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Bride Pride


Seriously fags, it has taken nearly three days, countless phone calls, about thirty cigarettes and a bout of tears, and I have finally begun to make sense of the wild weekend past. In fact, sitting in a room with three good friends, we decided that together we had about 45 minutes to an hour of memories from the weekend collectively. Yes, folks, just like you, I was tossed like yesterday’s macaroon from Thursday to the last frantic moments of Juanita Moore’s pool party. The addition of my maintained buzz was only heightened by the thick, repugnant gays from the east. Whether they hailed from Dublin or Des Moines, they were definitely a force with their overstated tees, normally replete with boas, hurricane cocktails and chicken sticks wrapped in foil.

I did my damnedest to dodge the crowds and favor the more locally minded events that stood up and represented my actually community as opposed to my ever-proud internet provider and the PFLAG participating power PG&E, I still fell pray to some pretty hardcore marketing. I was cool with it, because it was the kind of hardcore that is brought to you by NakedSword, and that I am alright with. In fact, it was NakedSword that brought me to Juanita Moore’s pool party and helped me bypass all the rest of the obnoxious cattle calls in favor of one daylong splendid event.

While not succumbing to the nausea brought on by a rare sighting of the chilidog crowd regular and scene-queen extraordinaire Mitchell Mark scarfing down bbq like a starved Shetland pony at the trough, I was busied hanging posters and securing guest list status. Everyone in town showed up, it seemed, except for the ass hats that we all were happy to avoid. Juanita booked the show flawlessly, satiating everyone’s high expectations with the Cougar Cadet Drumline who hailed from the mission. The group of 10-18 year olds who composed the drumline drove a group of the most outrageous local personalities to a startling halt, and then brought them to their knees as they screamed and hollered and danced with glee. The kid’s where amazing, adorable, well choreographed, and perfect for your wedding, bar mitzvah, or company Christmas party. It was a stroke of genius, and a highlight of an unbelievable day!

Friday night was shockingly far superior to Saturday this year in my humble opinion. Pink Saturday was obnoxiously crowded to Halloween proportions, and navigating through the Castro, which normally is pretty fun, was more of a nightmare. However, on Friday there were parties come from everywhere, and they all convened at Mary!, the after party thrown by the Burning Mary Camp. The bar never closed, the dancing never stopped, the attitudes were RUDE and the friends were in no short supply. It was a blur of excitement, and everyone who went left stunned at 6am, the party seeming to have flown by! It was near perfection, and I am yet to hear of anyone who didn’t have a blast! Ambrosia Salad performed a number that had confetti sprinkling over the crowd as rainbow streamers undulated just over head. It was visionary, sensory, and spectacular. It definitely had a gold aura or something.

Saturday Night, Mon Cousin Belge proved their magnificence with their reunion at the Park Side. It was nice to be with a bunch of lesbians on pink Saturday, and the show tore the roof off. The dancers were ferocious; the drums spot on from a much missed Mat Cote, and Emil transcended the sound barrier and gender lines, too boot. I went home in a good spirits, and woke up without a terrible hangover on Pride Sunday for the first time in years.

But friends, just because I had the rare experience of good sleep on a Pride weekend doesn’t mean that we all did. There was the drag queen who showed up at Juanita’s party on Sunday still up from the night before and dressed all in black silk to match her bags, and there was the drag queen whose in-face blowjob pictures from last week discouraged her return. Who was the local transgendered chanteuse known for her expensive assets who spent her Pride in a cloud of smoke in the DJ suite at the Phoenix Hotel? And finally, what frightening femme butch thing was spotted by Princess Kennedy buck naked at the Comfort and Joy party, leaving her at a loss for what to do with her eyes, and the new celebrity blogger for the Guardian who looked pissed and bloated on the Charo float, on which the koochie-koochie queen was vacant. Well, ladies I know all the answers, but I can’t tell you. These people have reputations, and I don’t even want to tell you what I could say about myself. Plus, I never break a pinkyswear.