I flew to San Francisco with no plans other than to get up to mischief and help a friend move to Oregon. A good excuse for a trip indeed. I landed in the middle of Pride week, which celebrates all things Gay, Lesbian, Transgendered, etc. It also celebrates beer and pot, from the anecdotal evidence I gathered.
Saturday night was the Dyke March, which began with women on Harleys roaring down the street. I had a bird’s eye view from a friend’s roof-top apartment, the wisdom of which I began to question upon seeing the first naked lesbian biker. Like looking into the sun. A very, very full-figured sun.
Biker chics were followed by hordes of women. My fellow rooftop spectators shouted “Show us your tits” and threw beads, much like New Orleans, except the throwers and catchers of beads were both flashing each other. Ah, San Francisco.
After the Dyke March we went to the Castro, to a fenced in area patrolled by painted drag queens checking for outside alcohol. Now, here I have to mention my packing style when going on trips. I pack last minute, often without much forethought. I failed to realize, much like Mark Twain, how cold San Francisco was. I only brought a pair of sandals for footwear, and no jacket. Lev, my buddy I’m staying with, kindly lent me his Santa-red fleece hat, and I put socks on under my sandals.
So there I am, in the gayest outdoor party in the gayest city in the whole world, hanging out with my gay friends, wearing socks and sandals and a dorky fleece hat meant for camping. You can’t get more heterosexual than that. Everyone was making fun of this inconguity, when a cute girl pointed out that I was also the only one there with a man purse, or murse. “But it’s a camera bag,” I whined. They were having none of it, and I haven’t laughed that hard in years.
Pictures to follow in a few days.
