I love tourists

I love tourists. (And transplants.) Granted, sometimes it’s a “kids say the darnedest things” kind of affection. I used to work at SeaWorld, and I won’t repeat his words here, but let’s just say a man from a small town in Oregon who was overwhelmed by the “diversity” taught me there are racist words that I didn’t know about.

He’s not the kind of tourist I love. Nor the ones who unknowingly starred in my daily comedy show: I watched seagulls dive-bomb trays of french fries as soon as the hungry guests emerged from Mama Stella’s. No, I value the people who remind me what’s good about this place. I mean, besides the weather. This weekend I met a woman from Chicago who awed at the mountains, and yes they were very effective at blocking my cell reception but I stopped cursing T-mobile and also spun in a slow circle. Ok, yes, I’m looking at them. Wow.

And every place has its own brand of localism, but ours is particularly bullheaded. Families sit behind property taxes like they earned the right to live here, passing down houses for generations. What they don’t know is that the transplants are saving this town. Because while we’re the last idiotic stand against all that is good and liberal in California, we have an ironic patience for tourists. Newcomers are weirdos. But we’re oblivious, too complacent and courteous to offer anything but smiles and averted gazes.

It is when I’m at a writing night, or in a art group, that people are surprised that I’m a local, like I’m some kind of rarity. Locals might create these spaces, but the transplants flock to them. They are still hungry for controversy, they still remember what it’s like to wear galoshes because you need them, not because they are covered in zebra stripes and match your fuzzy animal print coat…. Waterproof shoes are rad, why did no one tell me this? I stood in a creek! And my feet didn’t get wet!

The kind of tourist I love shakes his head at me, asks me how I can be okay with this, reminds me there is a larger world out there. The kind of tourist I love tells me I can retire here but I need to get out at some point. The kind of tourist I love, though, has to admit the chaparral here could inspire Dr. Seuss and this place is pretty great, underneath it all. And it’s getting greater.

Beer. Obviously.
The food trucks are multiplying.
So Say We All
A new haunted house
…and more of course!

P.S. yes, I know I missed my post last week. I was preparing for a large camping festival, and yes it was lovely, and no I won’t write about it in my public-facing blog. I love you tourists, but that one isn’t for you.

Unrelated journal entry & I went to a Goth Club in LA (predictably, somewhat of a disaster)

I’m struggling to write something Survival Guide appropriate. I could relate my venture to Los Angeles, where I went to the wrong Goth club, spent too long in Hollywood traffic, went to the right Goth club, dropped my lover in a fountain, and spent 3 hours going up and down Sepulveda Blvd trying to get to a hotel room that never was.

I could give the diary entry that followed that night, but to be honest it’s too dark. Maybe it was the Goths, or maybe it was because a San Diegan in LA with only scraps for a plan and too much whiskey is destined for shame, baby. Oh, lord, haha my shame.

Because I don’t want to disappoint anyone who may be keeping track of the fact I promise new content every Thursday night (tricked you today by posting last week’s work to Facebook!) I’ll give a more innocuous diary entry. I thought this one was appropriate because I refer to my “audience” a.k.a. my friends <3

Also… 91 degrees — that was in September! Yesterday, I learned that what I have been experiencing this week in the form of “weather” is called, “blustery” and that some ~~masochists~~ people out there enjoy it.

Welcome to Sami Brain:

9/8/13

My face catches, little gestures of sadness, unfinished frowns. Lately. I’m grieved that I spend no time on my book, grieved that I have no discipline. I have nothing to say. When will the words come pouring out? I can draw myself puking black but it doesn’t make it so.

I’m stretched. So thin. I don’t know who I am. I can borrow other people’s words. Gather them in a little brown book. Publish them to twitter. I can become a filter for the firehose. That’s all anyone every wants these days. Discernment.

How do I produce reliable opinions on subjects? Are all prophets just bullshitters? I stared at my words written in red ink, and I didn’t recognize them, just as I didn’t recognize my face in the mirror when I was young and concrete was so cold it ached inside your lungs are fibers* your bones are glass.

If only, if only, I can become such a celebrity that people will want to read my diary. Then, maybe I am being productive. Gathering a fan club, generating mythos, larger than my ego, 50 feet tall, a giraffe of a girl. I will be so desirable, you will all read my diary. Whatever I write, you’ll eat it up like I eat pussy. It’s not that I want people to worship me, it’s that I’m lazy. I prefer to craft my audience to my existence than my writing to an audience. Love me as I am and let me be as slowly and lightly as I like. I don’t want to filter my firehose.

Anyone reading this would add so much more melodrama than I actually feel. I am just a little tired, a little hungry, a little naked and bored. My insides are immovable and I won’t feel better until the rocks come out of me. Stress and fucking, I suppose. I don’t think it was the cheap food. I feel instead pounded like a slug of clay into a hard lump.

I’m so close to the finish line. I am chewing on ambition like an overworked piece of meat that I’ll never be able to swallow. My mother will offer her hand (to me, as a toddler) and I’ll spit out the soggy, heavy chunk.

*Reference to a poem I wrote in 2008 or 2009. I’m not sharing the whole thing because I’m pretty sure the only people who like poems are people who write them, and then, only their own poems. When I read my own poems I am convinced I am a genius, and when I read other people’s poems (except Matt Steele’s or Rachel Dexter’s) I am pretty sure they are talentless puffs of cotton candy or that I am an asshole who doesn’t appreciate poetry.

