There was fairy dust in the air yesterday afternoon, let me tell ya. On my way from my gym on one end of Boylston to my garden on the other, there were so many looks so loosely exchanged among strangers you'd think there was a look sale going on at Filene's or something.

Everybody was making eye-contact on the street. I was like, WTF? Do I have food on my face? Is there a 500 lb. gorilla chasing me? What are you looking at?! Of course the fact that I happened to be in nothing but hotpants and bunny ears, blowing my acme thunderer whistle, doing the YMCA dance on my unicycle, may have explained a few of those looks, but not all.

I mean, Bostonians will go to great lengths to avoid eye contact. When someone does look at you you can bet it'll be with indignation, if not outright rage, foaming at the mouth, spittle flying. Either that, or you've got food on your face, there's a 500 lb. gorilla chasing you, or you happen to be in nothing but hotpants and bunny ears, blowing your acme thunderer whistle, doing the YMCA dance on your unicycle. And even then.

In my everyday Clark Kent incarnation, I notice that mostly people avert their gaze, walking around in little circles, pretending not to see each other, scattering like pigeons in your path as you pass.

Slightly off-topic—speaking of pigeons: Betcha didn't know that today is not just Pride, it's also the 263rd anniversary of The Great Pigeon Shitting Catastophe of 1744.

The terrible event occurred during The Annual Festival of Fat Scantily Clad Dancing Children, during the Wet Loin-Cloth Competition. Right as the children were lining up for the slip-n-slide part of the ceremony, the sky darkened without warning, and they looked up in horror as thousands of pigeons suddenly descended from the heavens and shat mercilessly on them, and then, as quickly (but significantly lighter of load) flew off.

The tragedy, which was eclipsed only by the Great Molasses Flood of 1919 and nearly forgotten on account of it, is commemorated by a fountain near Park Street Station on the Common:


But back to Pride. I'm serious about this business of eye contact, and not just for cruising, either. I think eye contact is a vital part of city life. Without it, people remain atomized, isolated, not a part of a great big, dynamic orgasm—oops, I mean organism—which is what a city is. Or at least one thing a city is.

I mean, whether you like it or not, if you live or work in a city, you'll find yourself surrounded on all sides by other people. Why deny their existence when it's so obvious? Why turn your nose up at them? Why not have a little good, clean fun with 'em? What's the harm in a little wayward glance? A little Mona Lisa smile? Live a little. Flirt a little. It won't kill ya.

But not here. Not happening. And there's probably good reason. I've dated my share of Boston-zombies. The undead don't make eye contact. What good would it do? The windows to their vacant souls were bricked over long ago. They just stumble through their unlives bumping into things and slowly decomposing.

Anyway, I lost count of the number of looks exchanged yesterday in Back Bay, and then along Mass Ave in Cambridge, another major zombie corridor, and determined it had to be out-of-towners in town for Pride, though God—and I'm talking about Baal here—only knows why anyone would travel from anywhere to come to Boston's dried-up Pride. (Yeah, I know they toss out lube along the parade route, but there's not enough lube in the world, people, believe me.)

The Dig made a big to-do on this week's cover...


...about their "Straight Guide to Pride," which turned out to be two pages, five "events" (two lesbian, one gay, one mixed, and one nondenominational), and eight stereotypes long. Which actually sums up to a perfect T why Boston Pride is such a huge, international draw.

New York Pride kicks off next weekend, and if you want to know the difference you can start with the mascots. Boston's Pride Committee opted for a bunch of dots. Dryly representing diversity, no doubt:


While New York has these guys:


And this little guy, too:


Now, who would you rather party with? A bunch of dots, or your freaky outer space entourage?

But whatever.

Too late in the day to change the world. I haven't done laundry in a week, I can't even change my underwear.

Speaking of, I was conferring with my new chew-toy Pedro, who started trying on outfits for the parade a week ago, about what he was planning on wearing. As we go to press he is still debating whether he'll go as a purple or a blue dot.


Which reminded me of a conversation this morning with Homie #1—WHO IS NOT GAY—about his plans for Pride. He seems to think that just because he's straight he doesn't need Pride. But gay guys don't care how gay you are when they're pridefully blowing you, as they pointed out in The Dig, they only care how hung you are.

Ignoring his protestations of prideless heterosexualism, I asked him: "So what are you wearing to the parade?"

And he answered, just as I knew he would: "I was thinking maybe a codpiece and stilts."

Big yawn.

"Why not try something new?" I asked. "Something you don't wear around the house every day?"

"Well, how else can I reach the corners of the room with the feather duster?"

"You could take it out of your ass, for starters."

People never believe me when I talk about house cleaning days, with Homie #1 in a codpiece on stilts with a feather-duster in his ass.

But that's not the issue. The truth is I wanted the codpiece and stilts for the parade, myself. I didn't want to get pissy, but this is My Special Day, after all.

"Well, hmm," I said. "Is there another set in the basement, because that's the look I was going for."

No use mincing words.

"Oh, I thought you were going as Cher."

Just ignore him, I tell myself.

"Well, we can't both go in a codpiece and stilts, even if we had two sets. People would think we were together."

He agreed.

"Hey, I know!" he says. "Let's go as dots! Everyone will think we're the mascots! Wouldn't that be funny? You can be green and I'll be red!"

"I'll look like Mister Yuck, and you'll look like... a boil."

"Cool! I'll go get my giant dot outfit! This'll be fun!"

"You really aren't gay, are you?"

"Hey, can you help me with the zipper in the back?"

And another Pride begins.