Gung Hay Fat Choy

I was sitting on the couch this evening, contemplating all the things I really needed to be doing besides sitting on the couch. I was exhausted in that deep-bones weekend-spent-outdoors way that is the best kind of exhaustion. Yes I'd just spent 3 hours in a car coming back from Tahoe, but I had also spent Saturday snowboarding at Squaw Valley in blinding snow and wind, a couple nights playing poker 'til the wee hours in front of a warm fireplace, and I had a belly full of gross amounts of cheap meat, carbs and butter after having stopped at Denny's.

So there I sat. The lights low. My gear still in a heap in the hallway. My ass becoming one with the couch. When all of a sudden an explosion of noise erupted on the street outside my window like a machine gun, rocketing me out of my reverie in a momentary adrenaline-fueled panic.

One of the hazards of living near Chinatown is the two weeks of sporadic nerve-jangling detonations of jillions of firecrackers chasing away the evil spirits. It's the Year of the Dog, so Happy Lunar New Year, bitches. Steel yourselves for the ruckus, and let's party like it's 4703.

Go at throttle up

We had just returned from a trip to Denver visiting my grandparents, and while there, my family and I had gone to the Museum of Nature & Science. It was my 12th birthday and, being something of a geeky kid, I was excited that the Space Shuttle was supposed to launch that day, after a few delays. Adding to my excitement, I saw my first IMAX movie: "The Dream is Alive" with incredible (at the time) footage of space shuttle launches, missions, and trainings. NASA was in full propaganda mode, and I was eating it up. The first ordinary citizen was on the launchpad, we'd be watching the live telecasts from the shuttle at school, if anyone asked I was going to be an astronaut when I grew up.

Naturally I was disappointed when further delays prevented the launch from taking place on my actual birthday, but my giddy anticipation of watching the take-off could not be squelched, and was probably heightened by the prospect of taking time out of schoolwork to watch during class.

And so it happened that exactly twenty years ago today, PE class let out a little early for the big event. We were headed back to my sixth grade classroom when snotty little Troy Bane came running down the hall exclaiming, "It blew up! The shuttle blew up!" Of course that was impossible and Troy was a liar and a fifth-grader and there was a hint of glee in his voice.

Looking back from today's perspective, my memories of that day are gut-wrenchingly familiar. Sitting glued to the television screen, being pummeled again and again by images and replays and new footage from different vantage points, the confusion and chaos gradually giving way to sober reporters and their solemn reports, shared grief and horror tainted with a little voyeuristic guilt ... and years later, being able to swap where-were-you-when stories of our collective witnessing with just about anyone.

Twenty years is an eon in an instant and we're hurtling forward whether we like it or not and it's a wonderful world though it could come crashing down around us at any moment because technology is an amazing and frightening thing that can bond us together or send us to space or rend us apart or blow us to bits and who could blame me for occasionally wanting to curl up and cry though I hardly ever do but instead sometimes I go outside and take a deep breath of fresh air and smile at strangers and soak in the crazy beauty of it all. But I'll probably never be an astronaut.

Turn Turn Turn

As I was walking to work on this, the morning of my 32nd birthday, I was struck by several things.

First, it was a beautiful spring-like day and the sun was warm even though there was a hint of damp chill still in the air. And I love the fact that it feels like that in late January, so things ain't all bad.

Second, I don't exactly feel like 32. I mean, not that it's particularly old (I've readjusted my definition of old as I get ever closer to it), but when I look at other people who are in their 30's I somehow feel like just a kid in comparison. Maybe that has to do with the fact that I don't have children, or own a home, hell I don't even own a car. I'm not responsible enough to be in my 30's.

Third, it's not like I'm the only one flummoxed by the passing of the seasons. On one side of the street, the sweet gum trees are finally losing the last of their autumn leaves. On the other side of the street, the cherry trees are about a week from blooming and the sycamore/plane trees are leafing out in fuzzy spring-green finery.

Maybe the crazy San Francisco climate is what has me feeling like spring when I'm really approaching autumn.

Friends of Dorothy (whatever the hell that means)

So, I don't really have enough energy to go into a whole discussion of this right now, but being gay in San Francisco of all places isn't necessarily as easy as one might think it is. Sure there's a huge population of like-minded folks, and most of the straight people don't give a fig, so it stands to reason that you should be able to just be yourself and be accepted. But alas. There are all these interesting socio-cultural politics I sometimes find frustratingly unnavigable.

I just came from an odd little gay happy hour after work organized by a coworker for all of us at the office who bat for the other team. And what I found fascinating is that just being a gay or lesbian isn't enough of a common bond to create instant community. It's basically the only thing I had in common with some of these people. And there are only so many Coming Out stories I can take in one sitting. Yet the expectation is there that we should all be best friends. And I think that that presumption underlies much of the gay community.

I understand the need to belong, and that a whole culture has developed to accommodate that need makes sense to me. Unfortunately, it's often the case that if you don't fit into the new imposed cultural mold, you're still ostracized. I know who I am, and I'm pretty comfortable with that... so it's just a little annoying that if I'm not going to fit in with all you straight people, I can't exactly relate with the prevailing queer world either. I feel like I'm often judged for not fitting the stereotype; as if just because I don't like Liza or Babs, hate shopping, or am a little freaked out by the Tranny Shack I've somehow failed as gay, am still afraid to embrace who I truly am, or am transferring my self loathing onto them. It's silly. I can't fathom why, when faced with so much intolerance from the outside, inside our little bubble there's still prejudice and exclusion. The very people who march against imposed worldviews expect you to then fit into their own.

I'm generalizing here of course - not all homos are like that. And that's my whole point. Sitting at the bar this evening, looking at my fellow gay coworkers struggling to come up with things to talk about, I had to marvel. With such a wonderfully odd assortment, you'd think we'd all be a little better at celebrating our diversity.

AmazinGrace

Wow, so somehow while I was standing on the docks with my back turned, waving goodbye as 2005 sailed away without me into the sunset (admittedly, I was distracted by a rousing song and dance rendition of "Bon Voyage") it got to be the 15th of January and the voyage of '06 is well underway. And, as no surprise to anyone, I'm already losing ground on my resolutions, such as writing regularly, and writing well.

To be fair, I didn't have any concrete resolutions so much as vague notions about the things I'd like to achieve. The pain of failure stings somewhat less when you're not entirely sure what you didn't accomplish.

What I am doing, however, is planning for my future. A future that doesn't involve this craphole cube farm of computer technology I know nothing about and care nothing for. And what, you might ask, is my grand plan for saving a wretch like me? Reality TV, baby. That's right, tonight I am editing my audition tape for The Amazing Race. Laugh all you like, but I suspect my odds of winning a million by putting myself on television are slightly better than by playing the lottery. And besides, given the conventional wisdom about lightening strikes and lottery wins, I figure my chances of experiencing both are non-existent; since I've enjoyed the one already, I'll never have the other. Time to put my unearned undeserved million dollar egg in a different basket.

How sweet that sounds.

Teacher, mother, secret lover

It may be time for the holiday decorations to come down, but the comforting glow of the television shall ever remain to warm my home and irradiate my monster plants. They, too, need their 'Lost' and '24.'

Next year I'm replacing Christmas with a holiday in honor of the blessed TiVo.