That's a Stupid Name

It makes you sound like a circus performer*. 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. I had been sold on being his roommate when he showed me that through an accidental peephole in the door to the back steps one could see the USF church lit up in all its glory against the vibrant blue of the first evening hours. And because it was summer, and the four hours of sunshine we’d had vanished to allow the fog to blow in at full force, I was freezing in the shorts I’d worn earlier. He lent me his light tan corduroys to wear. I swore I’d return them and he replied, “I know I’ll see you again.” Not long after, I moved in. I felt like I was winning at life! Phillip was a kind and beautiful soul. Through him I made friends with his sister and niece whom I’ve remained in contact with through the decades. His life ended too abruptly but he left his imprint on my heart.

I needed to get around. I’d purchased a bike for $20 or $40, I don’t remember. It was a brown vintage sort, the kind that has brakes that don’t really stop you but squeak a lot. I wasn’t wearing a helmet. It was rickety and noisy. Absolutely unsafe to ride at any kind of speed, and here I was, flying down Masonic as fast as I could go with my long hair blowing back and a shit-eating grin on my face. I was going as fast as that rickety rust-bucket could handle and loving every minute of it. I loved going fast because it felt like flying.

The bike didn’t last long. One of us was likely to die riding it and I preferred it not to be me. My bike messenger boyfriend hooked me up with a cheap red oversized Marin mountain bike frame he’d scored and put together a bike for me with spare parts and elbow grease. My real first bike in the city! I felt free!

The second thing that happened did not have anything to do with flying but it did include a man. About two years later someone I was dating left me a voicemail on my answering machine. He greeted me as “Fabu” which no one had ever called me before. I found it interesting and had mixed feelings about it. But I liked him and it wasn’t disparaging so I let him go ahead with that nickname. Pretty much anything is easier than saying Fabienne. Unless you speak French.

I’ll skip ahead briefly to when gmail emerged and I needed a name. I wanted Flying-something but everything suitable or cool was already taken. Exasperated, I tried FlyingFabu and lo and behold, it became mine in perpetuity. There you go. I even sprung for a vanity plate that years later some guy mistook as a reference to Facebook (“fb”). Facebook wasn’t even around when I got it, sir. But are we really going to use that one shaky and noisy ride down Masonic Avenue as my one moment of flying? Of course not, don’t be silly.

Stay tuned…

@2026 Fabienne Jach. All rights reserved.

*Said to me by someone who loves me. I thought it was kinda true but clearly I didn’t care