I Screamed Like an Emo Teenager on BART Because Green Day, Fall Out Boy, & Weezer Are Touring Together
This Tuesday started like any other, a drowsy morning filled with fumbling around in my Walnut Creek apartment, trying not to wake my sleeping boyfriend as he snored through the morning. Besides music, he’s what makes me happy, my lifeline. I took my pills and walked into my “beauty room,”
While riding BART in the early am of a Monday like any other, Facebook served me an article entitled “Feeling Strapped on a $400,000 income? That’s the Bay Area.”I stared at my tiny computer in my palm in disbelief but not with a sense of surprise. People always complain here, and of course, they have a right to. I thought I’d be met with another person complaining about home prices and the cost of living and much more, and I was right.
The saga of the Muni commute doesn’t end when you get off and head to your destination. This public transit system has deep-seeded issues that stem from money mismanagement, bureaucratic nonsense, and a distinct attitude of smugness.
What if you could live like one of those famous Instagram celebrities for a couple weekends in the Bahamas. For a few thousand dollars — would you? What’s a few thousand dollars in the eyes of all those envious followers and potential fans online?
San Francisco’s self-care obsession is just another thing that makes its residents feel like they can’t catch their breath. As if rising rent costs, skyrocketing crime rates, political turmoil and the ongoing tragedy of the homeless crisis weren’t enough. Even though the goals of self-care are to relax and enjoy life, the path is now a rabid, stressful competition to get the most likes on Instagram.
Our new column The Wanderer follows young writer Tess F. Stevens through different threads of San Francisco culture, experiences, and issues. She hopes to challenge, connect and define some of the things we find difficult to put into words. I love San Francisco. It’s a magical city of opportunity, brimming with
Haight Street 2018, a buzzing motorized hallway filled with Ubers and Lyfts, and I’m in one with an eccentric former artist and now, photographer of “women over 50,” Denise, who has lived in San Francisco for 20 years. “What’s going on at the gallery tonight?” She asked, nearly killing a
A lot can happen in 50 years. Babies are born. Generations die. People get married, then divorced. Empires fall and revolutions rise — and in the thick fog of San Francisco 50 years feels like 50 million as the flower children of yesterday celebrate the anniversary of the greatest summer of their lives.