It was the year of the Rat. It was the year Britney Spears disappointed her two fans. It was the year of a total lunar eclipse. It was the year Daylight Savings Time was moved to a week later. It was the year Paris Hilton went to jail. It was the year Paris Hilton got out of jail. It was the year everyone hated Paris Hilton the most.

It was the year I fell in love with this song:


and this song:

and this BRILLIANT song and even more BRILLIANT video:

It was the year I fell in love with this book and this book. The year I fell in love with this movie and this T.V. show.

It was the year I discovered that I am a whole lot stronger than I even knew was possible.
It was the same year I discovered I can be weak. So weak.

It's funny how we look at our life in years and times and parts and segments. It's easier for our brains to wrap around the pieces of our lives than to look back at its total. It allows us to give excuses: "I was going through a rough time then... thats why I didn't finish that book." or "I hated my job then, that's why I gained so much weight." or "I had to move in to a new apartment that's why my brain is such a mess."

Each year and the older I get I start to realize that the segments are what make the whole so much better. You see yourself evolving and getting better... or you see yourself falling apart. But you see yourself at a distance... and you can see the people that you are spending this life with and how great they are and you can see the things that you love make you happier and you can see the things that you hate make you weaker and you can see the things that you get to look forward to.

It was year that makes another year coming seem exciting. Happy 2007. Hello 2008.

Babies. They're kind of everywhere. Strapped to a dad's back. Pushed in strollers. Cute strollers. Expensive strollers like this one that I love. They kind of are everywhere. Even at Gay bars.

OK. So. Not so much at gay bars as much as they are talked about there. I know. You're thinking. What? Babies at bars... at GAY bars?! It's not the topic of conversation you'd expect while one swigs back a fourteen dollar cocktail or scopes out the jean brand. But, for the first time I had a full fledge conversation about being a dad with two dads.

It's Friday night and the bar is packed. My two good friends are flirting in the corner and I'm just trying to make conversation until they are ready to drive me home. See, normal conversations that I've experienced at bars tend to go like this:

"So, what do you do?"
or
"So, you smell good... what are you wearing?"
or
"I love this song!" ENTER DANCE SEQUENCE HERE.

But that night in between the calculated beats of some Euro-pop-dance song two guys started talking about there kids... their THREE kids.

"We've been together for twenty-four years." One says as he sips his beer. He looks over at his partner and they shake their head in the way you shake your head when you are shocked to say some truth out loud.

"Wow." I say.

"Yeah. We just sent our oldest son to college this past fall. It was tough."

"What!? Wait... really? So you had kids pretty young..."

"Yeah, our second year of being together. We got our friend as a surrogate and from there we had three boys."

"That's... that's so cool..." I say shocked. I step to the side to get out of a tight t-shirt wearing guys way to the bar. "You just don't see that a lot... and sometimes I feel like an idiot for wanting things you don't think anyone else wants..."

"You want kids?" One asks.

"Yeah. I do..." I say probably revealing too much disappointment in my voice.

"But...?"

"Well... you know... some things haven't worked out in the last couple of months and maybe I'm too young and I don't know if I can do it yet..."

"But you want kids?"

"For sure."

"Then it will happen. Believe me. It will happen."

See. That's the thing. When you believe in something for so long and that something doesn't go in the way you believed it was going to go... you start losing the ability to want to believe. It's easier to just assume that whatever happens will happen and your hope and desires are just a big distraction from what is intended for you in life. You get older. Things happen that you just weren't expecting and it's easier to just go day to day with acceptable expectations... not expectations that are so out of the world it would be insane to admit them.

But then you see people who have met those expectations. And you start to realize why you like babies and want to have kids of your own. To show and to share with someone else, your little baby someones, that life is pretty cool if you just believe it's going to be cool.

Sometimes I do things I can not explain.

Carrie Bradshaw(suck it up, folks, Sex and the City is here to stay) called it her S.S.B. You know, her "Secret Single Behavior".

I like to clip my toe nails on the floor of the bathroom in my underwear while listening to music. I like to pile my magazines yet to be read by the side of my bed so it looks like I have read them. I like to sing really loud to my new favorite songs while pretending I wrote them.

It's what I do, let it go.

But sometimes I do things that necessarily don't involve being single... they involve being me.

For three months I taught high schoolers creative writing on the southside. Now, when I say southside, do this: Extend your arm straight so your elbow is not bent. OK. Good. Now, see the very tip of your middle finger? Cool. That's where I live in the city of Chicago. Now, you know where your shoulder is? Yeah. That's where the school I taught was at. Right there. Far.

But in those three months I had to take public transportation. The El. The Red Line. But, my co-teacher Molly, had to transfer to this. So, I would have to get off at a stop to wait for her so we could ride the train together.

Now, at the time, I would have denied doing this because it just seems strange. But, now that I think about it... I miss it.

I would leave earlier than I would have to so I could get to this stop. It's the Jackson Red Line stop. It's bright and renovated and is in the middle of the city. But, I would get to that stop early so I could sit on the benches... and enjoy the show.

There's a guy there who is homeless. I mean, he says he's homeless, but then you see his kick-ass DJ equipment and speakers and microphone and the CD's of his music and you might think otherwise. But he's homeless.

He's a rapper. He's this tall lanky African-American guy who has eyes that look like they could pool out words instead of tears if he cried. You can just look at him and know he is going to say something that would change you.

So, for three months I would tell Molly I'd see her at three, but I would get there a half hour early so I could see this guy. I wouldn't talk to him. I'd actually sit on the bench close enough to hear him rap in to his little speaker system with my journal and just write. He has these pre-recorded beats. Good beats. Think Lauryn Hill beats. And then he throws the words. And they are good. They are about homelessness and not being listened to and about the people he has met and about the things he had been through: murder, rape, losing his wife to a sickness. All the while trains whiz by and people get off and on and the beats he's rapping pick-up when it's quiet.

Finally, Molly would pick me up and we would get on the train to go teach and I would look forward to going back to hear the guy the next day.

I thought about buying his CD. I thought about giving him more money. I thought about talking to him and finding out who he was. This is the Wisconsin in me. We like to reach out and talk. Let it go.

The funny thing is... I miss him. A part of me wants to go and just sit there and listen and be that weird person you occasionally see hanging out at the subway stations and not really getting on the trains. The other part of me doesn't get why I care so much.

But sometimes there's no explaining why we do the things we do... we just have to do them because we are supposed to. I like clipping my nails the way I do. I don't know why. I don't get how it came to be that way, but I love it. The same way I don't know why this guy's music gets to me so much. But that's how it is.

It's the real S.S.B. --"Secret Subway Behavior."

My mom is sweet and likes to do sweet things. This includes giving me an Advent Calendar. You know, Advent Calendar--the thing that has little windows that you pop open on days before Christmas. Usually, inside are little chocolates in holiday-inspired shapes.

Well, you know, I've been busy.

So, today, I caught up and ate fourteen days of Christmas. Last Tuesday was a stocking. Last Saturday was a teddy bear wearing a santa hat.

Next Friday will be a gut and it will be mine.

Last night I could have died.

See, that's not supposed to sound as dramatic as it does. Really, though, it was the first thought that came to mind.

This is how it went: I got out of a long day working at this gallery I am working at for the holidays. I was in a rush. I was supposed to run to a client to drop of some work I had wrote for them at one place and then drop of some cards I made for another client and then meet up with my friends back in my neighborhood. I had my ipod ear in one ear and I was checking voice mails in the other. As I was whipping around some slow walkers I turned the corner on the sidewalk and BAM!!!!!!!

Pause. In Chicago and probably cities in the mid-west there is this phenomenon called "Snow." And "Snow(we capitalize for the dramatics here, people.) turns into slush or mush or my personal favorite... ice.
But, I know you're thinking... "oh, he's totally going to say he slipped and fell or ran in to someone or..." Stop. You're not there. Because, also a phenomenon in the mid-west and in Chicago are these tall buildings that have many floors and if you look up... are close to the sky.

These buildings hold snow which when it rains and gets colder turns to ice... and as it melts... it falls from floors and floors and heights and then land... some place.

There are these signs on the sidewalks that will tell you: "Watch for falling ice." But as a Chicagoian for six years(Happy Anniversary Chicago!) I have not once seen this happen or have had it happen to me...

