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JadedJuToday, I had the pleasure of lunching with my friend Jill (aka JadedJu). We met over the internet through bloggy friends a decade ago and then in person, a few months later. When I returned from our first lunchdate, on a Sunday in February of 2004, I reported back to our blog circle with the following story. Later, I found it re-posted on some random site with the title “BEST TRUE INTERNET MEET-UP STORY EVER”. The word TRUE made me laugh for quite some time, but it remains one of my favorite stories and so I’m bringing it back around.

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 Every time I meet one of my blog friends for the first time in person, there’s a bit of a blind date quality to it. How will I know him? What if she stands me up? What if they’ve brought a fistfull of friends to stand and point and laugh at me? So when I went to Pescadero to meet Jill last Sunday, I was a little edgy, not knowing what to expect.

I saw her as I approached Duartes, winding my way through the long line of Harleys that filled every parking space on the block. Leaning against a lamp post, she had a look about her that said she’d been waiting for me to arrive. Her bright green mohawk didn’t surprise me as much as the fact that she was nearly seven and a half feet tall.

“Are you . . . ?” I asked.

“And you?” she countered.

We nodded in unison and I followed her into the restaurant.

We’d already ordered and broken into the soft, steaming loaf of homemade bread when she said, oh so casually, “So you’re all packed?”

I stopped buttering.

“Packed?”

“Yeah, we haven’t got much time.”

“Time for . . . ?” I glanced around the restaurant as if some magical answer to her question was waiting on one of the rustic walls.

“Time to catch up with them. We’ve got to be in Oregon before morning. The show opens in Victoria on Tuesday.”

I put the bread back on the plate and pushed back from the table.

“The show?”

“You ARE the Lion Tamer, aren’t you?”

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leaving on a jet plane

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Actually it's not a jet plane. More like a little black Kia. But I'm leaving nonetheless. From Motown to Fallon, NV by mid-afternoon. Taking the phone, laptop and kindle … but will mostly be off-line until Sunday.

kisses,

jules

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More than a decade ago, way back when the internet(s) were young, I came across a little gem of a webpage titled "San Francisco: an idiosyncratic guide for the goth-geek-freak-hipster-nerd" which changed forever the way I amuse myself in San Francisco when I'm there. I've branched out and discovered new favorite spaces beyond those highlighted in the guide, but it was a great jumping-off point and it virtually reinvented the city for me.

Having returned to my hometown after living in Santa Cruz County for the better part of a decade, I find myself cringing when I hear people talk about a day or weekend trip to the Central Coast and realize that they've spent their time (and money) in what locals consider "all the wrong places". For that reason (and because it is rude to admonish them in person) I thought it would be fun and perhaps helpful to put together a guide that might reinvent Santa Cruz for someone else the way the Goth-Geek-Hipster-Freak-Nerd guide changed San Francisco for me. I thought it best to begin with a couple of basic rules:

1. Skip The Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk

2. Since you are going to ignore Rule #1, let's have some straight talk about The Boardwalk Read the rest of this entry »

Going Home

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We’re heading to Modesto this afternoon to spend Easter with our family. It’s not a popular place to be from right now, this Central Californian urban sprawl that finally made it’s mark on the map, first with the death of Chandra Levey and now, Laci Peterson.

After leaving Modesto and moving to the coast, I liked to refer to it casually as “that dirty little tweaker town”, not necessarily a fair assessment of a town with a population of 200-thousand, the majority of whom were not dirty or tweakers. Still, I’ve seen both sides of Modesto; the upper-middle class tree-lined neighborhoods, the country clubs, the Gallo Winery and accompanying wealth, as well as the crime-ridden Airport district, the crumbling Westside and the poverty under the seventh-street-bridge.

My parents still believe Modesto is a fine place to raise your children, and I suppose it is, if you’re rich. Or if your husband doesn’t kill you two days before Christmas and drive out to dump your body in the bay. And all I can think now is this: That today is one of those days where I wish I still believed in Heaven and Hell.

 

 

Poems on the road to Tijuana

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I used to write poems, or rather, there was a time in my life when I wrote a whole mound of poems. It was the summer of 1995, an important summer because it was the summer I stopped drowning. Besides wrtiting a mound of poems, I did a number of things that summer that I'd never done before. I learned how to dance (or more accurately, I learned how to dance in public and not give a damn if anyone thought I looked foolish).  I learned how to say YES and NO. I learend how to drive all weekend just spend a few hours in Mexico and I learned why such things are never quite what you build them up to be, useful in the end only for storytelling fodder further on down the road. Read the rest of this entry »