Chuck has a theory that disaster follows me wherever I go. I used to think he was just being mean-spirited (which, let’s be honest, is probably still true), but now I’m starting to believe him. Bad things do seem to happen when I’m around. Catastrophic things. What if I’m the opposite of King Midas and everything I touch turns to shit? (And shit is totally the opposite of gold, so I don’t want to hear it.)
What, you ask, are these disasters I speak of?
Example 1: August 2005. Brian and I were on the last leg of a New Orleans-to-NorCal-and-back road trip. We were crossing the vast state of Texas (notice I did not say “the great state”–bigger is not better in this case). Texas did not approve and flipped our car over four or five times.
Example 2: August 2005, one week later. Hurricane Katrina. Enough said.
Example 3: October-November 2005. I moved to France at the beginning of October to take a job shaping young minds. By the end of the month, race and class riots had broken out in cities all over the country, including Marseille, an hour from where I was living.
Example 4: October 2007 (I had a good run there for a couple of years). That Iraq bullshit I wrote about in my last post. I know it’s more of a personal catastrophe, but I’m counting it.
Example 5: October 2007. I just moved to San Diego three months ago, and what happens? Southern California starts burning. I used to joke about L.A. breaking off from California in the next earthquake, but I didn’t really mean it, and I never wished any harm on San Diego.
I don’t know what I did to be cursed like this, but I’m sorry. Maybe I’ll do some sort of gypsy magic spiritual cleansing before I move back to New Orleans.
Posted in Disasters, Hurricane, Katrina, San Diego, Wildfire
Tagged california, curse, disaster, fire, france, Katrina, los angeles, New Orleans, riots, San Diego, southern california, Wildfire
Many of you know of my profound distaste for hipsters. I lived among them for a year in the Mission (apparently San Francisco’s version of Williamsburg), dodging them as they wheeled their bicycles languidly through crowded sidewalks, trying not to listen to their purposely loud accounts of how hard they partied the night before. Oh my GOD, I feel like shit today. I must have had, like, ten beers last night. Are my eyes still dilated? I can’t even take my sunglasses off inside; it hurts too much.
Hipsters perplex me. I just have so many questions. How do all the tools know to congregate in one particular area? Is there a hipster version of a bat signal? How can a person possibly wear that many accessories at once? How long does it really take them to achieve that “I just rolled out of bed and haven’t bathed in days” look? Does it hurt to be too cool for school? If I started to cut my own hair and wear skinny jeans and smoke a pack a day, would I become one of them, or would they sniff me out as an impostor?
One of my SF co-workers sent me this video today, and while I laughed heartily at the expense of my stylish, trust-funded peers, I also realized something disturbing. I kind of miss the hipsters. San Diego has surf bums and aging hippies and blonde Valley Girls with fake tans and faker boobs, but no hipsters spouting their pseudo-intellectual analysis of the latest indie band you’ve never heard of. Where am I supposed to direct all my snarky commentary if there’s no malnourished, velvet-blazer-wearing, PBR-drinking “artist” at my neighborhood coffee shop? The SoCal sorostitutes are far too easy (in every sense of the word). Must. Mock. Something. Help!