Winning by a nose over "Three-Day Meth Cloud Hanging Over Beck's Motor Lodge," Pink Saturday is a most special time during Pride Weekend for those of us true homosexuals who know that being queer isn't about equal rights, same-sex marriage, or gay adoption, but instead about drinking, drugging, dancing, and pissing on the street corners with your pals. Happening the day before the fascinatingly lame and clearly castrated Pride Parade, and just after the swell Dyke March, Pink Saturday holds all of the party magic of Castro Halloween nights of yore minus the costumes, gay bashing, and heterosexual gawking. It's the one night of the year when local and bridge-and-tunnel gays of every ilk come together in harmony to party like frat boys. Bands rock, DJs spin, bars open for all of your gay dollars, and everyone seems horny as fuck. And who cares if you miss the parade the following morning. If you've seen one atrociously dull Bank of America float carrying a bushel of freshly Nair-ed gays and a scant smattering of mannish lesbians dancing to Paul Oakenfold, you've pretty much seen them all.