Map of Hillcrest – San Diego’s “Den of Sin”

My friend hunched over someone’s iPhone. “Drag Queen Fight Dinner Theater,” he said, and laughed. I thought maybe they were watching another La Fuente brawl video. I haven’t been to La Fuente since I ordered an enchilada and got a sauce-drizzled lukewarm tortilla wrapped around dry, unmelted, shredded cheese. I was not drunk, so this was not tasty. But when I was there awhile back I watched one queen push another hard enough to fall — which isn’t saying much as they were both wearing heels taller than mine.

He started naming other places. “Babycakes. Church of the Holy Tank Top.” They were looking at a map of Hillcrest. “Let me see,” I edged in, close.

This map was hard to find the next day until I typed “Hillcrest map gay” into the Google. Click for full res. Or view original source here, on Facebook.

“Gossip Gril is Vagina Stronghold?” I said, unimpressed. “More like where I go to remember I hate lesbians and cigarettes.” My friend replied, “That’s where I go to remember I love lesbians and cigarettes.” I laughed.

Cursory stalking suggests Raanan Rosenfeld is indeed a gay man, which might explain this marker on the map he created. I’ve noticed that the kinds of gay men I meet at bars (read: soused) get this mentality of women as walking breasts and vaginas. This is not unlike the inebriated straight men I meet. Though while both groups are thinking, “Yay boobs; omigod I love boobs,” the former either say or imply eww in the direction of my genitals. Once, at Flick’s, a man cooed at me. “Oooooh,” he palmed my crotch, “What chu got down there, honey?” I made this face:

Hi, do I know you, crotch-grabber?

I think he assumed I was straight, so in his mind I deserved a bit of light harassing for coming into his boy bar. I’ve noticed gay men like to test people who enter LGBT spaces. I’ve watched many a straight man be forced to play gay chicken. It’s amusing when it’s not me. Misdirected passive-aggressiveness aside, I love these dens of sin.

Rosenfeld totally missed #1 on Fifth, and I think “Mama Testa. Perverted Tacos.” is a bit of an intellectual shortcut. Still I have to agree with “Shitshow Strip.” So please check out his graphic designer page and be nice and stuff. I am well familiar with that strip of street and its jumbled boozy bodies – and the shouts of, “woo, party!”

My dog died this week, so I looked forward to “Ruining” my “Thursday Morning.” Not to say that I drink to grieve… Monday night Katelyn asked if I’d like to drink and I sullenly replied, “No. I don’t drink to deal with my problems. I drink to give myself problems.”

But by Wednesday I knew it was time for a Gay Gambit. First, go to Gossip Grill and stew in the haze of cigarettes on a cramped ribbon of patio. The trick is to order your drink first, then pass the token to a friend. If you order both drinks at the start, you’ll end up with two tall beers and two bright tokens. Then you’re trapped in a sapphic sardine tin for two drinks instead of just one.

Then graduate to Flick’s, where wells are $2 each. They’re plastic cocktails, so double-fist. I tip on every drink, and by the end of the night when I’m expecting a flimsy screwdriver the bartender hands me a real glass, complete with cherry. I end up over-drinking. Sometimes it hurts your liver to be a regular.

Finally, the gambit ends at Rich’s. It’s the only Rich’s night without cover. I walk the club, determined to prove I am still in control, still able to march without stumbling. Everyone around me is dancing-off the cheap booze they drank for Welfare Wednesday. I think I drank too much, because I woke up in bed at 6am still wearing my jacket and purse…

5 Levels of Hungover

Sometimes a fat grin streaks across my face at the thought that I default to “happy.” My depression has only been in remission for about two years, and I’m still incredulous. I think I try to kill off all this bliss with alcohol. I’m just not used to it.

"Guys, we won't get drunk if we drink tiny beers."

“Guys, we won’t get hangovers if we drink tiny beers.”

When I was still recovering from my depression, I used a 10 finger system to indicate my emotional stability to my dad. 10 fingers would represent the kind of happiness my Pollyanna mother achieves daily. 1 signified abject misery. He’d hold up his fingers and I’d mirror with mine less a digit or two, and he wouldn’t have to ask me how I was doing. That question was met with a blank stare, a grunt, a painful sigh. I rarely presented above a 5.

So, without further ado, let me present my 5 levels of hungover:

5 Fingers – Not too bad, not too good

Bleh. Everything is Bleh. I think I used up all my dopamine last night. After a cold root beer I’m mostly healed.

