As predicted, the Pride Parade last Saturday was a complete blast and, oddly enough, marked the first time I’ve ever put my arm around the mayor while wearing a lady dress.

“You make a good team,” Mayor Mandel said to me and my super-breasty, mustachioed collaborator, who gender-bent any girl she could graffiti with her little grease pencil.

While I’m now officially a huge supporter of “the cause” (which seems to be literally partying your ass off as much as possible in public), I must make a minor cultural complaint: why does the gay community embrace such terrible music? Especially the trannies, who bop to the lamest canned diva dance shit with inexplicable enthusiasm. And the lesbian political singers? Don’t get me started—it’s worse than war-protest tunes. Well, okay—maybe not. But if I ever hear “this is what democracy looks like!” chanted again, I’ll shit your pants.

Anyway, cheap shots aside, there’s no question that bad, excruciatingly unsubtle music is funny and, therefore, hella fun. Isn’t that what it’s about? Do I have the wrong attitude? Well, I did dig all the girls dressed as boy jocks shambling around to House of Pain’s “Jump Around,” I guess.

Baby steps, then. Seeing guys making out in Churchill Square? Awesome. Women slow-dancing with each other—do you even have to ask? But please, let’s never, ever push Celine Dion down my ears again, okay?

For those of you as shocked and upset as I was to see the smalls drummer Terry Johnson up front in the dailies this week, dutifully sneered at in the captions as two cops stood over him following some unfortunate gunplay, it’s been a strange fucking week—with another photo just ran in the Sun’s weekly crime-wrap page, naming him a “person of interest.” Gotta love that cop jargon. I talked to his former bandmates Doug Bevans and Corby Lund, as well as many of his friends on the scene, and what we all have in common is a hope that above all you’re okay, Terry. You’ll get through this bullshit.

Finally, some imminent festival items. Tickets are still available for Sled Island in Calgary next weekend, $125 for an all-weekend, main-site pass. This is the better, more indie-leaning of the two Calgary rock fests, with a lineup that includes Yo La Tengo, Elliot Brood, Secret Machines, José Gonzales, Wire, and Mogwai—plus Jonathan Richman, who I once saw play in Vancouver a couple days after 9/11, and who didn’t do much except annoy me with too much coy banter. Still. The guy’s got cred. Paul Coutts and Chains, Wet Secrets, Women, and Jane Vain will be on hand to represent the Alberta talent. The Virgin thing down there this weekend I’d personally skip if you have any chance of going to the magical North Country Fair, unless for some fucking reason you’re really dying to see Stone Temple Pilots outside a northside karaoke environment.

Also, incidentally, weekend passes are still cheap—$130—for Calgary Folk Fest until Saturday, and the Edmonton versions appear to be selling out as I write this, for all you Spearhead fans (speaking of annoying protest music). This is an unprecedented summer of music, little goblins. Use the “Internet” on your quest for tickets.