Real Gold

[Mom's recent email reports that Dad's heart rate is an even 59 bpm. So that's good.]

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[I swallowed whole Armistead Maupin's newest novel, Michael Tolliver Lives, in three hours yesterday evening at Borders. (I will be purchasing it at an indy, probably City Lights, of course.) Except for two misspellings of San Francisco place names which recurred and for which he or his editor should be ashamed, I was completely satisfied.]

[Maupin's writing has grown, of course, since the six Tales of the City books ceased in 1989. This novel brings together just about all the characters we knew from those books, and certainly throws in a few of the ludicrous plot twists for which marked them as well, but does it in the more serious voice of The Night Listener. He says this isn't part seven in the series, and the tone (and the first-person narration) makes me say "OK, this doesn't have to be a sequel if you don't want it to be."]

[Oh, that...and the sex! Did you ever notice that, for a series with such a depraved reputation in certain parts of freedom's land, there's no actual description of sexual activitiy in Tales of the City? Maupin rectifies that omission in this book, if omission is what it was. (Also? How come I don't know any transgender people to speak to in San Francisco? My social network could be based in Billings for all its "diversity.")]

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[My birthday celebration was wonderful, once the guest list was nailed down and people started to show. I'd made the reservation for twelve people at six at Chow (making sure the restaurant had a high chair for the Niece Audrey), and asked people to show up for drinks at the Pilsner between 5 and 5:30. Simple enough, right? No. First, my sister wasn't sure the Niece could handle the setting (read: her parents didn't want to have adjacent tables staring as the Niece screeched and threw food), so my brother-in-law might just stay home with her. (They all ended up coming, and Audrey was a trouper; she even managed to get kicked out of the Pilsner after twenty minutes). And too many other invitees just weren't sure if they could come. I was scrambling with various lists in my head for days, adding and subtracting names, and generally giving the whole thing the stress I'd sworn to forego for once. And that whole "between and 5:30 thing?" I was sitting alone at the Pilsner at 5:40, nursing the one drink I'd decided to buy myself, and feeling like Martha Plimpton in 200 Cigarettes. Ah, well; ten sat down to dinner; it was wonderful; and those who were so inclined repaired to nightcaps to Martuni's afterwards, since Sean had to work and couldn't make dinner.]

[A moment for that walk from Chow to Martuni's, four long Market Street blocks. A warm evening (no common thing in San Francisco in June), two het couples: Mom and Dad (holding hands), and Jessica and Bob (commenting on the architecture - first time I'd met this fiance of Jess's, by the way, and we approve); and Allen and me, single but as attached as two friends could be. At some point, I Felt The Love. (The next morning, I Felt The Hangover.]

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[I hesitate to make too much of this, but it's crossed my mind a couple of times, so I'm gonna go ahead and share: I managed to please three important parts of myself in the days surrounding my birthday: blazing, uncomplicated sex (I'm telling you, it had been a long time); precious time with loved ones; and a return to a literary universe which felt both familiar and challenging. Three cups, important to me, ran over spectacularly, if only for a period of a few hours in each case. There was plenty of drudgery and dread in the same four-day period, filling in the crevices or maybe even taking more of my time and attention than the good stuff. But damn...real gold!]

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