A New Dawn in the Chinnyverse

Anna May Wong, The Marina and Free Flowing Wine...

Bringing in the new year with bubbly

With every stroke of my eyeliner from its inky pot, I tried to highlight my shared ethnic experience with the late, great Anna May Wong. Usually even before the clock strikes midnight, it has been said "Oh Chinny turns into a pumpkin", a joke chortled years ago when I was queuing for a corporate holiday party with my then-boyfriend-now-husband and my longtime neighbor-and-friend, the Girl Next Door. Tonight I was adamantly concerned about two things: 

1. making sure the Mister didn't over exert himself as he had become uncharacteristically sick (he is a germaphobe only rivaled by that of Adrian Monk so this had to be one Mother of a bug) 
2. AND that I could stay up past 10.

I routinely get tired at 9 PM so to prepare for all-night partying I had painstakingly planned ahead: long, sufficient napping and guzzling caffeine. 

I studied my handiwork in the mirror. I hoped to see Anna May Wong in the mirror. I fantasized a period piece recasting of Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries, headlining Anna May Wong as Miss Fisher herself, cutting rugs with vampy hellcat swagger. I tried to recreate her face on my own, though I know quite well I am about four or five times her size. Her lithe, willowy figure was hopelessly unattainable on such short notice. But I tried to recreate her infamous half smile, the half upturned lip curled like she was in possession of some kind of delicious secret. I somehow wanted to imprint her likeness onto my own features.

Let the metamorphosis begin.

As I observed my modern recreation of her look: those plum red lips, pink rouge dusted across my cheek bones, darkened eyes and thin eyebrows...I was proud. Without spending a dime...save for the long drop necklace and rose gold card holder I picked up the day before, I had managed to put together from my closet of retro-modern wonders...a whole outfit befitting any 1920s sucker like myself. Using my mother's long forgotten 70s does 20s black maxi two layered dress complete with open weave sheath complete with fringe and a vintage beaded emerald jacket sourced from a local East Bay shop, I literally stepped into the past. And for the final touch, I straightened a little black turban and pinned a bejeweled brooch as a conversation starting head-piece and slipped into comfortable black Mary Janes. I hoped I did Anna May justice, and lived up to her good name. I wanted to be an old Hollywood vamp, I wanted to be Velma Kelly, I wanted to be Miss Fisher rolling out of her Hispano Suiza, I wanted the old glamor and the good times. 

"You know When Harry Meets Sally?" I kept asking anyone who I would listen to my reasoning for deciding to do a big blow out NYE instead of our usual fancy low key dinner with a champagne toast at home then bed. 

"...No, I never saw that movie," Zenana said honestly, sipping on bad Cab.

"Well," I continued. "Harry and Sally have a fight and then they are reunited on New Year's Eve at this ballroom party with a big band, dancing and a champagne toast. It's just kind of a bucket list thing I wanted to do before we may have kids you know? I'm going to be 27 and I know I'll eventually have to be a non-selfish responsible adult so I figure gotta go big and go home?"

Everyone nodded almost in unison. Of course, K was past 27, but the rest of us were just on the cusp of what has been in our mainstream, even pop culture a really big deal. After some thought provoking soul searching while in Japan, I have come to the personal realization that for myself, 27 is sort of a metaphorical turnstile. I can practically hear The Phantom belting out his dark passionate pleas of "Past the Point of No Return." I was never a great or enthused mathematician but I do know a bit about rounding. 27 is a lot closer to 30 than it is to 20. 3 years away from 30. I remember when I would sit watching "Friends" and saw Joey Tribbiani devolve into hysterical sobs on his 30th birthday thinking to myself, "But it'll be a million years before THAT happens to me."  

"WHY GOD WHY? LET THE OTHERS GROW OLD NOT ME! WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO US?

But here I am 3 years from the big 3-0 and I'm not upset anymore upset being 27  than I will in 3 years when I'm 30. Growing old is not the scariest shit in the world, not after surviving 2017 and yet there's even more to come in 2018 with the political state of the world. Who knows maybe I won't have to even consider growing up to 30! But the fact of the matter is, I wanted the big party with a balloon drop, champagne toasts, people in sauntering about in soiree attire - I wanted a grown-up party, because it hit me...I am a real adult and there's no going back. Every year I will keep getting older and the responsibility will start piling up.

After applying the last touches to our outfits, nail stickers and fake lashes, we step out into the night. What better place to be than in San Francisco at a Great Gatsby party with your loved ones? 

Let's party bitches.

We had our last meal of the year at a local sushi joint just down the street from the party location. Our luck was really on the up that particular evening, because we were the second group admitted into the establishment and the hostess graciously pointed us in the direction of a free "perch" so to speak. Seated on a high backed sofa on the landing above the reserved tables and island center bar, we observed the movements of other guests and frantic staff who were buzzing around the rooms carrying trays of ice and champagne flutes. Sipping on wine, gin and tonics and Palomas, I muttered my disappointment no one else had put as much effort into their period garb as I have. "Did they even try? Did they just go to Party City?" I growled.