4 Fingers – I feel blue, but I cling to a shred of optimism

I pick through boxes of microwave meals and look for something with a high caloric content, like pizza. I need something fatty to absorb my suffering.

3 Fingers – My happiness was a red balloon and it escaped into the endless sky

This one lingers, even past dinnertime. It’s almost enjoyable, because it gives me an excuse to complain all day. I tell everyone I see that I’m hungover. PITY ME.

2 Fingers – I wish I could sleep all day, but I’m in too much pain to sleep

I’m so desperate for relief that I resort to watching television. But then everything is too loud so I sit in a dark room. Everything is too dark so I move to a dimly lit room. My blood is uncomfortable.

1 Finger – Suicidal

I keep a running monologue in my mind to distract me from the horrible feeling that my organs will slide out of my body. I can’t even choke down mac n’ cheese, so I sip a can of Jumex (25% juice, 75% sugar water) and contemplate sobbing. But that’s too much effort and requires too much liquid that I don’t have in my dried up face so I stare stoically at the cluttered coffee table and feel sorry for myself.

Hangover cure: beer and mayo. 1. Put the mayonaise in the pantry. 2. Drink a beer. When I bought these, just these, the cashier told me, “I think you’re the winner.”

So I wake up with yet another hangover and wonder why I do this to myself. It’s not just about having fun. I was having fun at swig three. I didn’t need to polish off that pint of Jim Beam (don’t worry, I had helpers). I really do think I need the hangover in a way. It helps me remember the sadness buried under the fog of memory, and continue to value the happiness that I have earned. In other words, life is pretty great if the worst thing I have to deal with are my gnarly hangovers.

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I’m Gonna Pop Some Tags

Let me just preface this by saying no one in San Diego says “thrift shop.” It’s thrift store, Macklemore. Another thing wrong with that song: you won’t get leopard mink for 99 cents unless it truly is drenched in urine. But I gotta love that he’s singing about popping tags instead of bottles. It’s true, one of the joys of coming home with a haul is popping off the tags and getting a second look at those low-low prices.

I tap a yardstick against the wall. The vase is almost as big around as the circle I can make with my arms, but we had just measured its narrow opening. The hole is the right diameter, maybe too snug. But at $20, it’s too much to spend on something used and scratched. I’m annoyed with the pricing. I can tell Katelyn really wants the thing.

Everyone is your friend when you wear these sparkle dresses to the club.

Erratic pricing is common in almost every thrift store I encounter in San Diego. A lovely peacock-patterned dress sat in St. Vincent de Paul’s for at least a month under a $50 tag because someone saw the original price. It might still be there. Meanwhile I snagged a pristine Betsey Johnson frock for less than $5. I guess it’s difficult to properly value trash that may be treasure. Or, just maybe, the volunteers / minimum wagers who sit in the back room and staple tags directly to garments (and to nylon thigh highs!!) just guesstimate with no supervision.

Weighing price against value is the primary skill to develop when thrifting. Do I like this shirt? Yes? Do I like it 7 dollars worth and knowing I have to find a replacement button? No. I used to go home with a pile of rubbish, or at least clothing that is difficult to absorb into my existing wardrobe. Now my collection is so large I can find a way to wear a pair of tights with tigers on the calves.

I still thrift primarily to impress people at parties. I try to be selective, but having a conversation starter is more valuable to me than closet and floor space. I have a silver sequined skater dress (Ross, $20, a gift) and a gold sequined skater dress (McAllister’s, $3). And if I found a black one for under $10 I’d buy that too.

The part where the upper of the pump touches your heel/ankle is called the counter.

There’s a part of the shoe called the shank! This is exciting.

I’ve sort of developed a strategy for getting through thrift stores quickly and without “splurging” too much. If my thrifting partner is easily bored, I’ll want to have at least examined the necessities — so first I beeline for the shoes. I stalk down every aisle, scanning with a jittery gaze. Pumps are easy to score because I wear size 8s. For a $3 pair of skyscrapers, I’ll jam my toes into a size 7.5 and drink until I can’t feel them. Looser heels can be made to fit with gel inserts; one is placed in the ball of the foot, and one is cut into strips to adhere to the inside of the counter (see diagram).

Next, lately, I hunt for leather in the outwear section. I’m looking for something amazing, something I’m willing to drop $30 or even $40 to own. Recently I acquired a black plether member’s-only jacket for $5. It will tide me over, but is already missing buttons.

