Saturday was the culmination of Pride Week: you may have starred or celebrated in a parade near you, or you may have, like me, spent the afternoon keeping the vomit bucket happy, hoping beer would squash your nausea long enough to allow for karaoke (it did, until five in the morning). (But in NYC, five am is, like, totally a normal time to come home. Everybody gets home at five in the morning. Five-ish.) (Nausea, for the record, was completely unrelated to the festivities.)

Let it not be said, though, that I do not, in some small way, celebrate too. Back at a college Student Leaders conference (a designation appointed by the poor judgment of the Dean of Students; I was as unsuited as I was uninterested), the head of the LGBSU (the only “leader” I spoke to at those god awful ego banquets) told me, “Oh, Lady Penelope, you’re misrepresenting the statistics. It’s not that ten percent of people are gay. It’s that all people are ten percent gay. At least!”

I didn’t hook up with a girl for Pride Day, if that’s what you’re thinking. I don’t actually think that everyone’s a little gay; would that this were the provable case, we all—Fred Phelps included—might have a little more empathy. We could be arguing about something other than gay marriage (a war, say), men could quit adding, “not that I’m gay,” …

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