Ian the Pirate: Part 1

It was a Thursday afternoon, a week before school let out. In other words, I should have seen it coming.

I was sitting on a bench in the Sebastopol town square (if you want to know more about the kind of shit that goes down in the town square, check out "Only in Sebastopol" ), reading a novel I had recently purchased at a library book sale, for the sole purpose of it having a nice cover. The novel wasn't really living up to its cover, so I lifted my eyes away from the page and examined my surroundings.

It's a sunny day in Sebtown, and the town square is adorned with the usual crowd: the gay couple with their small, obnoxious puppy, the Waldorf moms, sipping kombucha as their offspring strip down to their birthday suits and plunge into the fountain, and on the other side of the square, there's the ever-present tribe of teenage stoners, homeless people, and twenty-something vagabonds. Ever since the warm weather has kicked in, young wayfarers from all over California, the U.S., the WORLD--for that matter--have been flocking to Sebastopol. Hey, if I were homeless and looking for a good place to spend my summer, I'd probably head to Sebtown, too. Free dope, free kombucha, free food from accommodating individuals such as yours truly--what more could a wandering adolescent want? Not to mention the fact that the cops in Sebastopol are so oblivious to (or dare I say--accepting of?) the overwhelming presence of ganja in town that, on one particular occasion, they issued a ticket to several hippies for drawing with chalk in the gazebo, overlooking the fact that the subtle yet potent smell of weed surrounding the gazebo probably had something to do with the hippies' sudden urge to "express themselves".

A new batch of vagabonds have arrived, around 7-8 individuals between the ages of 18 and 25. Among them is a couple, a guy and a girl, who are lounging on a shady patch of grass with their fat, ginger cat, enjoying the sunshine. They look so peaceful, content, almost wistful, I can't help but sit there and gaze at them fondly. And then, out of nowhere, Pirate, headed straight for me. I am not kidding. Tall, wild-haired, maroon-skinny-jeans-clad gentleman wearing a purple pirate hat.

"What are you reading?" he asks.
"Oh, it's not that great...I only bought it because of the cover."
"That is kind of an amazing cover. May I sit?"

And before I know it, I am sitting on a bench in the town square, listening to a young, wandering Pirate tell me his life story, more or less.

3 months ago, at the age of eighteen, Ian left his hometown of Grand Rapids, MI (also the hometown of yours truly--coincidence? I think not!) to travel the U.S.A, Jack Kerouac-style. He arrived in Sebastopol three weeks ago, after a short-lived visit to Arcata. "I liked Arcata, but I did something really stupid and kinda messed it up." "Oh yeah?" "Yeah, I kinda stole some essential oils from a health food co-op. I kinda felt bad about it, but not really, cuz it totally wasn't a legit co-op. They didn't even have raw almond butter."

At this point in the conversation, Ian the Pirate begins to rummage around in his fanny pack. "Here," he says, handing me a peach-colored, smooth stone, in a silver-colored setting. "I feel like you should have this. Like, a higher power is telling me to give it to you." Now how is one expected to answer to that? I manage an awkward, "Oh, wow, that's so nice of you...I wish I had something to give you...do you want, like, a bagel or something?" "Nahhh, that's not why I gave it to you." An awkward silence follows, which Ian chooses to break by asking me if I like rodents. "Sure...?" What, is he going to produce a rat out of that majestic hat of his? Um, yes, apparently he is. "This is Murray," he says, handing me a fat, dark-haired rat. If not for the fact that I spent the majority of 4th grade raising two female rats, I would have freaked. I mean, it's not every day a pirate hands you a rat that has been living in his hat. At that point my friend Lauren arrived, and you can read about Ian the Pirate from her perspective at "Ian the Pirate: part 2"

I dabble in croquet.

So, the other day, I'm in the Sebastopol town square with a group of friends when I notice that there are two guys playing croquet. YEAH. That's right. EFFING CROQUET IN THE EFFING TOWN SQUARE. So I automatically start levitating like an elated runny babbit and sort of peering at them....Then I just sorta shout, "HEY! Can I play?!"
As they agree we, me and my friend Sarah, saunter on over, as blithe as you please, and begin the worst game of croquet, possibly, ever played... The boys were lovely, chivalrous, gentle-gentlemen-like-men (the very least you could expect from two guys who play croquet in the town square), they offered us fruity bread and it was LOVERLY.

