Dear Santa Cruz

Dear Santa Cruz,

Oh, Cruz. You’re that one really hot hippie bitch that everyone knows. You’re beautiful. You smell like lavender and some disgusting banana bread edibles I had once. You don’t ever wear a bra, and hell, you don’t need to. Physically you’re pretty perfect, and it doesn’t matter how much you grow out your armpit hair. Everyone still wants a piece.

It’s a cliché, but it kind of is always summer for you. You're one of the most beautiful cities in California, and you're never-never land for stoners.

Mentally all of your locals stopped developing at about 22, but physically your people have aged like shit. I’m talking about these man-children that skateboard and bike down the streets at all hours of the day and night. To be fair, some are drifters, but it’s hard to distinguish them from the locals. From behind they all look like your average 20-something year old men wearing baggy t-shirts and jeans, carrying backpacks that are positively bulging with probable cause. But then they turn around and they’re clearly on the sadder side of 40. Their faces are like vintage birkin bags, not just because they’re discolored and pock-marked, but because the drugs and the luxury of the relentless sunshine that made them that way cost at least as much. It’s like a PSA about meth had a baby with a Pacsun commercial, and both were directed by Harmony Korine.

And that’s your much darker side, Santa Cruz. Heroin. Acid, mescaline, and unstable people. A good amount of prostitution. I’ve heard more than whispers of sex workers frequently turning up dead around here, but you won’t see anything like that in the newspapers. It could be because those stories are bullshit, but I think it’s because no one wants to fuck with the “perfect beach town” vibe. More importantly, no one wants to scare away the tech babies who are trying to move here. You know, all my contemporaries with Facebook money and a hard on for driving Teslas through flocks of homeless people on their way to private surf lessons. So it’s fun when the tables are turned, like that time a Santa Cruz prostitute killed an executive at Google. It was a huge deal, obviously. Why am I surprised? Double standards are everywhere. I could slap a man in the face and no one would bat an eye, but if a guy slapped me there are dozens of people who would exact brutal justice on my behalf with nothing but the second amendment and a smile.

I’m not leaving yet, but when I do I’ll miss you, Santa Cruz. All of your quirks and your eccentricities, your beauty and your grotesque hypocrisy. I know I need to leave never-never land so I can grow up, but I’m not ready for summer to be over yet. You’re beautiful, you crazy hippie bitch. Now before I have to leave, roll me one more joint and let’s hit the beach.

Huggles,

The Littlest Dick