Most were wearing two piece suits, blazers wrinkled and discarded the more alcohol was consumed. Geometric patterned sequin or cheap beaded dresses were scattered around the many rooms. We winced in unison as several glasses were smashed despite the well placed carpeting in the event this very incident was due to occur, it became glaringly apparent that not even carpet could spare the glassware from becoming another casualty of sloppy partying Marinaians this night. 

"How the fuck are they managing to do that? Still, it's nothing compared to before. Those sake bombs had me traumatized," Morningside said to me over the pulsing music. I rolled my eyes in agreement while K added, "Fucking disrespectful partying culture of course will bastardize anything." We had endured a jarring experience hours before at dinner when a crew had decided to abruptly subject the once peaceful dining room at the sushi joint in table pounding, glass clanking chanting. Their sake shot glasses feebly balanced on chopsticks placed over fat foaming beer glasses, crashed into the suds below, the alcohol mingling violently, flecks of it sprinkling the acrylic tables.

I also noted that among the other guests there were only a few token people of color as dates or friends. "Well...There isn't much diversity in Gatsby themed parties," my friend smartly interjected amidst my astute observation. Among the general merriment, there were simply no people of color. We were "it." She was right, of course she was right.

(Enter audible sigh here.) I should have known better. Even in Baz Lurhman's recent Gatsby production, it was pretty damn white. Flashes of "color" were intercut in scenes of mad mayhem, big band numbers and a lot of choppy editing, but only as serving people or essentially stage props. Media and programming (there's a reason we call it programming after all) like to rely on the narrative that people of color, queer folk and anyone who isn't mainstream...just seem to not exist in history. Hence why people like Anna May Wong are so important and deserve more attention and notoriety so people like us aren't left out of entertainment. There needs to be a reflection of the masses so there is always a person we can aspire to be like. 

As I adjusted my fabulous but bloody unreliable earrings at the bar, I encountered a few of these Marinaian females who ventured to mention in passing, "You're beautiful" "I love your hat" "Your outfit is amazing." The comments while casual and fleeting, they were undeniably appreciated. As I finished adjusting my stupid earring that I would eventually lose that night (I wasn't even in a drunken stupor when it happened, there was really no excuse) and I smiled saying every time, "Thank you." It was just deserved. I put a lot of effort into my outfit and it wasn't even a costume. 

"Beautiful." Why thank you. But I know it.

But as always, I digress. 

The countdown was garbled over the speakers that had been playing modern remixes all night, the drunken background noises of over a hundred basic bitches and bros from all over the Marina were milling about grabbing glasses of sparkling wine or champagne for the big toast. I sipped wine and gin not so silently judging the other attendees of this Gatsby themed evening soiree with their corny sequins, feather headbands and even discovered that several people had bought the same outfit...It was a high end shit show, but I had my close confidants and I had Mister K, for likeminded company. Thank goodness.

Oh Boy. So. Many. Basic Bitches. And. Bros.

When together, we are invincible in our humor and general gaiety we express in each other's company. We discussed about family matters, got drunk on discussions of social justice and waited for the final countdown. We stood there on the upper deck waiting as the DJ who took himself a little too seriously as emcee started the introductions to the New Year and then led us in the chant, "Five Four Three Two Oneeee--HAPPPY NEW YEAR!!!" 

No explosion of balloons, no falling glitter or streamers, a few obnoxious honks from a couple bros who brought in airhorns and the to be expected New Year's gestures: handshakes, kisses and hugs. We turned to our SO's and gave them each a good peck (K had the flu) and then took in the local splendor until I noticed a woman with her hand down her date's pants so I cut my focus away faster than Baz Lurhman's stylistic veering cinematography playing over the big screens, colorless and "might disconcerting" Morningside and Mr. K acknowledged. 

Looking around at old friends and the plentiful lot of drunken, over sexed, privileged strangers...I welcomed the new year. Ah, 2018.

Going into 2018 like...

The end of 2017 is a bittersweet one. It was a year proven to be full of disappointments and dead ends, in every sense of the way: politically, ethically, emotionally, mentally, physically - need I go on? For my personal year in 2017, saying goodbye to Buddy and Gam Gam will always taint the year with significant sadness, while additionally grappling with my mental illness and the ups & downs of the first year of marriage. despite other triumphs like meeting new friends, traveling to far off places and the little adventures here, there in homemade culinary masterpieces or a good day at the dog park, 2017 was not a complete bust...although one would never know after all the political and legislative horrors endured. 

Still, with January underway and plans being made for the rest of this new year, I can't help but feel excited. We have a new car about to be delivered, making plans to consider fostering K's dream dog, travel plans to be set in motion...

I would like to think I'm ready for whatever the new year holds, but I can't feign the nagging feeling of doubt due to the political outcomes in late 2017. On the other hand, I feel rejuvenated and vicious, I am ready for a bloody fight. So bring it on, whatever is in store...I'm pretty sure I can handle it. 

Locked and loaded.