THANK GOD THAT’S OVER
Last year bit monkey butt. I spent too much time helping laid off friends move out of the city, fearing for my own job, dating boys who weren’t nearly nice enough to me, and crying in front of the evening news. I rang in the new year from the hill in Dolores Park. There were fireworks, many drunken friends, a communal bottle of champagne, and a boy who is unusually nice to me. Also, there was a naked guy. He stripped around 11:57 p.m., then ran up and down the muddy hill, sliding and diving into the puddles while we chanted, “NAK-ED GUY! NAK-ED GUY!” It was the best. Any year that begins with a muddy streaker is a year I can get behind. Happy 2002.