I like to sit in front of Harvest Market, eating vegan soup and watching the crowds, gasping at the outfits, and cruising the fashion masculinity fags I wish I wasn't attracted to. Over the last few years, this has been a tradition I've shared with my friend Hilary, who is usually visiting from LA, but now she's just moved here -- in fact, this year we actually decided to call it a tradition, and made a plan for 9:30 pm in our usual spot.

I decide not to take the underground to the Castro, since it's always so crowded on pride, but then I regret my decision since the bus is so slow. It looks like Market Street is blocked off earlier than usual, since the bus is taking about 10 minutes per block, so I get out just after Church Street and sure enough there are all sorts of people sprawled out in the middle of Market and it kind of feels festive. I walk towards the barricades, and can't figure out why exactly they go all the way across the sidewalk -- usually there's a place where the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence harass people for "donations," but only several blocks up. This time some guy in an orange security t-shirt starts yelling at me from behind the barricades that this isn't an entrance, I have to stand in line over there, and he points to the other side of the street where there are hundreds of people crammed together, trying to get in. I say oh, I'm just going to Harvest Market, right over there, but he yells at me that I have to stand in line, so then there I am, in line with hundreds of suburbanites and teenagers, and suburbanite teenagers.

One of the Sisters is standing on the median in the middle of Market yelling through a bullhorn that we all need to stand in line, and I yell: why don't you just open the fucking barricades? Then the blonde woman next to me, red-faced with booze, turns to me and says: do you think we should rush the line? I say not a bad idea, but people would probably get hurt, and she looks surprised and sad for a second, decides against that idea.

Get this: the security staff yells at us that we need to form separate lines for "men" and "women"-- I kid you not! Binary gender lines at a queer event in San Francisco, organized by a bunch of queens who dress as nuns. The security staff is frisking people and making people throw away water bottles, asking us if we have any drugs or sharp objects -- wait, I thought this was a public street, I didn't realize we were visiting our friends in the tank at 850 Bryant.

As far as I can tell, pretty much everyone who's working security is straight, and aggressive, and way behind the security line are the Sisters, standing with their donation buckets and acting like they don't notice the screaming hordes. My turn and the security guard pulls my bag out of my hand and tells me I have to get rid of my water bottle. My water bottle is one of those overpriced metal things that I carry around so that I don't have to waste plastic everywhere -- I don't want to just throw it away, so I'm arguing with him and he says I'm not even supposed to let you bring your bag in, you'll have to get in the back of the line, so finally I just throw the bottle to the side, in this pile of discarded plastic bottles, and then I walk through the financial checkpoint so enraged that my eyes are almost closed and it's a good thing no one says anything to me because otherwise I would just rip them to shreds.

Over at Harvest Market, there's no sign of Hilary and I'm worried that I've missed her because now I'm 45 minutes late. But no, turns out she got stopped at another checkpoint and they made her go home to return her backpack. Are you kidding? What the hell is going on? When did Pink Saturday turn into a police state? Not just security at the gates, but roaming around inside are dozens of uniformed SFPD officers. And probably a few hundred of the security monitors in orange shirts, almost all of them straight black men. Did the Sisters consciously make this racialized choice, or did they hire an outside contractor to do their dirty work? Triple Canopy? Dimecorp? Xe/Blackwater? Or perhaps a local favorite like Bechtel Corporation.

I go into a restaurant to use the bathroom and they stop me, I say I don't mind buying something, but apparently that's still not okay. The waitress points me in the direction of port-a-potties, and there they are with maybe 85 people in line.

Back at Harvest, the owner is working the register and I figure maybe he'll have some insight, I say when did they decide to move the barricades so far back? He says I guess this year. I say what the hell is the point of all this security? He says oh I've seen it much worse -- he's probably talking about Halloween, when roaming straights show up with baseball bats and a few years ago the police decided to shut the whole neighborhood down instead of letting anyone in. I say what do you mean, nothing has ever happened on Pink Saturday! He says it's to keep away the outsiders. I say what the hell you're talking about -- 95% of these people aren't from San Francisco!

At least Hilary and I can be angry together. For some reason the cops keep coming over and staring at people's ginger ale bottles, telling people they can't be drinking that in public. This is ginger ale! But guess what -- you're not allowed to drink anything that's not in a plastic cup -- even if you're sitting on the benches provided by Harvest Market, drinking something that you bought inside.

This is crazy. Earlier someone pointed out the huge disco ball hanging in the middle of 16th and Market, but somehow I didn't notice that it was suspended by an enormous crane. Who the hell paid for that? I go closer. Oh, no -- it's sponsored by some new vodka called Blue Angel -- I guess it's like those U.S. Navy fighter jets that terrorize US skies to get people all excited about blowing up Iraqi or Afghani civilians -- drink Blue Angel, and double your pleasure -- get bombed, while you're doing the bombing!

I forgot to mention that one of the other things I like about Pink Saturday is that it doesn't usually have any of the corporate sponsorship -- at least not for the last several years. Way back I remember maybe it was sponsored by Budweiser, and was an official SF Pride event, but I never remember security checkpoints on all sides for blocks around, and right in front of us is a huge booth dispensing Popchips -- "Never Fried or Baked -- Love. Without the Handles." You can even get your picture taken in a free photo booth -- as long as you're holding a bag of Popchips. No doubt to use in their promotional materials. But can I guzzle my Blue Angel at the same time as I'm chomping on chips? Pop!

Then there's a huge video screen suspended from the corner in front of the giant disco ball, Hilary and I are watching it to try to figure out what it's advertising but we're not sure. The dance stage, sponsored by corporate gay dance radio, starts playing Michael Jackson -- everywhere in the world, they're probably playing Michael Jackson right now in one kind of corporate-crazed ritual or another. And then we spot the Budweiser truck parked on the corner -- oh, no! Sure enough, walking further we discover a huge booth, just like the ones at Pride, selling overpriced beer and cocktails and bottled water. Oh, that's why they had us confiscate our bottles -- so that they could make more money-- they don't even do that at pride!

What are the Sisters doing with all this money, I mean all the money that doesn't go to Budweiser or Blue Angel or Red Bull, sponsor of the tables in front of the Budweiser booth, decorated with the Sisters insignia and featuring maybe 20 bartenders pouring drinks. And, of course, across from the Budweiser booth is an enormous booth selling Polish sausage and ribs -- this all explains why most of the neighborhood businesses look relatively abandoned. Supposedly the profits go to nonprofits -- I love that phrase, so let's repeat it: the profits go to nonprofits. I love nonprofits that enforce a security state, how comforting!

But there's more -- just as Hilary and I are trying to make our way through the crowds to get to one of the exit checkpoints, we spot a few friends, and guess what? This year, the Dyke March got stopped at 17th and Sanchez, stopped by the line of straight male security guards who demanded that all the dykes walk single-file through the frisking station. That's right -- on the one day of the year when dykes actually flood the Castro, it's important to make sure there's extra security! Outsourced security, no doubt.

Mattilda also blogs at nobodypasses.blogspot.com.