Only in Sebastopol

Ailah and I were sitting in the Sebastopol town square, as we often do, when we noticed a manly man guy walking around the town square offering something to all of the Sebastopolites languishing there. At first we were baffled as to the goods he was passing out... It was weed... That's right... Pot. Ganja. Marijuana. Mary Jane. Cannabis. Hashish. Dope. Grass. Hemp. Whatever you wan to call it... (As seen above ^) So he's making the rounds: to the tan yogi, the college students, the not-so-chic-middle-aged geeks, the strumming, singing hippies, the napping hobo (whom the generous manly man tenderly sprinkles a little pile of weed over) and then to us (the most vanilla girls you will ever meet). "Hey, you guys want some weed?"... We look at each other, look at him and then as one: "No thanks...."

To make it all the more festive, the hobo, a veritable skeleton of a monkey-man, wakes with a start, involuntarily flinging the pot up into the air. Once he realizes his error he, the hobo, scrabbles about in the grass (this is actual grass, as seen above ^), desperately searching for every scrap of marijuana... with a look of pure bliss on his dirty, monkey face.

Only in Sebastopol, California could a random dude wander around the town square (which is 40+ feet from the police station) to share his weed with his fellow townspeople with no shame or fear...

Ian the Pirate: Part 2

When I arrived at the Sebastopol town square today, running late, as per the norm, I found my lovely friend, Ailah, conversing with a dirty hippie in a three-squared pirate hat (yes, think Pirates of the Caribbean). My first thought was to break out some of my sweet kung fu moves and protect her virtue but as I approached I realized that he wasn't a threat. As I sat down he, very kindly, introduced himself as Ian.

He was an attractive young lad, despite his bedraggled appearance which consisted of above noted pirate hat, jeans, several shirts, jackets and a pair of old man glasses (seen in picture above), as well as a thorough coating of dirt, grime and general filth (who knows what exactly he had picked up).

He proceeded to show us his "awesome, psychadelic gem" which turned out to be a purple marble and some other exotic rocks that had been given to him on his Jack Kerouac-esque travels, including "train-hopping", across the U.S. of A.

As our encounter continued a civil-servant-worker-man was making his way around the town square with a stencil and spray paint putting down the message "NO SMOKING" in front of all the benches (a fruitless effort I might add because everybody smokes everything in the town square (there was actually someone smoking in the center of the square as he was putting the paint down)). Our chum Ian began to elaborate on his time in Seb-Town; the conversation went thusly:

"So me, Bethany (we think Bethany wasn't so much a vagabond as a shepherd , carting the travelers from point A to point B) and [guy in hard-hat's name] were chowing down on some sweet salad I got from the compost pile behind Whole Foods here," gestures to the bench where the two of us, me and Ailah, are current sitting, himself seated on the dirty, dirty ground, "It was about 10pm and a cop came over and, like, gave us all tickets..." he concludes ruefully.

Throughout the entire "story" Ian had been sort of rubbing his chest and shoulders, itching if you will. I didn't exactly think too much of it at the time until he pulled a rodent from said stained shirt. Murray was his name.

I let out a little exclamation of "Oh wow!" Not like a smiley "Oh wow!" of joy and wonder like Cassie from Skins but an "Oh wow!" of surprise and mild horror and disdain. I recover with this stellar line "... So... What does he eat?" He replies with "Oh, I feed him whatever I eat (some sweet salad, we can only assume), but he's been getting kinda picky lately. Like I think he's been hoarding bread in his cage..." My friend Ailah goes on to ask him if Murray got along with The Cat (there was also another homeless couple lurking on the other side of the square with a fat ginger pussycat). "Yeah, he's met that cat but that cat's a jerk and its owners are buttholes. I mean it [the cat] doesn't do any tricks or anything..."

The conversation continued for a little while longer until he was summoned by Bethany and his hard-hatted friend and his dad.

THE home town

Hello all.

This blog is to expand on the deranged shenanigans of a certain hippie mecca in Northern California. Sebastopol, somewhere between Santa Rosa and the Pacific Ocean, is the home of washed-up hippies who maintain their lavish lifestyle by growing premium marijuana or producing music events and festivals. There is an almost shocking lack of cultural diversity, errrybody is white and subscribes to faux exotic religious practices. The downtown area is filled with a lovely mix of filthy vagabonds, Sebasta-Moms*, stereotypical teenagers of every breed, "businessmen", musicians and poets (yes, multiple poets), JC students and the out-of-townies. (I should also mention that many of the people fit into many categories).

It's really the people that add the rich flavor that makes Sebastopol into the magical place that it is. As a citizen of this slightly unbalanced hamlet, I end up feeling either "Oh my f**king God, is this really my life?", or a bizarre sense of pride: "Yes, this is where I get to live!"

It is truly an amazing place to be.