Pride (In The Name Of Love)

I normally avoid everything to do with gay pride, not because I'm not proud of my "family" but because like all family reunions, the big ones tend to bring out the embarrassing crazies. In our case, the drunk Aunt Ritas include, but are not limited to, "chicks with dicks", men who think formal wear can include tight sleeveless "cocksucker" shirts, and "Democrats".

So when you score an invite to the mayor's party at Gracie Mansion on one of the most beautiful nights of the year, you don't say no. And so I didn't; although I probably would have done well to say no to that last glass of sauvignon blanc. For those of you who've never gotten to have your picture taken with a politician, I recommend shoes with good ankle support, because if you linger just a split second too long that mofo's gonna move you along. Forcefully. For a man of modest stature, our mayor has one hell of a grip.

There were blessedly only two gay jokes, one about Abe Lincoln and the other about a dancing queen. And then we had to hear the mayor's version of what kind of music the queers like to listen to, which includes, but is not limited to, ABBA, Donna Summer, Madonna, and Outkast. It was so offensively accurate that I found myself unable to pass judgement in good conscience. And nothing makes me more unhappy than being unable to pass judgement. But then a waiter flittered over with a tray of rainbow striped star cookies and everything was OK again.