If you really want attention for pennies, look for a ridiculous t-shirt. Since I’m lucky enough to fit into a Juniors medium or small, I shop in the boy’s section. Items of that size are misplaced there and/or boys have cool shirts. I scored both Lady Gaga and Miley Cyrus concert tees on the same day, for less than 50 cents each after discounts. I thought maybe I could turn little boy shirts into crop tops, but I ruined one with sloppy scissor work. For 70 cents it was worth the experiment. Maybe I’ll find a way to save Mr. Kitty with Laser Beams Coming out of his Eyes.

Finally, I weave through the rest of the store before heading to checkout. By now I’m too eager to move on to the next store to waste my money on anything else unless it is extraordinary, like wheels I can attach to my shoes... Old Sami would have bought the Coach leather satchel for $17. New Sami didn’t because the bronze fittings don’t match her larger Coach messenger bag of the same style, the stitching on the handle seemed less than perfect, and she was thirsty and too impatient to make a $17 decision.

We’re at the large purple vase again. Katelyn is on her haunches, deciding. I want to tell her to buy it. I see the defeated look start to creep into her eyes. But $20 is not justifiable. “Manager Special” we hear come over the PA, “now all tags are half off. All colors of tags are half off, except furniture.” $10? Sold.

We get an opportunity to use the vase at a party that same week. One of Katelyn’s many hookah stems fits snug in the vase. She already had a matching purple hose. Filled with water, large as it is, the vase is heavy and stable. It looks like the caterpillar’s pipe and I’m Alice in Wonderland.

Katelyn's planning to use this purple vase with her 3 hose hookah next.

Katelyn’s planning to use this purple vase with her 3 hose pipe!

How to Use a Safe Word

If your Designated Driver is also sometimes referred to as The Handler, you need a situational safe word. You may also be interested if:

You or another person in your party of party-goers does not respond to “Stop it. Seriously stop. Stop. Stop. STOP.”
Your wingman or wingwoman is too friendly to people you can tell will be trouble.
You have an ongoing relationship with someone who likes to tease you so much that you can’t be sure if Wednesday got removed from the calendar or maybe you just ate too many brownies.

I’m not talking 50 Shades of Gray, safe words here (surprisingly, the amateur soft-porn pretending-to-be kinky writer E. L James does sprinkle in the use of standard s-words ‘yellow’ and ‘red’). No, a situational safe word is a previously agreed-upon term that, once uttered, establishes I’m done here and I’m serious. No more party for you.

There's no real safe word generator as far as I can tell, but using this tool on the "somewhat Uncommon" setting is fairly effective and sometimes hilarious.

There’s no real safe word generator as far as I can tell, but using this tool on the “Somewhat Uncommon” setting is fairly comical. Get started with your own situational safe word today! Or just use White House.

Ours is “White House.” Used in a sentence: “You were a monster last night. First you got bear arm, then I had to White House you.”

We obtained the term from two very good friends with very colorful hair. At least one of these women gets punchy when she’s had too many martinis and I witnessed the two words calm her like a tranquilizer dart. Yep, I was definitely going to steal that strategy.

For example, two boys offer to buy us bottle service. Katelyn is thinking, “ooh, free alcohol!” I’m thinking that these kinds of things are never free. We hold a retainer, discuss the pros and cons, but finally, I have to do it. White House. We walk away and I don’t have to spend the night fending off make-out attempts while guiltily sipping from a vodka cranberry.

That is merely a concise illustration and is 100% unrealistic because I would never turn down free alcohol and I’m a champ at turning down make-out attempts.

This is what happens when you tell your friends that all you want is sour cream.

Last week I woke up, said “sour cream” and giggled. Hazy memories teased me and I spent about 15 minutes trying to figure out if I had only dreamt of clutching a soft stuffed-animal to my chest before passing out drunk.

Katelyn and I reviewed the night. Did we get mexican food? Of course we did, that is when Drunk-Sami started shouting SOUR CREAM. “But I don’t remember posting it on my facebook wall.” No, Katelyn did that as I slept. Right, so I palmed carne asada fries (with SOUR CREAM) into my face, then we went home and I dozed off?

Not quite.

Apparently I felt it hilarious and necessary to flail wildly after my friends strapped me into the passenger seat. “You threw that old big gulp against the window and got water everywhere. I had to White House you for the second time.” The…second…time?

