This was probaby around 1998-99. Being a little awed and envious of snowboarding, because let’s face it, it looked like so much fun, I was also terrified. Of course I said yes. I then proceeded to spend an entire day threatening to develop a concussion, break a wrist or two, or fracture my tailbone. My boots were laced so tightly that I developed cramps. It was miserable. And I looked terrible. I’m not joking. I was wearing tight black ski pants, a yellow windbreaker, (a windbreaker?), an orange beanie and a black and white polka-dotted fanny pack to carry essentials in, like my camera. I have pictures to prove it.

FlyingFabu. I didn’t choose this moniker as much as it chose me. It started in San Francisco, in the Upper Haight. Two things happened and when they intersected I became FlyingFabu. The first occurred on an overcast day which means it was the middle of summer. I’d just moved to the city, I was 29 years old. I was sharing an apartment on Belvedere with a lovely man named Phillip.

Let’s hop on the wayback machine and start with when I was 14. I’d hang out in my dad’s class—he taught a vocational class for ages 16 and up on my high school campus. My summer breaks could get really dull because we lived on the outskirts of town so I’d go to class with him some days just to pass the time. I remember being obsessed with getting a butterfly tattoo on my shoulder. I also wanted to name the child I never wanted to have Noëlle Starlight so we’re clear on why 14-year-olds aren’t allowed to vote and get tattoos.

Sometimes you know the Universe nudges you to a fork in the road and if you choose the correct direction it will change your life forever.

By the time I was 17, I was fully immersed in this alternative culture that embraced creativity, was centered around music, and welcomed freaks and queers.