Anyway, since you’re not living inside of me with me, and you can’t read my mind, you might benefit from a little context. Here’s the excerpt:

this slick demon
sucked air from my
tiny fibers were my lungs
scrambling like fingers toward a pale

It goes on, and basically it means I should have listened to the doubts telling me to dump my boyfriend.

How to Spike Your Shoes + a Tale of Violence

If you came here from the google and just want the tutorial for how to make spiky shoes without using goddamn power tools, jump here.

I have mixed feelings about my interest in fashion… in that I know it’s incredibly shallow at times but I’m not a moralist so I know I don’t really need to make an arbitrary value judgement about being shallow.

If I am going to justify my interest in fashion, which is mostly an obsession with shoes, I will say…Jeffrey Campbells kick ass. At least when they are on my feet they do.

I went to my friend Mindy’s going-away party (sniff, we will miss you Mindy). It is probably the last time I’ll see her apartment, which I will also miss, sliced in above a Thai restaurant in Hilcrest. I took my gas mask photo there for her Apocalypse rager.

I wanted to impress Mindy because she is stylish and has an adorable laugh, so I wore these boots of kicking and stomping:

jeffrey-campbell-spike-black-wood-quilt

I was having a pretty good time until some misogynistic monster told the story of forcing an underage girl to walk home with jizz in her hair. Even in his account, she very clearly said not to do that, but he thinks no means yes and he even rubbed it in for her. This guy was basically who everyone thinks Tucker Max is, but actually an asshole. I mean, so is Tucker, but he knows he is. This monster I met last weekend pretends to be self-deprecating as an excuse to tell stories for attention in which he is always the hero and women are unfortunate victims. Because, you know, sorry, that’s just how men are lol haha what-a-riot no fuck you.

“I bet she’s traumatized for life,” I said.

I was possibly also cranky because I was sober. I’ve been trying to be nicer to my liver. Aside: I have been really hungry lately and I realized it is because I’m consuming less liquid calories.

By about 2am I’d ironed out most of my crankiness talking to a new friend on the couch about his job at Alesmith and how I really ought to give the new Skrillex album a chance. I mean normally I would be like oh no, sir, my DJ friends told me never to Skrillex but this guy could make even Skrillex sound appealing, is what I’m saying.

I was quite enjoying the conversation when a new guy walked into the party with his dudes, put on Bubble Butt by Major laser, and asked me to dance.

“I’d rather not,” I said, and my Alesmith friend waved his hands, no thank you. Bubble Butt said if we refused him, he’d shake his bubble butt in our faces.

Now I’m no stranger to butts in my face, but I don’t like stranger butts in my face, and this guy didn’t even know my name. I mean, please, people, don’t put your butts near my body parts without a proper introduction! I raised my right foot high, a clear message, I thought, that if he proceeded with shaking his bum-bum near my nose, it would only meet boot.

Yeah, I shoved him with my shoe, pretty hard. Then I caught Katelyn’s eye and we high-tailed it outta there. My only regret is that I didn’t stay long enough to say, “Oh, I’m sorry, are you butt-hurt?”

I immediately scored two new pairs of Jeffery Campbells at the PB Buffalo Exchange. For my protection. Against butts.

jeffrey-campbell-usa-americano-damsel-paint-white-lita

DIY Easy Spiked/Studded Heels

These are pretty quick to make. I finished mine in the commercial breaks between watching Breaking Bad. Did you see the last episode? Holy fuck, what a phone call.

You’ll need…

Screw-on spikes. Spikes are expensive. Try Amazon, maybe. Mine are like these.
An awl. To avoid using power tools, we’ll make the holes by hand. So keep that in mind when picking the shoes – are you strong enough to stab ’em? I got one from ~~Ace Hardware~~ San Carlos Hardware for $4
A screwdriver with a plastic handle
Shoes. If you want to do pumps like me, you’ll need to choose a pair with a seam down the back, because I am not strong enough to stab through 12 layers of plastic/fabric/plether/suede/whatever-the-fuck so I’ll just go in-between the stitches
Maybe some super glue
Maybe like some felt dots or something

One

Pour whiskey over ice and splash some sours or ginger beer or nothing on it. This is always step one why do I even have to remind you??

Two

Take a good look at the shoes and plan where you’re going to place the spikes. I opted to go in between the seams, with 4 spikes in each shoe. Space between them makes them look more menacing. I didn’t need to mark my holes, because I can count stitches relatively well, but if you need to do that probably some white out or a pencil, right?

Three

Place the tip of the awl in between the seams from the outside of the shoe. Place the plastic handle of the screwdriver inside the shoe, and use it to help you make a clean hole without denting the shoe and also so you don’t stab yourself. Go slow so you don’t break the stitches, and push inward with the awl while twisting. Like you are killing something through its eye-socket and you want it to suffer.

If you do break a stitch, you can be paranoid and put a drop of super glue on it though I’m pretty sure the screwed-on spike will hold everything together.

Four

Screw that spike on. Do I really have to explain this? Tighten it with the screwdriver, too.

Five?

The way my particular shoes fit, I can’t even feel the screws, but if they rub on your feet in an uncomfortable way you could try a felt dot or a piece you cut from a gel insert to add space between your precious foot and the screw. Or you could just suffer for fashion like everyone else, duh.

