Category: on the street

Stories

Why does being at Church Street Cafe make me happy today? The coffee is good, but of course it’s not just that. It’s a very mixed crowd, and I love that. The owner is nice, even to the mixed, mixed crowd. The neighborhood is filled with nostalgia, not always a good thing, but today it’s working. At Crossroads, I have a major flashback. Remember when Crossroads was a couple of blocks up the street, closer to Castro Street? I remember it as being better then, but maybe that’s just a glitch of memory. I thought Agnes B was a cutting edge brand back then. I thought that stripped pair of Agnes B pants was going to change my life. Definitely not, but I do still have them. They live on as cut-offs, and they’re cuter than they ever were.

That wacky guy who’s always at Peet’s says Hi as we pass on the street. That’s a change, he usually just looks away even though he should like me. I see that guy that I thought was cute for a second, but seemed kinda snobby so I’ve tried to overtly ignore him ever since. Now I think he might be interested in me since he saw me on my bike, now that he knows I’m cool like that, but he can’t express it. We’re of similar age and look, although he’s taller, not as skinny, not fem. Something about these slight similarities and differences mean that we’ll never connect. I’ve never been able to connect with people like that, normal, I guess, and I don’t want to anyway, I just want to live in my head. But still I want him to want me.

At yoga, I smile a lot but don’t say much. I feel shy. The teacher is very friendly, and uncomfortable with quiet. I mean, so am I. I want to say more but she talks so much I just end up nodding and saying thanks. I wear my workout pants to and from class. I don’t really like these workout pants, they’re old, faded, too loose. I feel self-conscious but it’s two blocks away and it’s the Tenderloin. It’s easy to blend in. One thing about these pants is they show off my dick, no matter what. Kind of fun, right? On the way home, I pass the Balboa Hotel and the guy whose often standing out front, who I assume is the owner, and who always cruises me, and I always ignore, is there on the street watching me. He’s talking on his cell phone and looking my dick for the three seconds that it takes more me to pass him, and then a flash of direct eye-contact so he knows that I know that he’s been checking on my dick and I kind of like it. I’m getting more curious about him, and the hotel looks interesting. I’m sure I’ll have sex with him.

so practical

Walking on Geary Street near Union Square a man selling Street Sheets tells me he likes my ensemble. My outfit, really? I wonder if the staring tourist couple likes it, also? He can tell I’m special and asks me to come talk to him. I say thank you, but keep walking. I do like the attention, I must admit. But when I’m in the Daiso $1.50 store on Market Street, I look in the mirror and feel like a mess. I mean scary, but I didn’t feel that way when I looked in my mirror at home. Which mirror can be trusted? My hair is always moving towards something better, or at least that’s what I tell myself. But right now, it’s a little off. I never really know what I’m doing when I cut it, I just do it. My approach to life in general maybe? My style is moving towards something better, too, maybe. But now it’s a mix of regular fag, vintage realness. and queen. It’s confusing.

My life is weird, I admit it. I mean this is it? I find a beat-up white desk lamp at Goodwill. Anything is better than the built-in lights in my apartment. It’s like Motel 6 all over again with this round light fixture on the wall, almost at eye-level. The yoga teacher at the Y says that fluorescent lights should be outlawed and I couldn’t agree more. Yoga was fine, and just down the block. The problem that my toilet was having fixes itself by the time I get. And then for some errands downtown, and that’s just not where I want to be right now. I start craving coffee but it’s all corporate coffee, and worse, corporate people. And really I shouldn’t drink coffee at all so I just walk home after much mental debate. But I am getting things done around my apartment since I’ve been on break. Break, break, break, I really do love it.

Read this book

I finally get to do that library intervention that I’ve been fantasizing about with Phillipe. He was going to Borders after the gym to find a GRE book and maybe a few other spiritual type books. I say, I’ll meet you there. I want to tell him that these books are at the library, so don’t spend your money. Yes, they even have new, new, brand new books. And, most importantly, I want to tell him that there are books besides those spiritual ones that can CHANGE YOUR LIFE. There are books in the library right now that are about YOUR life, honey, ripping those pages to shreds with loneliness, rage, and desire.

I’m kind of surprised when he agrees to walk to library after we get his GRE book. He takes a picture of the Christmas lights at Union Square which leads to iPhone preoccupation for most of the walk to the library. Got to update that Facebook-people, I am alive and here’s the motherfucking proof! I understand that need, but I understand the need to shut everyone out even better.

While he searches the online catalog for How to Find Your Own North Star, I run to the Ss to looks for Pulling Taffy. Of course, right? I tell him that I highly recommend it. I tell him it changed my life, which is true. But what I really mean is that, it slightly altered my perspective and made me feel less alone.

the queen goes to library school

okay. all the things i could do but wouldn’t do if i didn’t go to library school.

mattilda is on her way to santa fe. i’m here in the tenderloin. walking in the rain, kicking cans. no, that’s grace jones. i’m here in the tenderloin, finding a lot to look at, listening to people have private conversations twelve floors down. i’m here doing my homework, looking at that view. staying up late and looking at that view. it’s so clear tonight. then i’m walking around and seeing people that i’m going to meet one day. tomorrow. and it’s gonna be so…gaga.

skinny buildings

Someone’s losing it on the corner of Turk and Leavenworth. Screaming and screaming, walking in front of cars. I’m watching from the 12th floor. I can hear everything happening down there so clearly. The endless sirens, and maybe even someone’s hacking cough.
There’s a police station on Eddy. I think it’s Eddy. It’s a sad gray slab in the middle of all these gorgeously crumbling gems. I’ve always romanced hotels, even the ones that might have bed bugs. It’s the new BB!
Will anyone ever come visit my in the Oasis. Not because of bed bugs. But because guests have sign in with there ID at the front desk. Doorman building, girl. It’s because we’re poor, and they, the property managers don’t want us bringing in strange skanks. Discrimination against the poor, it’s everywhere, even at home!

the oasis, begin

Time to reign in all these fleeting thoughts. From the 12th floor of the Oasis Apartments, no less. A room with an amazing view and a surprising amount of street noise. It’s true I finally moved to the Tenderloin after thinking about it for years. Let’s be honest, I was scared before. But after all those late night walks with Mattilda from Polk to Jones and Post to Ellis, I’m not so scared anymore. Really, it feels like this is where I should have been all along. With the mixed-up crowds of outsider freaks, yes, immigrant families, yes, poor, oh yes. Oh, and don’t forget glamorous, yes.