There was a 4.7 earthquake this morning around 5:30. I was jolted out of bed, the chandelier crashed to the floor, and the Golden Gate bridge collapsed! Actually, it was just a little jolt, and the car alarms didn’t even go off. There’s something very comforting about those little quakes, like the earth’s releasing its tension–the way it would with its boyfriend after their second couple’s counseling session. I’m the kind that falls asleep on the bus, so I wish they’d last a little longer so I could be rocked back to sleep. Instead I sat there wondering why I hadn’t secured that vase to the shelf with museum wax, and what I’d throw on if the Big One was next.
Last night Philip and I had a wonderful meal at Delfina. I mostly complained. #8 this time. Sometimes I wish that the gay community, instead of being divided into twinks, bears, rice queens, chasers, feeders, daddies, sweater queens, tops and bottoms, would have just two communities– “The Marrying Kind” and “Sluts.” It’d be so much easier.