San Diego on Smartphone

I have become a tourist in my own town.

I knew I was on the path to this. Start a blog about San Diego. Start paying attention to San Diego. Why don’t I just start a San Diego fan club?

No. I hate this place, remember?

But now I have a nice camera in my pocket at all times. I’ve been starting to notice that places are beautiful. I’ve been starting to take picturesque landscapes of the shoreline. Who am I?

Or just pictures of half eaten tacos. By the way, this was a stunning fish taco. (OB Pier)

I am Sami 2.0. I am evolved. I am smartphone.

Late at night I poke my thoughts into a 5.41 x 2.69 x 0.37 inch glass and aluminum and plastic box.

“I am now learning from my magical endless home screen that if I want something explained to me like I’m a dumbass, go to Huffington post. Huffington post now relegated to my ‘after 1am feed'”

I show my friends things they already know. “Look, I can just talk into it, and it becomes a text message.” Yes, we know, Sami. Our iPhones have been doing this for years. This is what it is like writing a blog about San Diego, to San Diegans. They all have a vague sense that they already know what I’m telling them, but they endure me because they like me or maybe just because I’m pretty.

“I can feel myself getting smarter. The singularity is near.”

I’m relentless. I won’t stop. The smartphone eats my dreams. I don’t need to sleep. I have 7 years of technology to absorb.

“Flow (SwiftKey) should have a drunk sami mode. If it weren’t so goddamn noisy in this bar I’d yell at the microphone thingie.”

Every pretty thought is a potential status update. Every interesting encounter, a photo opportunity. I am now taking a LOT of pictures of lizards.

Pet Kingdom is my favorite zoo in San Diego and yes that is a real alive lizard.

Pet Kingdom is my favorite fish/reptile store in San Diego and yes that is a real alive lizard.

“LTE is a lie.”

(Well, Tmobile LTE is a lie. My friend with Verizon informs me that his network is shiny and perfect nyah nyah.)

Smartphone isn’t all joy and wonder. I find myself getting angry with less than perfection. Smartphone severely disappoints me. The future was supposed to be limitless! Why wont it share my 3rd party contacts with 3rd party apps? Why does it prioritize the LTE network (0 bars) when there are perfectly well-functioning 2G or 4G networks nearby? Why do I live in a hobbit hole in La Mesa?

“Smartphone is crawling into my psyche. Head explodes with thoughts as soon as it hits the pillow. Resorted to half a xanax, sublingually.”

Yeah, anyway, I am going to be weird ’til I figure out all this new technology.

Is San Diego Really Boring?

San Diego Survival Guide just hit its 6 monthiversary. Yup, that means I’ve made about 24 regular weekly posts (mostly on time, too). I’ve been thinking about what I’m doing with this blog, and my relationship with this city.

In college I sustained a group created by Robert Turner and Grace Nam, in which we made an effort to go out exploring almost every Thursday night (…hey that’s when this blog updates). We took turns leading adventures, burning mixed CDs, and sharing adventurous spots in San Diego. We made a night of surveying pedestrian suspension bridges (there were three). We looked at the topiaries off vine street. We climbed the Secret Stairs of La Mesa. We went to a steel bridge in Jamul because it looked cool on Google Earth.

A blurry nighttime photo of the Secret Stairs of La Mesa

In the past two years, I’ve made going out part of my regular schedule. Katelyn and I get cabin fever because our hobbit-hole apartment has low ceilings and our third roommate is her extensive hookah collection, which really doesn’t leave much room for us… Really, it is all of her research and voracious appetite to get out of the house that I have to thank for my knowledge of places, events, subcultures and what’s happening right now in the city.

So, I feel more focused than most on discovering the truly interesting parts of SD and analyzing its culture. Most people living here are transplants, lost in a sea of tourist traps. The locals that remain are either jaded and fantasize about leaving, or they are comfortable, heavy with their habits.

This town is uniquely apathetic in a glossy-eyed, vacationer-sucking-on-a-Mai-Tai kind of way. We just don’t care, and while this may make us seem culture-less and unambitious, we also are strangely accepting of weirdos. This is where the subcultures have room to flourish. Punks throw subterranean rock shows, burners dance naked in large suburban backyards, polyamorous lovers gather in gigantic cuddle puddles, kinky kids suspend their wives from rafters.

When I started the Guide, I envisioned a personal blog which would examine my life’s intersection with the SD underground. I’d gather email addresses and beacon out parties to the people. I’ve found, however, that I am protective of the secret places and secret societies. I want the world to know they exist, but only the worthy to find them.

The truth is, this Guide is still very necessary. Yes, when I first did a Google Trends analysis on “San Diego nightlife,” my heart sank.

The golden years seemed to be 2004 and before. Had I missed my chance? Was I wasting my efforts on non-“trending” topic?

But, no, this is only further evidence that the few young and exciting people out there need help. We’re the last fun warriors. We are in survival mode.

So many people find my blog because they search “Why is San Diego so boring?” or some variation thereof. There’s bored people out there hungry for something real, something exciting, something fun… or just pizza.

Also one lonely person found my blog by typing “baptism vagina” in the Google. I don’t even…

I know there’s plenty to do, I know there’s stunning and quirky and intelligent and sexy people in this city. I am making it my mission to connect these people together.

Soon, I’ll get my first smart phone and I’ll take care of my more casual visitors by posting pictures and short reviews when I’m out at my favorite late-night establishments to this blog and/or my facebook page. I may be very drunk. There may be selfies.

