At the next intersection, he looped around a yellow taxicab filled with young women in T-shirts. He glided through the Lutheran contingent and then swept through a group of clergymen carrying large placards depicting Jesus on the Cross. He had the torso of a dancer, and he moved with liquid, dreamlike movements, crossing and recrossing the street.
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The clown drifted off, and I turned to watch a man in a Batman cape and a sequinned jockstrap roller-skating by. I asked him about the rodeo, and he said matter-of-factly, “This is only our second year, so we don’t expect any bulldogging, but we’ve got a lot of calf ropers, some bronc riders, and some really wonderful Dale Evans imitations. A clown in whiteface with baggy overalls walked along beside our truck.
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In a few minutes, our part of the parade began to move forward a country-and-Western band struck up behind us, and a number of men dressed as cowboys or clowns took their places in and around the hay wagon. In the front seat were Ken Maley and a couple of other friends of Armistead’s.
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Our truck had no sign on it, but it carried, in addition to me and another journalist, two people well known to the gay community of the city: Maupin, San Francisco’s most prominent gay fiction writer, and Dave Kopay, the professional football player. Our truck nosed itself into the parade lineup behind a group of marchers with signs reading “L utherans C oncerned for G ay P eople” and a hay wagon advertising a gay rodeo in Reno. People in costumes milled about amid a crowd of young men and women in bluejeans. Bouquets of lavender, pink, and silver balloons clouded the sky, and bands were warming up. Rounding a corner, we came upon a line of stationary floats. The Gay Freedom Day Parade had not yet begun. “We’re on gay time, so the parade won’t have started yet.” He was right.