Warning: bad language, bad grammar, bearded drag queens.

Homoerotic tension at 16th and Mission; a love story in four parts

Overheard from my bedroom which faces a busy street.

Act 1: All is fair in love and negging

Fuck you you mother fucking n-er. FUCK YOU. You little bitch. Come get some son. You don’t have the blood. You faggot n-er motherfucker.

Act 2: Reconciliation

Shit n-er, stop being a bitch. Come suck a dick n-er.

Act 3: Classic Misunderstandings

What the fuck you want, faggot?

Act 4: Happily ever after

You gonna get wrecked, gonna get FUCKED.

when a neck beard just doesn’t cut it

I wanted to do Movember, but my razor gave up. I managed to even it out the next day.

“It’s not /that/ dangerous here”, 16th and South Van Ness

My friend is studying at a college a couple hours outside of SF, so a native San Franciscan and I decided to show him some of its best bits. We went to a bridge, played 12 holes at a nerdy putt putt course and had some deep dish “pizza”. I told him some scary stories about the Mission — the first day a friend of mine was in SF, he couldn’t get into his building as the street was blocked off by police tape to avoid contamination to a murder scene ±2m from the door — but ended it by saying that by and large the Mission was pretty safe.

While walking past my apartment to show him my office, I suddenly starting feeling incredibly nervous. I assumed that it was because we were walking really close by this guy sitting in a door way. But then that made no sense — if that could trigger my anxiety, I’d need a bottle of Valium to get to work.

Taking a second look behind me, I did see someone strange sitting in a door way. He was completely still, his shoulders hunched and his head hanging freely in front of him. His entire face was covered in a ski mask with no eye or mouth holes. His elbows were perched on his knees and his arms were extended in front of him. In his hands were two flick knives extended and pointed upwards at different angles.

The visiting friend and I looked at each other and started walking by as quickly as we could without waking the masked figure, who we later christened “Stabby Mc Stab Stab”. Or at least I did. My friend doesn’t seem to want to talk about the sighting.

Between that, the four people shot a couple blocks from my house (hip hop concert), and the full clip being emptied within ear shot one evening (gang violence I’m told), I’ve stopped telling friends that the mission is pretty safe. I’ve also stopped saying the burritos are to die for because I’m afraid that God has a sense of humour.


Signs on a police station the day we saw Stabby Mc Stab Stab.

Drunken spoken word circle, 16th and Mission

You have exactly as much context as I do on this quote.

…it was made from fake flowers, but it’s still nectar. She was my queen bee of sex, and she, gave me that sexual truth nectar. And I drank it.
So she was right and you were wrong. That WAS the name of the song. It wasn’t I-love-you-and-you-love-me, that’s not the name of the song, you were wrong, YOU WERE WRONG.
And maybe, you’ll be right about another song, but not that song…

At Asana’s work potluck.

What the hell is that?

It’s a gatsby!

Like…the Great Gatsby?

No, it’s a sandwich with cheese, steak, chips — er — fries, lettuce and some other things we threw in.

Weird. Delicious, but weird.

Halloween, The Castro

I really struggled for Halloween. I’ve loved the holiday since I was a kid dressing up in Men and Black costumes insisting that my neighbours recognise the distinctly American occasion as a South African tradition. Being in the US for it was as exciting for me as I’m sure being in Orania would be for a KKK member. I so excited that I had no idea what to wear. My first idea was to go as Walter White (I could totally rock a goatee and have always wanted to see how awful I look bald) but ended up chickening out. It was for the best though, someone else shaved off his almost elbow length hair and brought blue meth like crystals for the costume.

Eventually me and Michiel hit a costume shop and came up with the perfect couple costume — he’d go as a sweet sixteen girl, and I’d go as his mom. We both had wigs, I had fishnet stockings and gloves. We bought skirts from a second hand store round the corner for authenticity. As specified in our company invitation, we wore them all day before the party. During the costume contest, we took turns to going down the makeshift runway screaming and shouting about how this was, like, omfg, can’t deal. My friend, a dashing Spanish Zorro, and I ended up taking selfies with every single person at the party. I think. It turns out things get fuzzy when one of the props for your costume is a glass of whiskey that, despite your regular sips, remains just as full thanks to some committed bartenders.

haters gonna hate hate hate hate hate

Highlight of the party was hanging out with my girls, pictured here.

Eventually, Zorro got me to go out and party in the Castro. I don’t remember the *exact* details, I think I said I didn’t want to go and he provided the persuasive counter argument of: “yes you do, just jump into this Uber”. It turns out that the Castro is a wonderful place to party. A bunch of guys said that they were totally OK with me as a bearded man being in drag and that I wasn’t appropriating nor disrespecting their culture at all. Promise. I got to dance next to a man only wearing assless chaps and was pulled out of the road because I was transfixed by their pedestrian crossings (they’re not zebra crossings, which are black and white, they’re RAINBOW COLOURED), it was a great night.

but first, lemme take a selfie

The next day going to sit down with a couple co-workers and being told

That’s Steven! He’s fun. I mean, he’s fun to party with.

so I must have done something right.

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