Next, I’m gathering an army of survivalists and I need your help. If you have interest in being part of the movement, put your facebook profile link in the box below, and we’ll form a group (and I’ll add you as my friend). I’ll be working with local business owner and my good friend “Keshet” to set up parties with all sorts of crazy bad stuff and alcohol, and more alcohol, and unlike the other guys out there, there’s no way we’re charging cover. Here’s a teaser picture:

gaga-sunset-temple

Fill out the form if you want to help me throw parties…

Go back

Your message has been sent

I’m pretty excited. But also I made this today and it makes me happy:

animalshurtingsmallchildren.tumblr.com lol

AnimalsHurtingSmallChildren.tumblr.com … I have problems.

What to do when your wallet is stolen

If you’re here from the Google and just want step by steps for what to do when your wallet is stolen, skip to that part of the post here.

Remember how I said I wanted a trainwreck date? I think maybe I’m the trainwreck date. If I had any shame, I would have been asking myself what I could have done differently, what went wrong, how this could have happened….

New rule: avoid hardwood floors as a surface for sex.

Of course, I’m now only physically battered (hardwood floors) and the emotional bruising has healed. But when I checked my bank account Monday and discovered my wallet was stolen I wasn’t sure if I felt more like a victim of crime or a victim of my hangover. It’s hard to distinguish despondency from the rotten feeling in my insides after one rum pineapple, two Long Beach Iced Teas, and one Audios Mother Fucker.

New rule: don’t drink anything blue.

I wish I could say all that drinking fogged my memory, but it did not. I remember very clearly turning into an annoying foam troll, scooping up bubbles and blowing them at angry people. Now I realize they didn’t want soap in their drinks, but at the time they just seemed to be enemies of fun. When a woman said to me, “Do you not SEE this?” indicating the phone and pack of cigs she held aloft the bubbles like Simba over the Serengeti, I replied, “Do you not SEE that you’re already elbow deep in bubbles?” My date thought I was fiery or something. I am just embarrassed.

New rule: stay out of the foam pit.

Anyway, when your wallet is stolen, you are going to be making TONS of phone calls.

Call your bank and cancel your card(s).
Call the police (look up the local non-emergency number online and be prepared to leave a message).
Call the credit bureaus and set up a 90-day fraud alert.
Call an identity theft protection agency.
Call the DMV and set up an appointment for your replacement license.

Here’s how I handled it:

1. I called my bank.

My bank had already frozen my card, because apparently my purchasing habits algorithm conflicts with spending $25.19 at Taco Bell and then renting a hotel room. OK, first of all… TWENTY FIVE DOLLARS AT TACO BELL? I love taco bell but I don’t even know how to spend that much money there. Even the most decked out supreme crunchy space saucer wrap thing is less than 5 dollars. Either my crook had friends, or she bought two party packs and an XL Mountain Dew and contemplated her life choices over 24 tacos.

My pickpocket spent $25 on Taco Bell and rented a crappy hotel room, among other things. CRIME SPREE LOL.

My bank also transferred me to the identity theft protection service they offer, but I took down the number to call them back so I could think about my options.

2. And then I called the police.

It’s important to make an official report, because, hmm, I’m not sure why but it was pretty exciting to have the police calling me every couple of hours over 3 days trying to get through my wall of bad reception and general unavailability. Nothing makes my hair prickle quite like hearing “This is the San Diego Police Department calling for [my real name].”

3. I put up a fraud alert.

My bank instructed me to call the credit bureaus and put up a 90-day fraud alert. Equifax will notify Experian and Trans Union for you, so you only have to call the first one. I’m starting to feel like the person who stole my wallet was an opportunistic miscreant and not a skilled criminal, because it looks like she tried to buy something from Boost Mobile and frantically reversed the charges. Or maybe it’s some sort of off-the-grid cell phone trick only the pros know about. Anyway, the fraud alert will protect me from people trying to open up lines of credit in my name.

4. Should I sign up for identity theft protection?

Yes. Yes I should. The anxiety told me I have to do it, because people out there might try to personify me to uh….well…get into bars underage? Get speeding tickets under my name? Um. Not quite sure what they can do with my driver’s license but CNN tells me to be very afraid.

Anyway, it’s only $13 a month and I might as well try it for awhile.

5. This one’s IMPORTANT. Make an APPOINTMENT with the DMV

The Tuesday after Labor Day @ the DMV was a horde of sweating unhappy people. They spilled out of the overcrowded building onto the hot sidewalk. Oh no. Oh no, no, no, I thought, why did I think today would be a good day? Staff didn’t even try to harass me for bringing in my iced chai latte, which I’m pretty sure is verboten.

At 3pm I got through a 3 person line at window 22 to check in for my appointment. At 3:10pm I wandered back inside to look for a chair. At 3:20pm the woman who let me sit next to her gave me a murderous glance when my number was called. At 3:30pm I was back in my car with my temporary driver’s license, feeling like I had cheated at life.

So yeah, make an appointment in advance by calling the number on their website.

In conclusion…

All told, I’m not too shaken by this whole thing. All I really lost was the $30 cash and the cost for replacing my drivers license, as my bank should refund the charges. I amuse myself by thinking that someone out there got wasted in a hotel room full of gorditas.

