a matter of Pride, or dikes on bikes, take your pick

I wake up in this shady suburb of Minneapolis and the household is slow to rise on Saturdays. I have the rare pleasure of reading in bed before I brush my teeth. It is good to be in the home of two adult women.  Matters flow smoothly and we go about our personal business without someone expecting a meal or a shirt ironed.

It is Pride weekend, a two-day event of which I will never see the likes in my redneck town of  farmers and pool hall customers. And Jane and I check it out.

And baby, is this a party or what and even Mardi Gras will have trouble matching this kind of manic festivity. No faction of human society is more imaginative, more inventive, more humorous than gays for tragedy is truly the root of comedy and tragedy they own.  Glitter everywhere and women in crew cuts with t-shirts announcing "Boobies are Great" and "Lesbian Recruiter" and men in their skivvies and do you think that's a rolled-up sock in there, Jane wonders.
It's easy to like Minneapolis.


Later I take my walk on a nearby hiking trail and no one makes eye contact, big cities are great for their anonymity.  Back home strangers would try to lure me in, start a conversation, want to introduce me to their dog, jeesh.