Yep, I got the Cacao safe word from Portlandia. Click & scroll to watch episode clip.

The first time went largely ignored when she White Housed me for trying to smoke a cigarette. She had to ninja chop it out of my hands. Why did I neglect the sacred words? We figure it’s because she forgot to first use the “joke” safe word: Cacao. The joke safe word is intended to provide its target with the opportunity to cease offenses peaceably without escalating to code White House. It’s also great for tickle fights. We also realized, after analyzing the SOUR CREAM night, that Cacao is essential to the efficacy of White House. Just as yellow always precedes red, you kind of need to give Drunkee McGee a chance to slow down.

We got home without further incident. I don’t even think I shouted “woooh, party!” out the windows at pedestrians like I usually do. I took off all my clothes at the foot of the bed (which is unusual as I usually sleep in at least a t-shirt). I went to the bathroom, then lied in bed. Then I got out of bed and curled up on the floor. I started to whimper.

“Here, take this,” Katelyn said. “Fluffy bear got me through a lot of hard times, too.”

LGBT Art Exhibition

I will be performing at the Lambda Archives for the Queer Artists Project on March 15th. My performance will start around 8pm.

Friday, March 15th | 8pm | Facebook Event

I’m imagining building a fort and plastering it with No Trespassing tape. Behind my baricade, I calmly target the audience with a mic and a video camera. Isolated sounds float disembodied through speakers and the images I gather project onto my body.

That’s what came to me last night after a brisk cold walk to the bar from my car.

I think I want to comment on the appropriation of gay culture by popular cultures.

This is my homage to Jeremy's style. It's amazing how hard it is to find sparkly mens spandex shorts on Polyvore -- that is, until you type in the word "fabulous."

This is my homage to Jay’s style. It’s amazing how hard it is to find sparkly men’s spandex shorts on Polyvore — that is, until you type in the word “fabulous.”

A friend of mine adorns himself with glitter and nailpolish. He minces and flames. He’s 100% straight.

I adore these things about him. I pinned my rainbow button to his drowsy girlfriend’s sleeve as she sat in his lap. She is trying to explore her bisexuality – I wanted her to know that I see her. But also, in away, I wanted to say that I love and accept them from the bottom of my little gay heart.

Recently, however, I saw a picture of him with rainbow suspenders and I recoiled. I thought of the trendiness of swinging, straight couples hunting for that perfect bisexual woman who will love both of them in a harmonious triad, and 1-dick-per-relationship policies. I thought of dudes who ask me to sleep with their girlfriends, but insist that they at least be allowed to watch. It’s hardly a gracious offer.

Jay is not selfish or rude unlike some people who seem to forget what the word “lesbian” means. I’m ashamed that for even one second my brain wanted to connect the dots between him expressing himself and people who suck.

I don’t own all the rainbows and unicorns and I can’t deny the fun of a threesome that lines up perfectly with your expectations and fantasies. I know I am projecting my own fears and injuries. I think I am bitter. The collective pressure to submit to a normative sexuality, the times when I did submit, and (when I am angry and/or drunk enough to claim) that I was “collectively raped by society,” fill my mouth with pith and poison. I have taken man to access woman; why shouldn’t a straight pair do the same?

Here’s a drawing of Katelyn murdering a unicorn.

I gave myself the power of “no” too late in life. And so, when a man asks access to my body even after he knows I’m gay I feel forced to use my no. It feels less like a choice and more like a struggle. Years of all the unsaid NO gather in my fists and my eyes. They don’t know the implications of what they are asking. They haven’t studied the male gaze nor been pinned under it like a lizard under a curious child’s hands. Yet every time they ask (I’ll write a post someday about the frequency zomg) I’m hit by a truck.

There is a conversation. It is not that tourists and heteroregulars infiltrate our spaces, our bars, our clubs. We also invite them. I literally bring Straighty McStraight guys to my bars. Like some kind of sadist, I toss ’em in the sea of gay fish and the evil voice in my head says, “swim sucker! Dog paddle like I have to do every day of my life.”

I’m one of them lipstick lesbians or something.

I am only vindictive when I am weak. Really though, I need my rainbow-suspender-wearing friend. He is a pioneer in this conversation as much as any of us queermos. His choice of attire asks, “Will the straight community accept this?” and inversely, “Will the gay community let me borrow this?”

