Pride day is never a particular destination. I usually walk up Fifth Avenue with Franklin as the parade is coming down. By the time we get to our usual destination, Madison Square Park, he has been much admired as I have hopefully retained my aforementioned faux look of fatuous affability. This year it was going on 6 p.m. before I could drag myself out of bed, and the steamy, gray, mostly deserted Avenue was filled with flying garbage, as the heavens spit hot rain on the few remaining stragglers.

I winced at the creepy cover of Cheney tonguing Bush, as Franklin peed on an already soaked Village Voice laying in the gutter. Years ago, in a "Gay Pride Issue," the Voice included musings by walk-in closet case Fran Leibowitz. When I took gay issue with this, some oxymoronic editor there said the Voice would never dream ... Read More