A Day Out

[Last week, for lack of zippier term, sucked swamp water. Stuff that's been percolating on the Back Burners Of Dread all exploded at once, and I dealt with it with my usual stellar coping skills. And then I stubbed my toe on stuff I haven't gotten around to putting storage and and and and...]

[After not leaving the apartment once during one of those mild, sunny early-December Saturdays that remind us why we live in California, and facing the prospect of my fourth evening in a row with no human contact, I actually picked up when Allen called at 4:00. (When I write "picked up," you know I mean "lunged for the phone," right?) Emerging from his own bummer, he asked if I wanted to come over or something. Yeah, sure, I guess.]

[Showered, dressed, BART, corner store, Dolores House, all in 45 minutes. We ordered pizza from Goat Hill, the excellent little Potrero Hill joint that we're all glad took over North Beach Pizza's big delivery operation. We watched Bad Santa, which made me laugh, well up once or twice, yearn to write equally stellar dialogue for the screen, and think a lot about the world we live in and life in general, so to speak. I slept on the couch...my first good night's sleep in days.]

[In the morning I got up planning to accompany Allen back downtown, he to the 11:00 service/show at Glide, me to laundry, a haircut... Instead, as we were about to part, I heard myself give a little sigh and walk into the building with him. Even though Glide's certainly not Grace Cathedral, most attendees do tend to try to dress up a little if they're not wearing the same clothes they've slept in on the sidewalk for the last week. Me, I split the difference somewhat in a black T-shirt and these odd, black, flannel-esque sort-of-track pants (inherited from a transient visitor once, don't ask) in which I had slept, albeit under shelter. Oh, and I featured untameable bed head that Allen said worked on me. (He also still calls PBS's News Hour "MacNeil-Lehrer." Goofball.)]

[Didn't matter how I looked, of course, and I rocked and clapped and sang a bit and ogled the many hot homos who I'd forgotten attend. I gave the sermon my undivided attention. It was World AIDS Day Day at Glide, and there was plenty said. I'm not a great believer in destiny or fate, but it certainly seemed fitting, considering what's coming up for me, that today was the first time in well over a year that I went.]

[After it was over, Allen and I walked up Polk Street, had lunch at Pancho's, that nifty taco joint with the best chicken soup in the city, stopped in at the Little Tchotchke Shop to say hi, and then did the Russian Hill/Fisherman's Wharf/Levi's Plaza/Financial District/Union Square walk. (That is too a walk. We invented it.) We hugged good-bye after chortling at prices in Neiman-Marcus for a minute. (Allen kept grabbing stuff and asking "guess how much?' My guesses were always ridiculously low.)]

[As we stood at the end of Pier 39 looking at the bay, Angel Island, and the rest of the world, I felt a huge, tense pressure leave my shoulders and chest, and smiled. "What?" he said. I said "You. Thanks."]

[I have an appointment on Tuesday. I'm not optimistic, but at least I was reminded that I'm not alone.]

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