I have to say that one of the awesome things about living in NYC is brunch culture. Or the idea that somewhere between 10 am and 3 pm on a weekend, you can meet a friend for waffles, omelets, mimosas, snark and the Sunday Times.

I gave brunch culture a fair shake in Champaign. Me and a friend used to meet at Le Pepe–for pancakes and homefries. No mimosas because we had to drive to get to Le Pepe. Even that petered out because neither of us could coordinate our schedules.

As for my time in Chicago– brunch was at my grandmother’s with bagels, locks, and coffee cake. Sunday Times included.

Anyway, today I met Alexis for brunch on the UWS. It’s sweet that she allows me to indulge these leftist bougie impulses, such as doing social things on the UWS. Oh, and listening to me prattling on about men and my continued desire to hook up with a doctor (the only thing that does not make this totally JAPpy is that I don’t need him to be Jewish.)

Of course, I also get to listen to Alexis’ headspinning description of the quotidian lesbian dramas.

Stuff lesbians like: Drama–”Lesbians like drama”.

Women like drama in general. Women like drama about relationships– and while straight girls get some of that drama neutralized by boyfriends who rightfully ask “what’s the bfd” every time we start spinning conspiracy theories as to why he took an entire 6 hours to answer an email–lesbians pretty much feed off of it, geeking up all drama between partners and would be partners to 11.

I won’t go into the specifics of Alexis’ current drama– suffice it to say, we had to be at Pride to wave to a specific person in the lesbian runners club without catching the eye of another person in that group.

So we went to pride. Alexis smartly suggested we stand north of the village (to avoid Stonewall Sardines). We ended up around Herald Square, which meant we got to watch tourists from all over the world marvel at what must be a typical American Sunday, complete with assless chaps, Donna Summer, and all over body paint. Because Stars & Bars= Reaching for that Rainbow. Now, everybody dance now!

I kind of wished the Stonewall uprising had occurred in the fall. The last weekend in June is so hot. And humid. And drag queens have got to be the last bastion of mass pantyhose wearing. With open toed sandals too. Seriously, have drag queens not gotten the memo?

Sexiest queens had to be the GLBT Brazilian group. Most esoteric, GLBT group? Queer stutterers. I am not kidding.

The parade had a great turnout– Governor Patterson was there. Christine Quinn showed up. We had Mayor Mike (probably confirming my brother’s theory.) Chuck Schumer was there.

So all in all, lot’s of excitement. There were an encouraging number of AIDS groups. Also, the parade was delightfully diverse, both ethnically and age-wise.

As a straight allie, I appreciated float after float of buff men gyrating to camp disco classics clad in little more than glorified tighty-wightys. One of the nice things about Pride is it celebrates the much needed abandonment of gender roles and expectations. This means I can oppenly ogle men much in the way men ogle women (or men– for that matter. Have you ever read the men seeking men section of craigslist?) Who doesn’t want a parade of pretty men going down 5th Avenue?

Of course– to quote Margaret Cho– “I should have been more specific”.

I hold out for a weekend of bi-curiosity before I resign myself to marrying a man with neck-rolls and a Nextel douchebag gleeping cell phone clipped to his belt in a leather pouch. A man who spends all of our expendable income on sports memorabilia.

There has to be something else out there, right?

Oh well, on to the gratuitous display of club classics,

And because it is Pride,