I’m a femme, so at first glance most men assume I want to bang ’em. Kidding, but many assume they even have a chance. I borrow femininity and receive invisibility. I access a “normal” that butch does not. I allow the assumptions and the lack thereof. I ask, “Will strangers accept my sexuality even if I do not perform under their expectations or stereotypes?” I ask myself “how much of this crap will I put up with before I out myself….?”

Yet I’m not femme because I want to be a pioneer. Like my friend I’m just trying to do what I want. We just freaking like nail polish. AND GLITTER. And extra vaginas for everybody to share. Being in this larger conversation about sexuality and freedom and agency feels less like a choice and more like a struggle. What is my responsibility, what is his?

So the video projects on my body, but I also select it. I target the audience, but they also see their image on my skin, can smile or frown, wave or duck. I allow, they infiltrate, and visa versa. That’s the idea with this project anyway. Thoughts?

The Right to Bear Arm

Ok, so one of my friends read my last post (Hooray! I have nice friends) and said,

“Sami, what in the hell is the bear arm. You can’t just drop something like that and not explain it. Also, kicky boots?”

Everyone seems to think I’m adorable. That does not mean my personality has to match.

I dressed in my Spyro the Dragon costume for a party in PB, so the fireball told me I had to drink it. In fact, the fireball taunted me for not thinking of bringing my own in the first place. I mean, come on, dragons drink fireball, not Jim Beam out of a paper bag.

I spent much of the night chatting up a pretty engineer. When it became apparent I wasn’t really her type, I released some of my angst by flinging myself violently around the stripper pole in the middle of the living room (I know two people who have these. Apparently they are good for exercise. Also, dragon rage). In a dizzy combination of glee and frustration, I stomped numbly to the sliding glass door.

Outside, redditor boys with creative costumes, attractive PB women, and the usual bros had been tossing the proverbial ping pong ball across a long table into little red cups. These, and empty cans, littered the surface before me. Most of the partiers faced away from the messy cluster, save three, including myself.

Step 1: Brandish arm with menace.

Katelyn told me later that she blamed what I was about to do on a hapless witness and I got off scott-free.

In one smooth series of motions I swiped my arm across the table, swiveled, re-entered through the glass slider, and closed the door behind me. Apparently the cans and empty cups scattered dramatically. Katelyn asked the sole other witness, “Why did you do that?” Everyone laughed at his expense.

The bear arm results from the potent combination of three things. Me, alcohol, and unrequited lust.

Step 2: Flail.

Kicky boots are more about a general taste for violence against inanimante objects, though alcohol is also involved. Unlike the bear arm, my need to apply shoe to object can come out of the innocent place of, “look, I kick things and physics happens!” But bear arm is immensely more satisfying.

Good Bear Arm Targets:

Empty cans
Empty cups
Curtains
A structure made of playing cards
Streamers
Doorway beads (sometimes)
Shrubbery

Bad Bear Arm Targets:

People
Full cups
Glass bottles
Cactus

So….yeah… bear arm. Good stuff.

“Hey stop staring! Haven’t you ever seen a dragon before?” – (me as) Spyro the Dragon

Why is San Diego so Boring?

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 such a dork. 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:

Surf
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…

A Maddening Manic Monday

Hey gang. Time for some real talk.

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.

My friend Xanadu said I look like a gay ghostbuster :D

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.

When it Sprinkles it Pours

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" - Does anyone actually say that?

“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.

I don't always order Dos Equis....but when I do I get charged 6 freaking dollars

Sometimes I draw comic-y stuff.

When it ~~mists lightly~~ ~~sprinkles~~ “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.

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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.

Next week’s post won’t be so topical!

San Diego Survival Guide

Sami navigates and examines being young, gay, and weird in San Diego. Updates (every other) Taco Tuesday. Now with more activism.

Map of Hillcrest – San Diego’s “Den of Sin”

5 Levels of Hungover

5 Fingers – Not too bad, not too good

4 Fingers – I feel blue, but I cling to a shred of optimism

3 Fingers – My happiness was a red balloon and it escaped into the endless sky

2 Fingers – I wish I could sleep all day, but I’m in too much pain to sleep

1 Finger – Suicidal

Thank you for your response. ✨

I’m Gonna Pop Some Tags

How to Use a Safe Word

The Right to Bear Arm

Why is San Diego so Boring?

A Maddening Manic Monday

When it Sprinkles it Pours

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