What does this town mean to me? Philadelphia has four giant blocks with the letters “L” “O” “V” and “E” on them. Paris has the Louvre and a bunch of old elegant things mixed with a history of ladies fainting. But San Francisco takes the cake when it comes to love.
Why? Well, it’s about putting on a sumo suit and wrestling people in medieval costumes on Casey and Jess’s 30th birthday party in Dolores Park. Still wearing the suit, I get pile-driven by a large but gentle professional wrestler. The love is about deliriously “winning” Bay to Breakers three times wearing short-shorts, flaring mullet hair, and an orange safety vest that chafes. It’s about shakin’ booty with friends in gorilla suits at our Justin Timberlake-themed Shiny Party. It’s my white-ass doing the bump-n-grind on free funk Friday’s at Elbo Room.
Every November I had one month to grow a mustache and strut my stuff to benefit little children. Then there’s the crowded bed at the Bordello, swapping clothes in Big Sur, getting nearly knocked off a raft on the American River by my newest sibling, poetically fending off an attack by a flock of gulls on the beach, riding giant ice cubes down a grass hill, and hopping from Ginger’s houseboat to Smitty’s and back to the boat outrageously.
I’ll never forget the naked Jesus Buddha man at Zeitgeist. I don’t know why I just said that.
San Francisco has been my life for five years. I’ve lived in the corner of a room for a month, on numerous couches, a closet, four apartments, and nearly in an oven. I’ve ran a half marathon twice with little sleep and less training or stretching. I’ve seen friends come and go and come again. Jobs have come and gone and come and gone (sometimes three times with the same job). Relationships have done the same (sometimes five times with the same person). I’ve been a mess at times, and riding sky high at others.
So, on August 12th I’m moving to Boston.
What?! Why? I know. It’s crazy to leave all of that. But it’s time. My baby niece Gwenyth and nephew Simon are transcending babyness. My grandparents are not Benjamin Button. I have a ridiculous amount of siblings (5), two brilliant parents and some long-time friends back east. As much love as San Francisco has brought me, I’ve always known where home is.
Leaving hurts. It’s scary. I have no idea how well my whiskers will perform in a sea of red-haired Irishmen at Mustaches for Kids Boston. I’m not sure if I’ll make any friends without my trusty costume basket (oh damn! did I really get rid of all that?! come back giant orange sombrero!). Luckily, I kept my tight red pants and green spinny hat for emergencies.
But hey. It’s time to take that leap. Faithfully.
Luckily, today is not goodbye. There is still a month of raucous summer mischief ahead in the Bay. And as for mischief and Boston, it’s like my cheesy project management professor used to say about trouble-makers on your staff, “Bring it on! I’m ready!”
