments on rats for a living. Oh yiss, sexy neuroscientist lady…
Now before my beloved guy friends start to wonder if they risk offending me with their compliments or affection, let me stop you. I make it clear when someone is gettin’ in my bubbles and disturbin’ my comforts. Which is why, immediately after Chuck crossed the line between drunken false-familiarity into disturbing amounts of sexually-charged attention, I told him to back down. My first approach was subtle; I told him I’m not very affectionate and shrugged out of his arms. I used to try to be diplomatic because his best friend is super sweet and I like listening to her talk.
After several encounters and a mixture of polite, frank, and even harsh rebuffs with no progress, I no longer had patience for his continued harassment. Just a couple of weeks ago I had told him that I don’t like it when he puts his arm around me. He hangs heavy around my neck which is uncomfortable no matter who does it. First thing he did when he saw me: drape on me like a wet towel. His lips a hair from my ear, he told me that I’m beautiful.
Wish I’d been wearing my “gay ghostbuster” uniform instead of the tights and dress in this story.
Trapped in a bar stool between smokers, a railing, and his body, I felt like a cornered animal. Even as I chewed him out for what must have been at least 20 minutes, he stood alternatively with his face so close to mine I could feel his breath or with his crotch against my leg. Through my thin tights I could verify that he at least had the decency to not have a boner. Eeeeeugh. “You don’t come to my bar and rub your balls on my knee and act like you have the right to pretend you’re helping me,” I said to him. My friend Richard gave another one of his “Mhmmm’s” and a sassy head shake.
Finally Chuck tired of my rapid rebuttals to his hippie-dippy rationale for harassing me the way he does. For the first time ever, he was the one to walk away from our troubled interaction. VICTORY.
Now, I realize that he was quite drunk and probably didn’t learn anything from me. I hope if nothing else he recalls a sense of negative emotion and hesitates to force his “love” on me next we meet. Love without respect just gets squicky and I am too in touch with my personal limits to let someone willfully make me feel uncomfortable.
I really don’t know what the protocol should be for dealing with persistent arduous attention. I’m a sexy beast; I get a lot of advances. I’ve tried diplomacy, I’ve tried deadpan rejection. Nothing seems to work better than a pre-emptive bitchface (learn the techniques here), but I hate doing the bitchface. There’s no one-size-fits all approach and I’m forced to scrape up patience and empathy all night until I’m exhausted. It’d help if people just took me at my word. I’m pretty good at saying what I mean.
By the way, I don’t mind writing about this publicly. Yeah, he might read it. There’s nothing I’ve said here that I haven’t tried to say to his face. I told him all I want is peace. I guess that’s true, but I’ll settle for the glow I get from being righteously angry at chuckleheads.
For my inaugural post, I might as well get this one out of the way: weather.
SD locals feel the same way about the weather as I do about your (you know who you are) ex-girlfriend — I wish she didn’t exist.
The truth is, we all know at some level that weather is the main reason why we can’t ever leave San Diego. We know that other cities have snow and sleet and intense humidity and deep down, realize that if we ever lived anywhere else we’d ask our parents for more money so we could move back. Or, for the SD natives out there, move in…
Apparently it’s spring because this hummingbird is building a nest on my back patio.
There are other reasons not to leave (beer), but the weather here sits on your back and gnaws on your neck and every day the endlessly cheerful sun bakes you into submission.
Hypo-manic with fear, we discuss rain and sun and fog in a tone that is easy to confuse with eagerness. Oh, we’re not pleasant or easily amused; we’re terrified.
And then it rains. San Diegans go ballistic not just because they seldom see the rain, but because it is betrayal. The rain fills the tiny cracks (or gaping crevices) in our streets and our illusion of perfection. We make it exciting; on our news stations we write STORMWATCH in Impact (or the fattest helvetica you’ve ever seen) and we reassure each other that the weather is, in fact, a novelty. Everything will go back to normal soon.
“MicroClimate Weather” – What? Does anyone actually say that? (Click pic to view video from SoCal Skywatch. The juxtaposition of flawless skies and moody storm language makes me giggle.)
We purge knowledge of relatively predictable weather patterns from our carefully edited memories. San Diegans chitter and fawn over the first rain after Christmas annually when, in fact, every year it is sunny on Christmas and every year it rains on my birthday just two days later and no one wants to hang out and I watch my dreams wash down the gutter along with my youth…
I need only drop my handbag in the seasonal puddle that ebbs from the floor in my leaky convertible to know how deep in denial I am about the weather. Actually, now it’s more of a pond because recently thieves slashed my soft top. I haven’t finished fixing it but I kinda stitched it up; I am pretty proud of myself. Not sure how to make it waterproof just yet. I’m thinking a patch that looks like a band-aid to really give that pathetic-yet-cute feel.
Sometimes I draw comic-y stuff.
When it mists lightlysprinkles “rains,” few San Diegans venture into the bars and their ill-equipped smoking patios. I seriously love First on Fifth for being liveable when it’s wet out. Though I will never order a Dos Equis there again.
So, for this reason among many, I’m collecting together a nightlife guide that makes it worth it to lace on your boots and brave the broken flooded streets for the next couple of months. But it’s still totally sunny right now. Booyah. Eat that winter.
Let me know if you’re interested and I’ll send you the Survival Guide ASAP. Or like, just write you an informal message with awesome weekend ideas since I don’t have a swanky newsletter or anything. Tourists, go party Downtown or something; this isn’t for you.