OkCupid for friends and lovers – SD Survival Guide Critical Strategy and exposé

It’s not that San Diegans aren’t friendly. If I’m out at a bar, I need to just affect the breezy impermanence of a tourist at an ocean resort and feel quite comfortable talking to people. SDers are flakes anyway, so it’s quite safe to start conversations because, without considerable effort, you’ll never see these people again. Join the permanent vacation vibe.

But I’ll tell you what makes driving 15 minutes (every commute is exactly 15 minutes, right?) out to a bar alone, hunt down and panic my way into a parking spot, and pay for my own drink (the first one, anyway) worth it, and that is a gloriously awkward first OkCupid date.

mmm….options

And for all you non-single monogamous / polyfidelous / otherwise-not-available people out there… OkCupid dates start out 100% as friend dates, anyway. Sure I flirted with them online, but most people I meet are savvy to the “friend-date unless proven otherwise” rule. I’m sorry, there’s just no way of knowing you’ll crackle my thunder ’til I meet you under the literal firmament. So, not only do plenty of people use the service for “just friends” (it’s an option), OkCupid culture naturally supports friend dates.

I learned how to really appreciate the awkward first date after a bit of practice, and if you follow my strategies, I think you will, too. The key is to go on enough of them that it becomes almost routine. And I tell myself that one of these is going to turn into a great story. I’m still ready and waiting for my first Trainwreck Date.

Overview:

Write a smoldering profile…
…but don’t rely on it. Force yourself to send messages out.
Find that correspondence length sweet spot…
…but hurry to set a date.
Choose location wisely…
…and score a new friend/lover/significant other.

1. Profile Writing

Write your profile like an intimate letter, not a résumé. Here’s how mine opens:

I rewrote the bulk of this profile because I realized I misrepresented myself as responsible and organized. I can do responsible and organized, easy, but that’s not the kind of cupid I want shooting my arrows.

For some reason this picture gets me the most OkAction

I’m bragging right now, shamelessly, really…but I get a lot of messages (after this rewrite). And people tell me I’m a good writer and it makes me all happy on the inside of my body.

Anyway. I’ve learned that this is one of the few times where talking about what you are like and not what you do is probably more interesting (thanks fellow ‘Sam’ and OkCupid analyzer for that insight). Possibilities are more seductive than facts, and the romantic brain is an engine of imagination.

In other words, I deleted the part where I said I had a degree and a job yadda yadda and added this:

Yes and no are my greatest powers – and it feels like I always get what I want, now that I know what I want.

The goal is to just get all sparkly with your personality and show off what it would be like for them to have a conversation with you over a Sculpin.

The six things you could never do without

This is not the time for extreme literalism. No one thinks you are witty for being the 5,708th person who lists oxygen. This is time for hyperbole and passion and a little bit of adorable quirkiness. I included….

Seeing a non-human animal at least once a day

…amidst serious stuff like art, my brother, & a job that makes me feel valued.

You should message me if…

Steal this. Just steal it and put it at the very bottom. It gets me a ton of compliments, and even a few messages from shy people. It’s genius and I thought of it and I hope it goes viral:

*******
If you are shy on okCupid, just c&p this:

“Hi. I am really shy. I like your profile. Will you go look at mine and message me back if you are interested?”

2. & 3. Messaging & Maintenance

Facebook hack

You actually have a facebook email address. It’s [yourusername]@facebook.com. If you don’t have a fancy pants smartphone (ugh…) with like, app thingies, and you check facebook all the time, you can set up OkC to send messages there. Then just be sure to drag one of the notifications from your “Other” to your regular “Inbox” messages and you’ll have an extra reminder that attractive people want to talk to you. Kinda buggy, though.

Send messages!

Experiment with these numbers, but here are my benchmarks:

(When you first start out) Dedicate 1 night a week to seek new people and start 3 message threads. Each query ought to be a paragraph or two long. Show that you’ve read their profile. Lists can work well, i.e. “I think we should meet someday for these reasons…”
Find the comfort-zone of correspondence with each person. Generally I go for two volleys (I write two messages, they write two messages) before offering my number and a date, but sometimes three. Offering my number too quickly makes people think I am desperate and/or creepy and/or a robot and they ignore me and I cry. Offering too late… well I mean if you don’t take this seriously you are not going to make any friends and you will be lonely and boring and sad.
Don’t get caught up on % matches or profile details. People poorly represent themselves and also don’t know how to fill out quizzes (seriously y’all drive me insane) and only people equally as neurotic as me score a 99. Your goal should be to find people who seem to have some potential, you know, get the important stuff right, and hurry to actually MEET THEM. You really can’t know what someone is like ’till their face is three feet or less from your face.

The Follow-Up

There are two basic types, and they’re critical.

You let a thread die and stopped responding, or just never responded in the first place because you were waiting for a time when you were less drunk at 3am in the morning to think of something witty.
They let a thread die because you were too cranky / intimidating / boring / weird / they are such hotties their inbox is bursting with noise and they lost your diamond in the rough.

I like to get a little creative with these follow-ups, but the main goal is to give both parties the benefit of the doubt that messages aren’t perfect and everything still has the potential to be shiny.

Aww sorry I never got back to you. I didn’t get the butterfly connection at first and wondered what would make someone think of soft sweet jazzy pop from the 60s while reading my profile and was so despondent I got distracted.

Anyway I don’t normally ignore attractive PhD chasers with sharks on their heads and a 92% match score. How are you?

