Alt-Pride

It was a noble plan, if fatally flawed from the outset — load up a truck with El Salvadoran fire-lesbians on Pride Sunday and head up to the Sonoma-Marin Fair in Petaluma. Drink beer. Eat corn dogs. Check out the goats. Maybe enter the demolition derby. Good, hot summer fun and a welcome break from the big city and the crowds lining Market Street.

But of course, everyone went out and got plastered on Saturday night, and Sunday turned into a farce. Our staging ground at Zeitgeist was lively enough — Team Wino and a few Shit-Bags fresh off the Aids Lifecycle traded tales and photos. Beers and Bloody Marys calmed some jangled nerves, and plate after plate of juicy burgers fueled us up for the trek north into the unknown.

Unfortunately, here's where the gods decided to start unraveling our humble plans. It seems punctuality is not the gay way, and on this day, time was not our friend. A broken car window and a pillaged Volvo on Valencia Street did not help the mood. By the time we assessed losses and finally inched our way out of town and over the Golden Gate Bridge, fog was streaming over the Marin Headlands and we opted for the closest Tecate source and a barn to hunker down in on the side of Mt. Tam. Willie Nelson crooned out the speakers and Marin worked a little of her magic. A semblance of peace was restored. We hiked up to the ridge and sprawled out on the side of the mountain. At the 2AM Club, we played pool and befriended the locals. Yes, hot tubs were involved. And plenty of wine. And various other substances.

Well, so much for our well-laid plans. Petaluma, in all her snow-coned and ugly-dog glory, will have to wait until next year. My dirt-track date will remain a fantasy for a little while longer. And the carneys will have to find other rubes to floss. But who knows — next week, we just might make it to the fair to catch Joan Jett, hot dog in hand at the microphone stand.