A spontaneous party happened last night in the Castro as the local homoteriat celebrated their victory over a silly remnant of tradition. To get to this result, a fundamental change had to occur in a number of legal interpretations of the status of gay people. Interestingly, it doesn't immediately seem as if this will have ramifications in the larger political sphere, but we'll have to wait a bit before that emerges more fully. So...super! I've got 30 days to find an elegable bachelor and stupify him long enough to drag him to City Hall.
Give the immensity of what all this means, last night's response by the gay community was uninspired. I thought this crew was supposed to be creative.
What we got was a flatbed truck parked in the center of Castro Street, bumping crappy electronic music. Not even stuff you could dance to without the "help" of meth or ecstacy. My firm tequila buzz certainly wasn't enough. There were some silvery streamers arrayed about because, the gods know, gay folks sure love shiny objects.
Come on; is this really the best we could do? This was more tuned in to the cracked out dance-club set than the folks that are planning weddings. Couldn't we have gotten the Sisters to do a Moonie-esque mass marriage or something? Tasteless, but amusing, like most things here. I'd have taken pictures...but there wasn't anything to see, really.
And, boy howdy, were there weddings happening. My workplace is rife with ladies of the Sapphic persuasion. Lebanese, let's say. And they were working the phones, getting their plans in place, 10 minutes after news came out. If Bush had wanted Iraq conquered and rebuilt effectively, he should have offered marriage licenses to gay folks on condition of a peaceful, friendly reconstruction. Three weeks, tops. Queer Eye for the Shi'a.
My greatest amusement for the day was overhearing one of my coworker's difficulties in planning the wedding: apparently, her partner was insisting that the dogs attend.
It just struck me: looks like the word "partner" will be round-filed out here on the Best Coast.
Give the immensity of what all this means, last night's response by the gay community was uninspired. I thought this crew was supposed to be creative.
What we got was a flatbed truck parked in the center of Castro Street, bumping crappy electronic music. Not even stuff you could dance to without the "help" of meth or ecstacy. My firm tequila buzz certainly wasn't enough. There were some silvery streamers arrayed about because, the gods know, gay folks sure love shiny objects.
Come on; is this really the best we could do? This was more tuned in to the cracked out dance-club set than the folks that are planning weddings. Couldn't we have gotten the Sisters to do a Moonie-esque mass marriage or something? Tasteless, but amusing, like most things here. I'd have taken pictures...but there wasn't anything to see, really.
And, boy howdy, were there weddings happening. My workplace is rife with ladies of the Sapphic persuasion. Lebanese, let's say. And they were working the phones, getting their plans in place, 10 minutes after news came out. If Bush had wanted Iraq conquered and rebuilt effectively, he should have offered marriage licenses to gay folks on condition of a peaceful, friendly reconstruction. Three weeks, tops. Queer Eye for the Shi'a.
My greatest amusement for the day was overhearing one of my coworker's difficulties in planning the wedding: apparently, her partner was insisting that the dogs attend.
It just struck me: looks like the word "partner" will be round-filed out here on the Best Coast.