Again, it is IMPORTANT to follow-up with dead threads. If Katelyn never came back with her glorious witty comment, we’d never have met :( :( :( Good thing she is an OkC professional. I learned from the best!

[text removed for brevity – also her username is not xxxxxx…don’t even try]

5. It’s just a freaking internet date

You are meeting a stranger. Off the internet. You do not need to invest heavily in this date.

Good locations:

A dive or beer bar, like Bar Pink, Lancers, Small Bar, Tornados, Hoffers, Red Wing
A coffee shop e.g. Lestats, Filter, the Living Room
Mexican food. No? Haha. I’ve never done this, but if someone will agree to meet me for Mexican food, then I will like her already.
Somewhere you would go anyway, and you could run into friends, and seem all popular… such as Gossip Grill or The ~~Ruby Room~~ Merrow

Also, I am desirable and important, so I save my Fridays and Saturdays for old-friends-are-gold-friends and first dates get a weeknight. It is pretty embarrassing how often I’ve re-used the Taco Tuesday theme. (El Zarape for dollar fish tacos & the best green sauce you’ve ever tasted sober….and Lancers for a $6 Bloody Mary, poured heavy, with like 5 vegetables, and spicy like I like it.)

6. Results

Guys, I got Katelyn from OkCupid. Enough said. <3

Bonus section: Don’t be an idiot

Rejection

Please don’t tell someone you’re “just too busy.” That’s exactly the same as saying “Well if I was lame and didn’t have activities I would be desperate enough to hang out with you.” Obviously you have a profile and you’re looking for something. If you’re too busy to build friendships/relationships then disable that monster.

It is perfectly conventional to just ignore the first message if you’re not interested, and many people are okay with not following up after one boring date. I agree that blatant rejection hurts more than mysterious no-response. I do try to give closure to people I’ve met for a date whom I don’t feel particularly drawn to befriend or befuck, but damn it takes a lot of effort.

One last thing

This question KILLS me. Come on, San Diego.

–

….Aaaaaaaand now you know I spend way too much time on OkCupid. Seriously though, it’s one of the best ways to break into interesting friend niches in San Diego. Unless you want to be a redditor forever…

Pocket Cheese – Or How the Party Lifestyle Affects Your Diet

Sometimes the party lifestyle seeps into your every day; the clothes you wear…or don’t wear, the things you talk about…or try not to talk about, and the food you eat…and avoid.

I’m talking about pinching pennies for your booze fund. Katelyn and I discovered the best caloric value for your buck is this macaroni and cheese pizza they sell at the Grocery Outlet for $1. It’s what it sounds like: mac’n’cheese on a freaking pizza. It tastes as amazing as you’re imagining. You bake it and…. well, I put ketchup on it. I like ketchup on my mac because I’m five. And you eat half one of those and get like 500 calories for 50 cents.

Right, so we get home at 4am congratulating ourselves for avoiding the mexican $7 burritos/nachos/food-binge of doom and instead split the $1 mac’n’pizza and we’re satiated with the gluttony of cheese. Yes.

The other thing that happens when you’re eating and you’re partying (eat-party-eat-party) is that you don’t have time. After getting off work at 7 and taking your pre-party nap and laboring over your costume, there is no time for food. You can’t chop a salad, you can’t toast a sandwich and juice a carrot. You have to eat on the go. So we have this thing called “Pocket Cheese.”

Pocket Cheese was originally a piece of cheese, individually wrapped, that you stick in your pocket on your way out the door to eat later. (Or maybe you think you have clean pockets and it’s not wrapped, but, whatever…) Pocket Cheese has its setbacks. Katelyn stashed a piece, all ready to go, and we went to the liquor store to get our plastic-bottle of Ancient Age whiskey, a bag of ice, and a 2 liter of Coke. She went to pay and the cheese fell out of her pocket, onto the floor and weirded out our fellow shoppers.

Nowadays, Pocket Cheese is anything you eat, on the go, before the party. “Katelyn I’m goin’ in the fridge I need some Pocket Cheese.” Well, can’t do this fish taco, too saucy and cabbage-y to manage in a pocket. I went for the grapes. Grapes are now Pocket Cheese. I had those for dinner, then also beer. Beer is food. My brother told me it has the 13 essential vitamins and minerals. He eats two meals a day and Beer Meal (3-5 beers or two 40s), and he’s fit enough to play Ultimate Frisbee.

Anyway, life is good when you got your priorities in order.

By the way, y’all should admire this gem. Let me know if you find anything equally amazing about San Diego:

Last Friday a Stripper Bit Me

This is not my guide to enjoying Pacers. My guide to enjoying Pacers would go something like this:

Figure out how to get in free or at a reduced rate, such as a friend with free passes or a web promotion.
Bring cigarettes, extra if you actually smoke the things.
Bring women friends if possible.
Buy 9-dollar domestic draft pitchers (Miller lite or Coors lite or some other crap beer).
Sit on the adorable enclosed patio in the back and leave your cigarettes out on the table.
Inevitably, a stripper will ask for a smoke. This is her break, so don’t start shoving dollars in her underwear. Instead enjoy her company and the atmosphere. If you’re lucky, enjoy watching her flirt with your girlfriend.
Don’t sit and stare near the stage unless you have cash to throw on it. That’s just rude.

Anyway.

