I am a frighteningly lucky man.
How many of us get to say that, or more to the point, how many of us are willing to say that, seeing as how it creates a vulnerability, or at least constitutes a tender admission?
Yes, Gentle Readers, I am prompted to speak (again) in such abstruse abstractions because of a specific, very clear, concrete experience: an old new-friend has come back to San Francisco for a visit.
This is a man who traffics is good will and smiles and conviviality. I have not seen in quite a long time, and it’s an even longer time measured by when I met him: quite a few of us were out at the Edge for Friday Happy Hour (or, as I call it, “Church”) and I had come to the realization that most of these men I had met only last August, just ten short months ago.
“Nuh uh!” I said aloud (and then again immediately to myself, just for effect), as it sunk in.
Now, this usually would be no big deal—I meet new folks all the time—but you have to understand the simple loveliness of these guys. The group contains within it, old friends (as in, back to high school, maybe even grade school) and new friends (as in me, back to August 2002). Some memberships last, some are just now-and-then, but all in all, a cohesive, friendly, supportive, funny-as-fuck group.
They are all of those good things we know exist out there, but are rarely reminded of. I consider myself reminded.