Pride comes before....

I’m coming down from a mighty cone o’ power. All around the city you can feel the effects of the magical hangover which is the Monday after Gay Pride Weekend. I’m sure that for many, the magical hangover is more complicated. Dionysus loves this crowd, and the Queer Gods grace this party with their perpetual indulgences. It’s a great rite, with a constant gathering crowd, starting with a Tranny March on Friday, the Dyke March on Saturday (which ends up in the Castro where the Sisters of, yes, Perpetual Indulgence preside over a huge street party), and then the humongous Pride March on Sunday. All the while, a huge pink triangle graces the city from the heights of Twin Peaks.

My girlfriend is one of the eight women who put on the Dyke March, which is feat of magic in itself. The Dyke March is actually an afternoon concert, a political action, a huge picnic party, and a march, all rolled into one. Oh, and it’s also transformative ritual.

Somehow they do this all without any corporate sponsorship. The only advertising is on the Porta-Potties, where small businesses and individuals can donate to have a sign put up.

This year, I had my name on a toilet with my name and the admonishment, “Deal With Your Shit!” followed by the more gentle “Psychotherapy with a Sense of Humor”. Who knows if I’ll get any clients out of it, but if I do, they promise to be interesting.

Saturday I picnicked for hours with friends listening to great music. I’d brought grilled vegetables, foccacia, and summer fruits. My wry friend Chez brought the makings for fish tacos. Could anything be more perfect for a Dyke March? My girlfriend cruised the park with her headset, making sure everything was running smoothly. Like any good magic, it was harmonious chaos. We ended up dancing in a flatbed truck which followed the Dykes on Bikes in heading up the march, marveling at the blocks of marchers who streamed behind us. All the while, well wishers hung out of windows and lined the streets, many with signs of support for dykes, lesbians, and queer culture.

Sunday morning, as the parade winded its way towards Civic Center, we gathered at Zuni Café, the best restaurant the world, for brunch. There were seven of us at a table next to the window. At some point, we realized there were seven or more women mirroring us outside our window at a table on the street. These women were a group of lesbian politicians and big time philanthropists and fundraisers, including Roberta Achtenberg. I laughed heartily realizing that the window was the only thing separating the two sides of power...or polarities of politics. Like a tree, every strong movement has a part that operates above and below ground, both equal in importance and power. Our table literally had women who had spent time underground in the 1970’s, and we ourselves represented a wide swath of radical politics, I think every one of us having been arrested at some point or another. We talked to the other table thru the window, and this in itself felt like a spell.

Sunday evening, I shucked oysters and made dinner for several friends who came over, all of us winding down from the weekend. Out of my front window, we could see the triangle slowly being dismantled. Pride Weekend is over, but once again, its magic has soaked into every cell of the landscape. San Francisco is one of the queerest cities on this green planet. Can there be any better place to live?