So, I carry around a little brown notebook, call it “Life Odes” written in large letters on the front. The first page is a sketch of a “Juicy Fruit” shaped lip balm, which I colored highlighter yellow. A few pages in you’ll find a lipstick kiss (my own) and a bucket list. The first entry is checked off: “stripper bites my vagina.” I had emphatically created this page to break the news to my friends; I threw down the open notebook on the table and slid into the booth.

Backtrack: We’d gone to Pacers for a fetish night, which seemed to be a regular Pacers night supplemented by a few kinky ‘performances’ and several well-undressed patrons. That is to say, the only way I could tell some of the attendees from the strippers was to look for their purses. Staff swept up dollar bills with a push mop to make way for an awkward latex fashion show. The seemingly unrehearsed women fell onto the stage like cattle out of a gate, and milled around without choreography in the slightest. I needed a drink.

(Of course, Rubber Doll did much better than the latex models. Her acts this night included pulling pom-poms out of a slit in the front of her nude-colored latex one-piece, shooting silly string from a Madonna-esque bra, and blasting sparks off a two foot steel rod she gracefully strapped in front of her hips. It all sounds silly, but there’s something delightfully radical about a woman spraying a predominately male audience with silly string, sparks, and other substances.)

Back to that drink I needed. My friend offered his tab; apparently he knows the owner and the whole bill would be comped at the end of the night. I didn’t hesitate, and ordered a shot of Jame-o and a whiskey coke to start. “Oh, and a White Russian.” The generosity didn’t end there. After I finished my drinks, my friend offered to buy me a lap dance. Perhaps because I had a good free buzz on (let’s admit it, free buzzes feel better than paid-for buzzes) and because I like new experiences, I accepted.

Our stripper didn’t quite understand the arrangement. In an accent not unlike Katya Kazanova’s she explained, “I do him; I get him started for you.” Perhaps she thought we meant to go in together, which I assume is against the rules. “No,” I said in her ear, “I don’t care if he gets off. I want you and he has the money.” Or, at least, this is how I paraphrased myself when my friend asked me later how I got her to cooperate. “I don’t know what you doing, girl,” she replied, “but keep doing it.”

She ousted another pair from the 3-walled leather cubicle, which I felt weird about for about 5 seconds, and sat my friend across from us in the opposite booth. Normally I might object to letting a guy watch me get tantalized by a woman in her panties, even if he did pay for the dance, but I like this guy. He threw up thumbs and grinned at me when I peeked past her shoulders.

I assume she did the usual lap dance-y things but my brain just likes to remember that she nibbled on my crotch. Yes, at some point she bent down and chewed on me through my red pants. Somebody told me later that they don’t usually do that. Well I figured as much! This was after she made out with me, her tongue whirling like a windmill. The only other person to kiss me like that admitted to a history of sex work; do they teach this at the Academy*?

“Hey Katelyn, want a stripper kiss?”

The stripper didn’t quite finish exploding my mind, because some musical cue scared her to the stage. I sat close and watched her dance. “Don’t fall in love,” my friend said. I laughed, but threw all my dollar bills at her.

Epilogue

I want to say I enjoyed the performances, went home, and slept well. I can’t. We stayed after closing for what I’ll call “amateur-hour.” The ‘amateurs,’ a.k.a. my friends, got their chance to jump-up on the stage and fling themselves around the pole. The owner’s wife gave me an iPhone and told me to take pictures of her. Maybe I just felt artistic but I stood up on a chair and took 237. Also later I hit people. Also later we went to my friend’s suite at the Hard Rock Hotel and gabbed ’til 7:30am.

Outgoing text, 3:49AM: What is my life I don’t even.. Just after-partied at the titty bar. Made out with a stripper, beat a boy with a belt, tied a girl to an X and spanked her

When I flopped into bed – after we closed the door to our windowless bedroom and put a towel at its base to block out the light – I moaned to Katelyn, “we are such irresponsible, bad, bad children.” Yet the next night I slapped my thighs and chanted, “Party party party!” So we did.

*Poor attempt at Firefly reference. I am finally watching it for the first time!

For more tales of my debauchery, attend my performance at the Whistle Stop Bar, Thursday May 30th, as part of the showcase, “America’s F*&$% City,” hosted by So Say We All. Link to facebook event.

When is it okay to come to her rescue?

First, can I just say I AM SO EXCITED for the new QOTSA album. I just checked my alternate email inbox and found a message marked Tue, May 7, 3:12 AM. Apparently I spent $51.43 on vinyl and a CD. It is the uber deluxe bestest vinyl version you can get and my favorite band, so I ain’t even mad that I broke my no-credit-cards-past-1am rule. Play their song “I Appear Missing” while you read, if you like, below.

I am working on a Pandora station called Everything Homme Touches. When that’s mashed into submission to my tastes, I’ll post it.

Anyway, I wanted to examine something that’s been bugging me; when is it okay or even necessary to interfere, and when do you let people handle themselves?

I mean, as a brassy extrovert who’s not afraid to tell people to get their balls off of me, sometimes I resent it when a lesbro gets over-protective. Pro-tip: pretending to be my “boyfriend” in order to “rescue” me from some asshat is going to annoy me almost as much as the dude telling me I’ve got pretty teeth 10 times in one night. Also, is that some sort of PUA thing? Teeth? I have little baby chompers and the dentists had to put gadgets in my mouth to make it bigger; I don’t really think my teeth are that impressive.

