It's just before midnight on the last evening of this last year. Ten minutes and several songs will pass before I think of anything things else to write besides an expository asside (aside) whatever, can't spell so well and never could.

I can't describe it, but I feel weird, like much weirdness and wonderment, please god be the latter, is afoot... soonish, or not. Maybe it's just the burden of the birth of a new year, which is just another first of january and a hang over and a host of resolutions forgotten over days and weeks, just a series of false starts and casual victories, mixing up the mug full of chamomile tea with the mug full of tequila, taking a hearty of slug of each, the equal absence and promise of all the boys I plan on fucking and not fucking over the course of the next year, another odd year to eat plenty of cryptonite and thrash out my super powers in my imaginary garage.

Just another odd year and another notch on my lifeline, I choose the fortuitous, I choose winning the lottery over the losing encounter with the 71 Haight behemoth of a bus, I am thinking this will might be a very good year.

So here's to us, whoever you are and wherever you are, all my friends and family and all the boys I did love and sort of loved and all those hopeless crushes and we poor desperate romantics still holding out for a fable. Here it is again, the last evening of the last day of this last year, we'll all wake up on Monday to a subtle decimal shift. Everything and nothing will be different, but that is for the poets and the historians to parse, the bloggers will blog and deposed dictators will hang and the earth will continue to spin on it's axis a little warmer perhaps, but the fall out won't be ours. We'll go out in shirt sleeves in december and marvel at the sudden velocity of these fierce new winds. But in the meantime, the sky will still fade over San Francisco to the most heartbreaking blue and the night blooming jasimine will still waft unexpected in damp pockets, and Things Will Change and Things Will Stay the Same, almost, but not quite.

And if you haven't done so already - go out and see Children of Men. It was a matinee after a whole lotta dim sum at yank sing and I can still feel the tension coiling at the base of my spine and snaking through my shoulder blades. It begs the question when to renounce and when to fight, and just how soon will I have to ask that question of myself.

But we are so very, very soft, my charmed fellow americans of the great american upper middle class upbringing, we smart over our fragile egoes and fret over our percieved inadequacies, pop pills like we used to pop pez back when we were smallish and only had to contend with the summer hierarchies of the pool at the tennis club, and the occaisional slumming at the public park pool, though those kids were way more inimidating. I still see them when I go home, I saw them over christmas when I was stocking up on potatoes at safeway dandling babies over shoulders and tear stained toddlers in monster strollers and I felt like an interloper done up in city clothes with LONELY tatooed on my forehead, and at the same time I saw me through their eyes, the girl in the the city clothes with the sack of potatoes with FREE tatooed on her forehead. We might as well have NOBODY WINS tatooed on all of our foreheads.