This year marks a significant anniversary for me; it's the year I will have lived in San Francisco longer than I did in Texas, where I was born. Beyond a mere statistic, it is also a great comfort to me. I will be chanting it to myself on Saturday morning, far too early, as I go winging off to Houston for a family visit.
I have a complicated relationship with my family. When I'm with them, they amuse me, sort of, but when I escape back here I find myself with no great desire to return anytime soon. In fact, I haven't been back to Texas in the last six years. I blame George Bush, but the fact that they all, and especially my father, make me sort of crazy might have something to do with it.
My plan stretches no farther than Mexican food for dinner three nights and barbecue and Gulf Coast seafood for the other nights. I had looked into possibly visiting some galleries, but the most interesting one has obviously changed focus, now concentrating on lesbiancentric spoken word. Yo. I think I'll pass.
Trust me when I say none of the boys I ever run across there look like this: