Crashed Out Knee, Wounded Pride

• I am listening to Radio Wimbledon via internet radio while at work. My boss is in Hawaii, bless his heart. All week. Yeeeeah. So, from the round of 16 on, I will have uninterrupted access to The Championships. Also, he's got a sweet TV in his office for the "must see" matches. Tennis, at this point in the summer, is more important to me than food, sleep, crack, sex, validation, good company and (possibly) breathing. If you have the chance, head over to www.wimbledon.org and get in on the radio broadcast if for no other reason that to hear the terribly English commentary, which shall certainly include the action verbs, "crashed," "thumped," "wollop," and "in-rushing."
• Went to the orthopedist this morning, one who deals with knees, not just with ankles and feet (thanks for nothing, Dr. Kim). Apparently, my patella is for shit. 8 weeks of physical therapy, 2 to 3 times a week. And I shan't forget to mention the sexy "knee sleeve" that I'll be wearing for the remainder of the summer. Finally, I'll look like the Globetrotter I know myself to be.
• Pride Parade Sunday is anti-climactic as all hell, especially when you're sober. As I calmly stood watching yesterday's floats, drag queens and Gaysians (Gay Asians), I reflected on Prides past, and turned to my best bud and said, "I don't think I ever got butt wasted on a Pride Day." This statement was met by deep, gutteral laughter. "Umm, remember that one with those guys we met at Hell?" I didn't. Well, not until he jogged my memory. This happens to me a lot. I conveniently forget what a soak I was. The particular Pride in question included drinking myself silly at Garage. My girlfriend at the time was smart, and took off once the all too familiar "Shannon the Unruly" began to appear. Indignant and inebriated, I headed off to Hell. Met 2 dudes at Hell and made fast friends. (When wasted I had a gift for immediate bonding. I'd promise you a kidney, or an ovary, in addition to my pledge of eternal loyalty. Come morning, I didn't know or care who the fuck you were. I didn't know who the fuck I was, let alone HOW I got into your bathtub.) My friend and I, along w/ the 2 Hell dudes, tried to "secretly" smoke pot outside the bar. Giving up, we headed to their apartment where we smoked some more. We then headed to the West End/Pier ?? where I struck up a long conversation with a homeless man to whom I felt supremely connected. Want a kidney, sir? And that's the last thing I remember of that year. Odd that I still called it Pride when it was so apprarent that I had NONE.
• I had a great time this year volunteering for Heritage of Pride at their kick-off event, The Rally. I also did 1 show plus 1 sort of show/MC thing for HIVe. And I was up to my elbows in "community" for the first time in my little blond life. What a wonderful opportunity those experiences were! I contributed. I felt useful, involved and invigorated. My funny had focus, and I got to give it away to people with whom I share an identity. Before, I hid my head in the sand. I'd go to a Pride Parade and I read the Advocate, but that's not the same as being proud of my place in the Queer family. This year I discovered that all of my families run on the same basic principle: you get what you give.