A Million Bucks

[Lunch yesterday at Frjtz in Hayes Valley (of the Dolls) with George and his wife A. (He calls her by her first initial in his blog, and while I had a couple of lovely small conversations with just her, I never got clear on the pronunciation of her name; don't ask me to try to spell it.) It was, as I'd fully expected, a delightful interlude. As I must now point for the last time ever, I hadn't seen George since the first GayBayBlog meetup in Oakland way back in 2001. We've been in occasional econtact ever since, but this face time was long overdue.]

[As sane, smart, and genteel as the Kellys are, George is clearly slightly off his authentic Shaker bent-twig rocker. I greeted him with my usual wide (some say crazed) smile; he said I looked like a million bucks, and asked my secret. (This from a man with majestic braids and a herringbone blazer, but let that pass.) I gave my usual lame response ("uh...walking...Oil of Olay..."), and tried to change the subject.]

[The odd thing is this is the second time in as many days that someone I hadn't seen since around the beginning of the Dubya's accession has gone on about how I look. Day before yesterday, Sean and I were running errands in the Financial District. I suddenly saw Sean enfold a random passerby in a big bear hug. (This in itself isn't unusual; befriend a bartender or longtime cocktail waiter, and your walks with him will always include lots of hellos from lots of strangers. Also, Sean's a hugger, though I've learned that the right dead glance will check that impulse.) The guy turned out to be...oh, I know I gave him a pseudonym back in the Precambrian Period, but screw it. It was Mike, Sean's ex from the days that S., John and I shared the first Downtown Apartment, circa 1998-2000.]

[After standing on the corner of Post and Kearny for a little too long catching up, it was decided that we needed to pop into Ginger's Trois, that notorious dive that does great business as the only gay bar east of Larkin Street. Much more catching up ensued, and Mike was the pleasant, quirky company I'd always remembered. Twice from him, though, too: "You look great, like you've lost weight or something, and what's with that tan?"]

[In case it's not blindingly obvious, I'm really sensititve about comments about my appearance. (Yeah, yeah, the rest of you let them roll off your back like a late summer rain.) After a period of years, it's natural for old acquaintances to make positive comments about one's appearance. It's what we do. This was not that, though, and I'm puzzled. I know for a fact that I weigh within five to eight pounds what I weighed when Mike and I saw a lot of one another. The tan? Comes and goes really quickly with my skin. I'd had my hair done did (including getting rid of the gray on top and on the face) before seeing George and A., but not before seeing Mike.]

[Don't they know? Isn't it obvious that I don't know what I wanna be when I grow up? That money is a constant nightmare? That I'm miserable being single just that little bit less than I was miserable during the immolation of my relationship? That I haven't been particularly good to myself in a lot of ways in the last year? Isn't it written all over my face? What are these people seeing that I'm not seeing?]

[I just described most members of the human race, and some have hurricanes and shit to deal with besides. Better work it while it lasts...]

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