So where the fuck have I been?
Well, to be brief I’ve been getting ready to uproot my life here in San Francisco and transplant it to Portland, Oregon. This process is making me feel…things.
Things that when I tried to write about them initially came out in whimsical, poetic ways. Dramatic ways, overblown ways. I’m not really comfortable expressing my actual serious business feelings in public and this is a blog mainly for detailing the horrible things that have come out of my body. You come here for stories about secretions not for heartfelt, trite musings on Life And What It Means.
What’s a little odd for me is that San Francisco was the first place I regarded as solidly and completely as home. I’ve lived in four different states and traveled widely and every locale I’ve ever been to never lost an alien feeling. No matter how long I lived anywhere I couldn’t shake the sensation of hostility, anxiousness and discomfort. When I came here, running from Ohio like my ass was on fire, that all fell away. After the initial uncertainty of being a teenager from a small suburb come to a large urban area wore off San Francisco seemed to become the only place I could actually just be myself and figure shit out. There was no condescension, no expectation. No one condemned the millions of mistakes I would make in the almost decade I’ve lived out here as harshly because here is the thing about this city:
Almost everyone who I’ve met here is an expatiate of something. I can count on one hand the number of people I’ve met here that were born and raised in San Francisco. The majority came from somewhere else and they came for the simple reason that everyone here is in some way a fucking weirdo.
Here I could say to someone: “You know. Sometimes I think there are people hiding in my curtains when I wake up at night and when things don’t happen in increments of ten I feel terribly afraid.” and they’d be fine with that because they like to throw away whole sticks of gum and chew the wrappers and couldn’t function without hot boxing the bathroom every morning.
Everyone seemed to be a refugee and a cast off. All of us intolerable in some way and a little head fucked to one degree or another, sometimes tragic sometimes comical. People may roll their eyes at your idiosyncrasies, but they couldn’t really judge you for them because they were just as bad.
There is a lot of comfort in that actually.
This city is who I am and what made me. Being here was the only thing that formed me into a reasonably functioning non-jerkoff, but if there was one natural gift my fairy godmother leaned over my cradle and bestowed upon me at birth it’s to know when things have reached their terminus. I’ve gotten really good at being able to tell when things have run their course, and I’m done here.
My options for where to be next were split between New Orleans, where my family is and Portland, where a bulk of the comics industry centers.
I spent and extra few days in Portland for the Stumptown Comics Fest, half drunk with some of the sweetest and most talented people I’ve ever had the pleasure of being around and learned they were all paying about 300 dollars less a month on rent in places with hardwood floors.
Then I remembered New Orleans doesn’t have any good Indian food and that pretty much made my mind right the hell up.
So excuse my absence from this blog with no warning. I’ve been pulling as many shifts for Das Hotelenstien to save for the move and putting my affairs in order before my August 1st moving date. I go to work, have beer, wake up, work, throw away things, work, beer, wash my underwear in the sink, work and then work. I’m slightly distracted and then like I said, just so many feelings that bore everyone except for my mom.
Well, she’s probably tired of hearing about it too but she bore me so you do the crime you do the time.
I’ll be back on a more regular schedule soon, in August. It should be a wordy wonderland of new experiences and new curbs to fall off of.
Sniff you jerks then.