When I was a kid, we had Christmas traditions. My parents were divorced shortly before I was born so I never knew a Christmas with the whole family, but my father always outdid himself on this holiday. Every year we'd get a Douglas Fir tree from the corner lot. There were rigid specifications for this tree: it had to be somewhere between 6' - 7' tall, perfect conical shape, no large gaps, holes or mangy looking needles, and an extra straight branch coming out of the top so he could attach his English Palace Guard doll (complete with opening and closing eyes) to the top. But this only after the small, colored (*never* flashing) lights were meticulously attached to the tree and each ornament painstakingly positioned just so on the branch God created for that particular little bobble. He'd always humor me and let me decorate it, but until I had grown older and become as anal-compulsive as he was, he'd always sneak in after I'd done and do some rearranging. He'd put tangerines and walnuts at the bottom of our stockings, play Christmas carols on the radio all night, and make us a special breakfast on Christmas morning after we tore through opening our gifts. I miss those days.

This year I spent Christmas eve over at my sister's place in Pacifica, a sleepy suburban town just south of San Francisco on the ocean. After dinner, Nicole (11), Jessica (8 years old on Wednesday) and I went for a drive around the neighborhood. Densely populated by eBay junkies, home shopping club fiends and mall rats, Pacifica is always a holiday showcase for absurdly over-the-top yet remarkably beautiful Christmas light displays. This year's hot ticket items: giant inflatable lit up Frosty-the-Snowmen and animatronic reindeer. We listened to the hip hop radio station and took long-exposure photos of the lights before returning to await Santa's arrival. Erica's fiance John and his 16-year-old son Shane joined us after dinner and as my nieces fell asleep, Shane climbed up onto the roof and stomped around for a good five minutes to ensure Jessica was appropriately convinced of Santa's existence and at least a little bit scared shitless.

After a wonderful morning with the family, I headed back to San Francisco to see what kind of trouble I could get up to on Christmas Day. Living in a town of transplants, most of my friends were off visiting their families in other states, so I had the day to myself. I put on a backpack full of provisions and off I went on a solo journey through the streets of San Francisco. You probably don't need me to tell you that on Christmas Day, the streets of San Francisco are full of weirdos. I met and talked to several of them. I wondered if I was one of them. I called my friend Paul and ended up comfortably deposited on his couch drinking peppermint schnapps and watching a fantastic flick entitled Seeing Other People, about a couple who, three months before their wedding day, decide to try out a little organized infidelity. Especially if you're one of my crazy polyamory inquisitive friends; go see it.

Sunday night Grenache and I went to see a peculiar little movie; a docudrama about quantum physics and the blurring between science and religion called "What the #$*! Do We Know!?" It was panned by the critics and I'll admit, it had its painfully cheesy moments (e.g., ad nauseum repetition of the question, "How far down the rabbit hole do you want to go?"), but the underlying message spoke to me loud and clear. It's about self-identity, patterns of behavior and addiction, (I'm not talking substances here, rather emotional responses that we allow to control our actions) and asserting our own free will to create the environment we want for ourselves rather than allowing our environment to create us. It's about harnessing energy to bring about positive change. It's gotten me thinking. If everyone on this earth did what they were truly capable of, sought to attain their highest goals, acted with their greatest intelligence and intention for action, imagine what a different world this would be.

And then a 9.0 earthquake hit, causing a major tsunami and killing tens of thousands in one of the greatest natural disasters in history. Entire villages, gone. Families separated. The already suffering tourism-reliant economies of Southeast Asia, particularly Indonesia, may never fully recover from a tragedy of this magnitude. Krabi, Thailand; Penang, Malaysia; Madras, India; three places I visited during my recent travels to Asia were devastated. Marina Beach in Madras is where Chris and I saw a dead man who'd drowned during a festival on our first day in India. I thank the powers that be that I am home safe, and feel mournful for those who chose this year to make their travel dreams come true and ended up giving their lives.

Today I got news that an old family friend of ours and a dear friend of my mother's, a beautiful woman by the name of Feather, has cancer that has metastasized to parts of her brain, causing her to lose her ability to see, speak and think clearly. She will go home from the hospital in a few days to live out her remaining time while receiving hospice care. My sister and I will go visit her in the hospital tomorrow, something that is painful and all too familiar to both of us.

I wish you all the very best for 2005. Resolve to live it well and fully. Take risks. Make difficult decisions. Love recklessly. Do what you've always dreamed of doing. Not just for yourself, but for everyone around you. Happy New Year.

My subconscious is speaking to me. Loudly. Two mornings this week, I've awaken on the verge of tears in the midst of intense dreams about India. The dreams themselves were not of any particular note, or at least I don't recall the details, but the feeling of waking up practically choking down sobs is one that shakes me to the core. I'd like to blame Don, since that's where we met and these dreams began the first night he arrived in San Francisco, but if he has anything to do with it, it's simply as a catalytic kick to my subliminal mind. I need to start writing this stuff down.

