So I guess I've been gone from San Francisco longer than it seems. At lunch with co-workers recently, I was the only one at the table who wasn't aware my creative director was gay. In fact, I didn't even have a suspicion. In my mind, he was a happily married fifty-year-old with three kids. Well, I guess he still might be married, but not to a woman. Granted, I don't expect gay guys to walk around in tight pink shorts sucking on bananas, but I still expect there to be something I notice. Apparently, science agrees, as there is evidence that the genes that makes someone prefer men also manifests itself in identifiable physical traits (more than just a desire to dress up like GI Joe and play with "guns"). At my heyday, I could pick out a gay man from a crowd of 100 people. Now, I can't pick one out from in front of my eyes. Or, rather, behind of my butt.