Rebloggin’ myself

As I’m transitioning ye olde (now found at, with archives complete) into this fancy new site of Tumblriciousness, I’m going through some old posts. You know, back when I actually used to write. And was funny. Seriously, some of these are actually pretty good…sigh. How far I’ve fallen. 


Figured, in a bit o’ nostalgia, I’d post some of the older ones that I liked…today’s choice was written about a month after I had officially moved to San Francisco and was clearly in the love affair with a city full o’ fresh blood. You know, fresh meat. YOUNG fresh meat.

Ok, I’ll stop before I sound like I should be the newest character on Twilight, but here ya go, the post entitled “The 1982 Syndrome” first posted on November 21, 2005. Enjoy.


The 1982 Syndrome

In the city by the bay, I’ve noticed many, many trends.

People love flip cup.
There is no ‘off night’ when it comes to the social scene.
Theme parties are the name of the game.

And, the most prevalent of the few, is 1982.

“Nineteen eighty-two?” you say. “What’s that?”

Let’s do the math. Let’s say that you’re a boy (a hot one, at that), and you live in the city. Let’s also just say that you hit on me or that, on the off-chance that you’re THAT cute and I’m THAT drunk, I hit on you. Then, my friend, 1982 is very relavent.

It’s because it was when you were born.

Yes, my friends, my social debut onto the San Francisco social scene clearly coincides with the onset of what I’m now coining “The 1982 Syndrome.” In other words, every guy I meet is 23.

Now, a bit about these youthful lads – in their nubile exuberance, they *ALL* assert that there’s very little difference between 23 and 28, which I, in my not-so-youthful exuberance, know is their futile attempt to get me between the sheets (or at least pressed up against a wall or making out at a club.) You see, I’ve BEEN 23. And to that matter, I’ve also been 24, 25, 26, and 27. At 23, they don’t know better. At 28, I DO.

I’m going to pretend it’s my new-found moisturizing regimen or perhaps the fresh air of the city. But alas, I think it’s just mere demographics – the social scene here spans many ages whereas in Atlanta, it pretty much segregates according to decades. The 23 year-olds play with kids their own age at bars where college fake-id’s are still the norm. The 26 and older crowd, otherwise known as “If you’re not married by now you’d better give up, take up knitting and get a cat”, plays in their own sandbox with their own kind. The young’uns, hypothesizing on what us elders would be discussing at cool East Atlanta bars (besides hemmorhoids, viagra and cat litter) wouldn’t imagine of hitting on one of OUR group; the same is held true conversely. But here,  hallelujah, the plebians mingle with the royalty, the young with the old – caste intermingling is the norm. And – Bobbi Brown cosmetics or demographics aside – the true beauty of being 28 is not just that we know better; it’s that we know better but are wise enough to do it anyway.

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