Diapers and rash cream instead of feather boas and plastic rainbow beads ­ that was the choice I made. So you'll have to tell me (JPsVelvetRopes@aol.com), how was your Chicago PRIDE? This year I opted to skip it, heading to hometown New York to visit my other family. Yes, this may disappoint all my loyal readers ­ all three of you (Hi Mom!) ­ who were eager to hear torrid tales of Altoids' dancer induced halitosis (use your imagination) and sneaking rides in the Jewel shopping cart thingy. Meeting my handsome new nephew Michael Stanley took precedent. In him I discovered a different kind of PRIDE and learned that last weekend of June, in his innocent blue angel eyes, what love really is. It's not just something you say to get people into bed.

Coincidently my trip did happen to fall on the very same date as NYC PRIDE. So in between naps, feedings and passing poopy pants back to mommy dearest, and when real love showed itself to be kind of a bore, I decided to skip down over to the Chelsea and give the weekend goings on a little look-see.

With long time pal and NYC fag hag, Lisa "Da Goot" Gootman in tow, we headed off to the historic West Village to catch the Big Apple's PRIDE Parade. If you consider the implications, the past, the politics and the community of it all, the whole thing becomes so overwhelmingly daunting. This is where the festival of PRIDE originated and where all PRIDE festivals all across the world stem from. It was there in New York, on the very street I stood on, 36 years ago at the Stonewall Inn, where a small band of homos finally put their foot down ­ high heels and all ­ and made a public stand against oppression. "We're here! We're Queer! Get used to it!" The rioting of the few brave skirt wearing trailblazers overtook the village and their angry defiant march can still be felt today rumbling over the cobble stone streets. Ever since, once a year for the entire day, despite the current consensus toward LGBT rights, despite the litigation, the commerce, and the unaccommodating environment, the most powerful city in the world just stops. The island of Manhattan becomes totally paralyzed so everyone in it, republican mayor and all, can just go gay!

Say what you will about the PRIDE parade. It's too long. It's overcrowded. It's too commercial and it's too hot, but it is fucking amazing.

Once back in the Windy City, RtVR did have the chance to celebrate a little Midwest Independence Day Pink Pride at the House of Blues' Frankie Knuckles Party. That's where friends of BOI Nancy and Beth were catching up on all the meanderings of their favorite social columnist and where [competitive magazine's correspondent] said I had to be. Yet that bitch was no where to be found. We did catch up later and share an intimate little dance and a very promising taxi cab ride home. Yet when my stop came, and I waited for the "Hey, do you really want to go home now?" question that leads to hot tricking, [competitive correspondent] gave the driver his address and rode off. Leaving poor me to find love where I always do drunk at 3am: with a bag of doritios and microwavable bacon cheeseburger from the 7-11.