MODERN FOLKLORE, part 2; or PUT THAT IN YOUR PRIDE AND SMOKE IT...AGAIN

thursday morning, they exited the albina press, piled into the forest green impala parked across the street and got on the road, the fag, the lesbians, the trans man and the pansexual beauty queen, headed south toward the promise of sun and sex, a promise they hoped would be fulfilled in exchange for their dutiful (if perfunctory) homage to the unity of diversity.

overheard on mississippi avenue during a portland pride event last weekend: that you could find a kind of fun at the clubs downtown, but that you’d find more diversity if you stayed on this side of the river. and, to wit, yes, maybe if you’re considering hobbies (at least we’re self aware), but that the visitor whose inquiry started the conversation wasn’t distinguishable by the trappings or proclivities of his orientation from his hosts or from the rest of the bar should have been telling enough.

but there! at the end of the 80, and 80 miles out from the valley, the rainbow flags were blowing in the wind on every street of that beacon in the bay. “i’ll drink my ovaltine, and you drink your decaf latte, faggot.” (the jewel lilt in her voice implied an acoustic guitar.) an impromptu song of acceptance and inclusion burst forth from one of the group as the impala rode down van ness between city hall and the war memorial opera complex. in san francisco, you can sing songs that were only acceptable to sing in the early nineties. that’s when gay was born on television after all, and like all of us, thanks to television, it never had to grow up. in san francisco, you can even shop at barney’s or neeman marcus, and the residents love to celebrate that anything goes.

sutter street is marked twice, but the first of the signs on geary marks only a walgreens parking lot with no way out but the only way in, and that’s where the impala turned so that its passengers to pause for a moment of reflection after their arrival to the city, and also amid screams and laughter, more even than for the spider at lake shasta, because if there’s one thing that san francisco doesn’t tolerate it’s bad driving.

the mission was packed and dirty on thursday night, and the consensus among the pilgrims was that if a place was full then it definitely wasn’t the one the happening place. but the skylark near pancho villa taqueria still had a table available at ten, and the smell of the place from the street was the big city. portland kept to itself at its table, but only for fatigue and amazement -- and the sex wasn’t where it wasn’t happening. half a dozen brown people in the same room, and half the room over forty. shock and awe and inspiration. but also intimidation, though none of which the group belied before leaving to disperse until the joining the throngs at dolores park the next day.

and where were the one’s we’d recognize? had the bay’s catalogue of aging hipsterdom all moved to oakland? it wasn’t, at least, on display anywhere near the crash pad loft across the bay where the fag and the queen refused to share a bed but shared a fitful night of sleep. their anxiety wasn’t exactly anticipatory (although it wasn’t completely not, either), but for the lack of sleep they would have liked to have had a preliminary boost before going to coffee proper back in the city. the east bay certainly beats portland in diversity, but it’s no rival on the coffee scene. it was locally roasted, yes, in san rafael, but the coffee at that café (it took an hour to find it) was weak, as was their trying to mask the shock and awe and intimidation with faggy foodie pretensions, but their dissatisfaction went unvoiced. after all, the woman had been nice, and probably didn’t café.

a text message. blow pony? portland was “bringing it hard” this year, and san francisco had had enough time since the last one to become newly enamored. (it never goes to visit, but it’s only codependence if you’re in love.) another consensus. the grass is definitely always greener where there’s something else. what about that promise? a portland party? definitely…perhaps.