Until last night.

As I turned the corner a giant slab of ice fell on top of me. It felt like glass. It felt like books falling from shelves and then it felt like I was going get dizzy and fall myself.

A gaggle of old women were walking by with shopping bags in arms. I don't remember much of the incident, but I remember one of the old women running over to me and screaming "YOU POOR BABY!!!" But then I saw a few spots and stumbled on to the sidewalk got woozy in the stomach and closed my eyes. All this happened in a seconds.

The old woman shook me and I stood straight again. "Do you need an ambulance! Shirley! Your cell phone! Call someone!" I looked over to who I thought was Shirley and shook my head no.

"No... I think I'm OK."

But I wasn't. Sure. I was physically ok(That's sorta a lie... I was blurry for a bit and had a huge headache), but I wasn't mentally OK. It was sort of a reality check. A sign. A brick across the face kind of thing. I am going to admit this as long as this stays here and all over the internet... I still think I am invincable.

You know that thing you are when you are a kid--naive and believe nothing bad can happen to you... only to others. Yeah. I still had that mentality. Sure. I know we are all going to die and things can happen but it's not until it hits you in the head when you realize you've got to get it together. "It' being perspective.

As I rode the bus home skipping meeting clients and just wanting to be with my two friends, I sat next to a girl listening to hear ipod adding two plus two and trying to remember old addresses and phone numbers to triple check if I was OK. But I was also thinking about waking up. Slowing down. And seeing the big picture.

The big picture would be a law suit. I could totally own that hotel right now. Totally.

It was at a benefit party for Prada last week with my editor from New City Magazine and good friend, Molly Each, when I discovered I had a problem.
Molly, she's this adorable Minnesotan with a mid-western heart that totally matches mine. But, right now, we pretend we are from no other place than money because it is apparent that is where the other party-goers are from.

Sidenote: I love Prada. I can't afford it right now. But I love it. I tried on this black fitted oxford shirt that fit me like the designer said: "Eh, that-a-Byron-kid, over-a-in the U.S. of A. This should be-a his."(That's my best attempt at Italian dialog). Because it fit like it was built for me. And then when I looked at the price tag is said my rent and then I put the shirt back and pouted because my rent is for rent and not a shirt that was made for me... not yet, at least.

Anyway. So, Molly and I are looking at all the goers. They're all pretty and drinking sugary cocktails. They look tan and most are in their early to mid thirties.

Molly: "Wow, this is like something from T.V."
Me: "I know, it's like that episode of Sex And The City where..."

And there it was... my problem.

Let's backtrack. Let's backtrack way back. How about since the first time I saw the show Sex And The City. I remember it as if it where the day my first child was born. It was summer and I was house sitting for a family member. It was bored and lonely and they had a million channels. Now, I had heard of this show through media and magazines, but when I stumbled upon it--well, I fell in love.

It was the city. I was still going to my first year of college in a school that had more field than classrooms. This isn't what I wanted and I would have done anything to get out. But the city seemed so far... metaphorically, of course. I would have to transfer colleges and tell my parents and, my God, telling my parents I wanted to move to a city... well, I might as well told them I was gay. Oh. Ha. Well...

Anyway, an obsession is born. And it wasn't until years later where I own every season on DVD and since it was the only DVD collection I had, I watched them religiously. And, folks, what happens when we watch something too many times? You memorize them? You quote them. A lot.

And my friends, well, they are good people. Some of them love the show just as much as me and will laugh when I scream something like: "Set a date! SET A DATE!" or "Shoes, shoes I know." But others(hi Josh!) hate it... but tolerate it.

But here's the real deal: I do it because I am proud. It's like people who go through years of med school and then become doctors and use that information with pride--because they succeeded in what they truly wanted: to be a doctor. I, well, I wanted to live in the city and now I am.

And better yet. I am at Prada about to quote an episode that I adore. Yes, it may be a problem to be predictable enough to most people that know me to use some Carrie Bradshaw quote... but that's me. One day it will get old(ha! Yeah right). But it's just a part of me... and it's totally something that got me to where I am now.

It's like this one episode of Sex And The City where Carrie is dating the city. Season five, disk one, episode 1: She's walking down wet pavement in an alley after just making out with a sailor that she realizes got nothing on her real man... the city. Because that is her first love. Because that is who she is--where she lives and how she got to be who she is.

So, the other night Josh and I got drunk and...

PAUSE.

OK. So, I am noticing lately that a lot of my stories or starting off that way. Whether it is here or in my journal or when I am at a bar... um. Wow. Bar. OK. So. Anyway, my stories are involving a lot more alcohol than usual.

But, anyway, we are drunk and it's the third day of Hanukkah. Josh is Jewish. Yah Jews! And per my fascination with the Jews and all they do, Josh invited me over for a traditional dinner of Latkes. They're these potato pancake-like goodies that you eat with--prepare yourself, here-- sour cream or apple sauce. Are you kidding me! Do you know how much this rocks?

Before we ate though, he lit the menorah and sang the traditional prayer. I watched from his leather chair. You know when you're at the zoo and a cute animal is doing something that you just didn't realize cute animals could do? Now, I'm not saying Jews are cute animals... they are cute... but not animals. But what I am saying is that I stared at Josh like he was a total different person.

It's layers. Like the latkes he was making. You have the crust--our outsides--the stuff you see everyday. Then, sometimes when the timing is just right, you get that center. The part that you cut in to and is the whole reason why you're eating something... or friends with someone. Josh is a funny guy that makes me laugh and is as talented as they come. But when you see someone in this place where you've never seen them before you start to realize how we are just layers and the longer and better you know someone, the more those layers peel off and the greater the flavor. As he prayed, I saw him in that exact place. I saw him bigger and greater and it made me realize how lucky I am to be friends with anyone-- Josh and so many of the people that I share my life with.

Life is sort of better that way... sharing it with good people.
Being drunk once in a while makes it fun, too.
Also, pictures of Byron making Latkes make it better:

So, the other day I lied to my UPS man.
Lying to your UPS man. Yeah. This is low.

But in my defense, I was out all night before. Late. Very late. Like, I actually can't call it "night" because it was very clearly the morning.

But when your door buzzes at nine in the morning after only four hours of sleep and you decide to not ignore it and actually go down your stairs to see who is buzzing you instead of pressing the "Listen" button to hear who it is, you will experience this:

"Hi, I have a package." Mr. UPS says. He's a nice guy, tall, deep voice. He points to a giant box. I had forgotten that my parents had purchased me one of my Christmas presents online-- a new table for my t.v.
"It's heavy, do you need me to carry it up?"

I looked at the box. I mean, it didn't look heavy... and, um, there's this thing I do with straight guys. I try to compete with them. Not like "who can drink more beer..." OK, I've done that. More in the way of: " I can do anything you can do better." way. I think this stemmed from Boy Scouts where I just had to compete to stay up to par with the other guys that actually liked doing the stuff Boy Scouts are supposed to like doing. I also think this stems from living in a dorm for a year and a half. I think this also stems from me being hungover in that moment and not thinking clearly.

"Naw, dude. I got it."

"You sure? It's really heavy."

"Um, yeah. I can do this." And then I scoff at him. My eyes are barely open. I am wearing no shoes and my hair looks like I slept upside down.

"OK. Cool." He says as he hands me my signed slip.

And then there was the box.
And, uh, it was heavy.

I stood there shoe-less looking like a mess with a box I could barely even push while shivering in my apartment lobby.

In that moment, I had never felt more helpless. Sure, I have one flight of stairs to get up. Sure, I could have told the UPS man... "Yes, yes I do need help." Sure, I could have not gone out the night before. But you don't think about these things until you are hunched over and scooching a box a centimeter at a time.
So, then, I thought about it. Just for a second I tried to think what I should do... should I tough it out? Should I try to getting a hernia to prove I am a tough guy? Should I call my straight friend Josh(Um, Byron, doesn't that cancel our your whole straight guy issue?) or...

"WAIT!" I yelled to the UPS guy who was half way down the sidewalk to his truck. He turned around with a smile on his face as if he knew this all was going to happen. As if he was counting backwards waiting for me to scream for help.

He helped me. I went back to bed. I learned that you shouldn't lie to your UPS man because a hernia is not worth sucking it up to a bulky straight guy that clearly knows your weight class.