So, this guy I’ve met twice in the bar before — he’s from Detroit so I’d told him about this blog — came up to me and asked me to be his wingwoman. He indicated a woman I’d seen on the dance floor earlier, who actually binged my gaydar for a change (my gaydar is fairly silent and inobservant). She was standing with another young lady. “No, she’s not on your team,” I said. He insisted. “No. This is the wrong place,” we were at the Brass Rail, “and I am the wrong person,” I said. He went on a tangent and told me he has no trouble getting white chicks and won’t I please help him get this sexy black woman all the while hanging on my neck. “Seriously, I am the wrong person,” I said through my tiny teeth, a little bit of heat in my lungs.

He flew solo and persisted in pestering them. I didn’t know if I should walk up and say, “hey, this guy bothering you?” or let them take care of their own business, thank you very much. When do you reach out and when do you respect other people as capable adults? And how does alcohol change this? Worse, would they see me as another predator? Ultimately I decided their two to his one was sufficient and turned my back so my eyes would stop rolling.

Below is my breakdown of when I’d want someone to help me, where “you” could be a casual friend or a stranger. (Close friends would probably know me better and be able to do more.) It is assumed you see me in a basically one-on-one situation. Do you agree?

Leave me alone if:

You know I’m gay and a guy is potentially flirting with me, but I’m smiling, making eye contact with him, and/or touching his arm or shoulder (I might be enjoying the conversation)
Really, if anyone is talking to me and I’m smiling, making eye contact, and/or touching them
I’m arguing with someone but there’s zero physical contact and I am making eye contact with my opponent (I might be enjoying the argument)

Enter the conversation as a neutral third-party, but don’t confront anyone when:

You know I’m gay and it seems like a guy is hitting on me aggressively
(You don’t know I am gay but) you suspect that I’m not enjoying a guy hitting on me
You suspect that I’m not enjoying a woman hitting on me
I’m arguing with someone but I keep looking away, crossing my arms, turning my body away, and/or make repeated eye contact with you
The person I’m talking to seems like somewhat of a stranger to me and is considerably more drunk and/or being more familiar than me (I might want to be nice, but need help managing someone who is a little out of control)

Say something to point out my agressor might be doing something socially unacceptable (Do you know this guy? Is she bothering you?) if:

I’m arguing with someone and they keep touching me even though I do not reciprocate their touches and/or even try to push them away
Someone (probably bigger than me) has me cornered, I’m avoiding eye contact with them, and I’m looking around (as if I’m looking for someone else i.e. to help me)
I make repeated eye contact with you (my way of asking for you to come over)
I’m sitting at a booth, trying to eat some food with my friends, and someone is looming over us and we’re alternating between telling him to go away and pretending to get on our phones, and we don’t want him to sit with us, but we’re kinda trapped in the booth, and this guy is shaking like he’s on drugs, and it’s 3am seriously party time is over…. (this actually happened)

This is a tricky topic for me, because while I’m an independent woman and I resent being treated like I need to be rescued, there are times when I could use some social help. Smoking patios can be rather narrow in this town, and I have been physically trapped in undesirable conversations. I may be able to leave the conversation, but don’t want to give up my chair or position because I’m doing my best not to be defeated or there are just not enough damn chairs. Or, more often, the agressor is a mutual friend.

I don’t know why more women don’t try to come to my rescue. I suppose we just aren’t given the scripts to “be the hero” and though we might want to reach out, it conflicts with the other scripts we’re taught to “be nice” or “avoid direct conflict” and we don’t really know what to do. I also suspect that like anyone else, women fear social judgement. They won’t risk interrupting a conversation because, let’s face it, how many times have you tried to help someone and they responded with rudeness?

I think we have to address that sometimes this rudeness is warranted or at least understandable — that by coming to someone’s aid you are essentially identifying that person as “in need.” Someone who is “in need” can be seen as inferior, weak, or defenseless. Because that person you tried to rescue has been spending the last 5 minutes to an hour defending herself from an aggressor, she may be in the type of mindset such that she refuses help in order to continue to look strong. Your interruption may actually be beneficial, but you may get no reward other than seeing an intense situation get derailed. Of course, you in no way deserve a reward for trying to help someone.

Or, you might be trying to help someone who really didn’t need your help. Hence needing to break down when it’s appropriate to intervene.

Then, I think, we have to be more willing to accept and acknowledge help. I sat on a chair in a really packed PB party: the attendees were a mixture of fraternity-types and redditors. Some smashed random came up to us and asked if we were playing beer pong. He tried to put his arms around us. My friend felt confrontational, possibly because beer pong got shut down awhile ago, duh, and this was our second strained interaction with him that night. So she told him, “Yeah, we’re playing beer pong right now.” When he asked where our cups and balls were, I indicated the latter were in my lap and grabbed my crotch.

He asked a slew of confusing questions after that. A woman interrupted, “Hey, you girls alright?” and I didn’t really understand she was helping us. It was the first time anything like that had happened to me. Even though I was probably doing ok — what with my fancy word play and getting the dude to say he would enjoy touching my testicles, if I had them — he was becoming increasingly obnoxious. “Wait,” I turned to the gal, “Thank you for reaching out to us. I wish more women would stick up for each other like you just did for us.”

So, yeah, the moral of the story is that if I’ve resorted to discussing gonads with a guy, I probably could use your assistance.

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.

Tag Archives: San Diego