Sunday night, I went with my good friend Grenache as his date for his company's holiday party to see Teatro Zinzanni, a dinner theater unlike any other. The food was delectable. I don't eat cows or bivalves and so opted for the veggie pot pie. The show was surprising, hilarious, impressive and more baudy than I could have hoped. A tango dancer named Antonio whisked me from the table into a brief lambada and handed me his business card, which read:

Antonio
Made in Argentina
"The vertical talent of a horizontal desire"

As they say, "We realize you have a choice in circus cabaret five-course-dinner theater comedy shows, and we'd like to thank you for choosing Teatro Zinzanni."

After downing a few free key lime martinis at Teatro, I met up with Don at the Red Eye Lounge for my roommate's friend's monthly house/breaks party. As I considered what types of people had the energy or flex-schedules to stay out all night on a Sunday (aside from underemployed post-travel slackers such as myself), we headed to a nearby underground party. Turns out the party was in DeKroon Salon and Spatopia, smack across the street from the Banana Republic flagship store. The shampoo bowls served as ice bins and the massage rooms were converted to chill spaces. I mentioned to Don that it wasn't ideal being at a hairdressers' party with my locks in their current state (I can't afford a haircut) and who should appear but Ilona, my stylist from a few years ago who I'd originally been referred to by a Chinese drag queen at Asia SF. She offered me a free haircut in recognition of all the long-term clients I'd referred to her. Word!

Imagine if you will. It's a sunny Saturday afternoon. It's your wedding day. You're outside having your wedding photos taken on an expansive lawn across from a church in downtown San Francisco. It's the holiday season, and while you've always wondered if there was truly a Santa Claus, you were not prepared for the proof that will come on this day. While posing with your parents and new spouse, you hear a distant chant coming closer with every moment. "I'm the real Santa! I'm the real Santa!" Within seconds, 200 Santa Clauses appear above a grassy knoll. They descend upon you, encircling you from all sides. They photograph you, jostle you, discombobulate your neatly-quaffed wedding hair, suspend mistletoe over your head and insist on a kiss. You smile; wince almost, hoping if you display pleasure they may scurry off so the focus will once again return to you. Your professional wedding photographer is having a field day. Thankfully, they soon move a short way off and begin engaging in a game of extreme dodgeball, grass staining their suits and falling all over one another in a drunken stupor as onlookers watch, nonplussed with mouths agape, leaving you to your nuptial bliss.

That's Santa Anarchy folks, and that's how I spent last Saturday. Tightly wound in a red vinyl and white fur Santa Suit, holding hands with a corduroy clad Don (who happened to be visiting San Francisco just in time for the Cacophony Society's annual Santa soire); drinking, running through the streets, stopping traffic, evading police and security, inadvertently scaring small children, dumbfounding tourists, modeling in department store windows, taking over public arenas in mock protest, cramming bars to the rafters, and, oh yes, tormenting hapless wedding parties. It was more fun than a bowl full of jelly. Happy holidays everyone. Enjoy the photos. (And please excuse the pathetic site. My gallery is down and I was in a pinch.)

Friday I danced to some grubby beats at the Brass Tax monthly at Amnesia and Saturday night I took my nieces to Gian's (Stacy's fiancee) birthday party at Sea Bowl (not to be confused with my employer Siebel). Sea Bowl is a lot more fun I was told there would be black lights and so dressed for the occasion, but was informed Astro Bowl Night was on Friday. I would put a photo here of me suggestively cupping two neon yellow bowling balls, but my hosting company has just informed me I'm more than twice over my account limit. Must be all those novel-length blog entries.

Biking by Golden Gate Park on Saturday, I stopped to talk to Suny, a homeless woman hunkered down on the sidewalk over an assortment of old handheld videogames. She wore her jacket hood over her head and to her hat was pinned a large, round button: "ASK ME ABOUT THE NORDSTROM REWARDS PROGRAM!" She made me laugh and told me about her life on the streets since she left Tennessee for San Francisco in 1971. She thanked me for stopping to talk. I wondered why I had, but felt happy I did.

Jai left last Monday and we spent his final day together over brunch and a long conversation at the beach complete with a technicolor sunset. It was hard to say goodbye. Since our first meeting while trekking together in Nepal, he has become a true friend. I've muddled through a lot of emotion and thought in the past months since coming home and Jai has always been here to talk and provide an often-needed reminder that my real happiness is right... here. He's on his way back to India via the Philippines but I am optimistic I can expect an appearance from the Hippy from Mississippi at Burning Man 2005.

I'm trying not to beat myself up over the fact that these four day weekends that were meant to be used to focus on life planning and higher goal seeking, I must admit I've been dragging my feet a bit on writing the Great American Novel. The weather has been gorgeous (until today) and on the days when others are working, I feel like I'm stealing time and better make good use of it. Why go grocery shopping on Saturday when you can go on Monday? And so it goes. I am hoping the set-up of my office at home will pave the way toward structure and unwavering discipline. Ooh! I think I'll organize my travel photos.