I should write about San Francisco, but I'm totally overwhelmed by the amazingness. I should write about every crazy person we met on the busses and on the sidewalks (and S's impersonation below)- some in clown costumes, some pole dancing, some aging punks. I should tell how the weather was made for me and the fog was beautiful. I should say that being there for pride was like someone had made a holiday just for us, the queers, and everyone else in the city just faded into the background when someone recognized that we were homos by our outrageous Pride outfits and yelled "Happy Pride!" from across the street or train. I should write about what it was like to be in the city when Michael Jackson died- the strangers yelling his name, praying for him, dressed up like him on the bus, doing the moonwalk, signs in windows. If I could write about San Francisco, I would write forever about how I met my favorite author, Michelle Tea, and she signed my copy of Valencia while we were a mere half block off Valencia St. at The Lexington. I couldn't tell if the x finally kicked in or if I was just crazy-excited by her presence. I took pictures and had conversations with the big names in queer porn- Jiz Lee, Syd Blackovich, and Shine Louise Houston- after seeing Champion on the big screen. I watched the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence share their rituals and then bless us and annoint us with glitter. I met some fierce femmes at a Femmethology reading. I was part of the Trans march and the Dyke march and saw more queers than I've ever seen in my life.
But I'm just entirely too overwhelmed by the week to write it all down. I have pictures, though, and that will have to make up for it:
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