This weekend was Gay Pride.

Saturday, I got out of work at the Restaurant early and ran down to meet Sam at the big Dyke March. It was fun but there was a major dearth of hotties. Sure, there were cute little baby dykes aplenty, and they are clearly having the time of their lives. I know I was at that age. Yet, it was sad to consider that most of these strutting young things would soon double their ass-size every year. Where are the slightly older, but still attractive women? Some ladies were dumpy and seemingly happy to be wearing the same pile vest as their equally dumpy partners. Some were still wearing the same ensembles they've been wearing for years and years. It's sad to see a 40-year old stripper in hot pants and fetish boots. The rift between gay men and lesbians has never been so clearly represented to me.

It was fun running into people that I only see once a year. But I didn't see near as many as I would have expected. Plus, since I had run to the march directly from work, I wasn't looking as fine as I would have liked to. Generally, there's nothing more fun then seeing how much fatter everyone has gotten since last year. Apparently all the A-gays have either moved, or were at some other event that we (not being cool) were not hip to.

Libbey bought ganja rice krispie bars for us all. Yes, marijuana twice in one week. Once again, they lasted far too long.

After the march, we regrouped at the house where I changed into a more appropriate ensemble. It was all for naught. I am too embarrassed for myself and for lesbian culture to even detail how the rest of the evening went down.

The only incident worth repeating involved Brett and her Hebrew-spouting friend from Miami. Lisa (?) was weird mostly because I couldn't tell if she was merely obnoxious, or actually nice and friendly. It didn't help that she threw peppermints at us from across the street. I have known Brett since I moved to SF, but we rarely hang out. For a while, she and her girlfriend pursued me for a threesome. I always politely declined. [Brett is not quite butch enough for me, and her (now ex-)girlfriend needs too much attention.] Last year, Brett was in my Newswriting class at City College, and I always got the updates on her polyamorous life-style. I found it fascinating that she had that much energy and time to devote to the drama and constant processing that accompanies non-monogamy. She works at Rainbow; she's the manager of the ethnic foods section. She knows a lot about miso. She's gone prematurely grey in the last couple of years. She does that annoying dyke thing of not plucking her stray chin whiskers.

I could talk about Brett for a while, I am realizing.

Anyway, I was stoned and chatting with her, when suddenly she stopped in mid-sentence. She looked me up and down, did a double take and got a very confused expression on her face. She kind of stuttered at me -- "Wha... what is going on with your... your look?" But then just as she said that her face lit up with halting comprehension. "Oh! I get it. It's the 80s!""Bingo," said I. The whole exchange was priceless.

It's sad that this was the highlight of the evening.

On Sunday, we skipped the parade and went shopping at Whole Foods, instead. Then Kara joined us to see Charlie's Angels.

Cameron Diaz takes up far too much screen time with far too little clothes on. I enjoy scantily clad chicks as much as the next guy, but I'd much rather it be Drew. Cameron has never quite done it for me. Nonetheless, excellent fun flick. Kind of like Sex and the City with karate instead of sex.

I refuse to even discuss Demi Moore or her performance. I can't even believe the ridiculous amount of press and media infatuation her "return to Hollywood" has generated. I could give a shit.