Saturday, May 2, 2015

A Man Has His Pride Firmly In Hand (Editorial)


I am not proud of myself -- and not for the usual reason of being suddenly discovered in the bathroom wearing Mom's lacy things.  My pride has been prejudiced.  I confess I have never been to a gay pride event -- ever.  The three-man huddle at the Barstow truck-stop probably wouldn't count, yet, I was kind of proud of what I was able to accomplish in such a profoundly gay manner in such a short period of time with the organized help of the participants. 

The only other Gay man I have heard of who never attended a Pride Parade was the father on “The Brady Bunch” and that was only because he became Gay after he was dead.  Besides, I saw the grainy Kennedy Dallas footage.  Anything can happen out in the open.  At a sex-charged Pride Parade, I’d be the lone idiot sitting on the grassy knoll, dangerously out of place, looking very, very suspicious, with my hand planted firmly down the front of my pants and concealing nothing.

Soon my outward lack of support of my parading Pride brothers-in-bikini briefs will come back to bite me in the proverbial ass, if not the literal one, and my “Gay account” will be closed, the designer “diva” license plate revoked and I won’t get the newsletters anymore. What was the secret handshake again?  When I walk into Ikea, fellow fellows will turn their heads, shunning me and my reclusive kind, and all because I won’t do public spectacles, except for going off unexpectedly at the nude beach that one time. I still say it was the kid’s fault.

Sure, I believe in freedom of speech and free assembly but what are the rowdy balls-out revelers saying so freely and assembling in such masses to achieve that can’t be done in a more...uh...subtle approach?  

I don’t need to be reminded I am equal, particularly by someone young enough to be my...you know...young friend, even if I’m not being treated equally.  I got that when growing up with my dictatorial democratic family, where you get to vote but the vote doesn't count ‘cause Dad said so.  

I’m here.  I’m queer.  And I’m used to it.  I don’t think I’ll ever get used to being called “girl” from a mustached stranger dressed as “Dorothy” with a bullhorn gyrating to disco retreads atop a chiffon-decorated flatbed truck drifting down Main Street in broad daylight. That’s nice and all.  That’s not me.

When confronted and asked, “Where’s your pride?”  I answer, “A few inches below my navel.” I celebrate my Gayness every time I rerun the downloaded Colin Farrell sex tape. Perhaps I should raise my civil expectations and lower my pants less often.

Gays wanted to join in on a St. Patrick’s Day Parade but were denied.  Having a debate on who should or shouldn't participate with the Irish was upsetting, those posers passing them selves off as they do, especially to those of us who really are White and in charge. What is to be expected from class-conscious drunkards who see leprechauns and do dwarf tossing?  Who can reason with them when they are devoid of understanding the value of less hostility towards Little People and more midget porn? Gays can teach the Irish a thing or two. 

Gays will let any fool take a stand in the Pride forum.  Under the Rainbow flag, many participants, although sincere but still perplexing, fall into the questionable gray part of the color spectrum. That’s me – so far in the middle, I become the outsider. I am particularly peculiar to this crowd because I’m not particularly peculiar at all.

Pride events have obvious political agendas.  How ironic that the female feminists burned their bras as a sign of freedom, while drag queens at Pride want social acceptance by putting bras on, even though the contraptions are filled with birdseed padding. They have heart.  It just takes a while to unhinge everything to get to it.

Still, serious social issues need to be addressed and communal debauchery may be the most suited place like they do in Washington with booze, back-slapping, bribery and dubious position-taking – Pride being the equivalent to a Mardi Gras-like hanging Chad controversy perhaps?  A convention of conventioneers full of Tina and free condoms from AIDS activists?  

We do need to address Gay people adopting children since so many Gay people already have SUVs.  (When I overheard a Gay couple talking about “a child’s seat in the back”, I didn't realize it was a car’s safety device for a toddler.) 

We need to legalize Gay marriages like David and Liza’s.  Someone has to set the example to straight couples since their parents aren't. (Or in Liza’s case, they did.)  Gays need to be seen and heard and “It’s Raining Men” used as a hymnal is the sure-fire method of assuring self-actualization and collective understanding.  Even straight people are Gay during that number.  But just why can’t I be counted as an absentee ballot in the whole mess and be left to my own vices, not to be surrounded by others flaunting theirs?

I've seen these events on TV, on the news, curiously right after the sports section.  Gorgeous, hot men float along on floats, because they are gorgeous and hot, floats that make them unreachable to anyone human, only to remind me, I am neither gorgeous nor hot, that I haven’t had a date in a year and haven’t been laid since Bush was in office – and I don’t mean the one running for office. From what I understand, they won’t let you hitchhike along the parade routes. Damn it.

Having 300 pound porn-making-queen Chi Chi LaRue as parade honoree blowing kisses from the hind end of  convertible with reinforced shocks doesn't inspire me politically to contact my congressman to make things happen.  Finding out my drunk congressman writes dirty emails to twink pages does somehow. Now, there’s someone who seems to represent ME.

Besides, I might go to Gay Pride but I have nothing to wear – just the same old t-shirt with “Failed Medical Experiment” lettering across the chest and baggy pants with so many pockets that my cel’s answering machine picks up before I can find it.  

If Pride is all about acceptance, I’ll try going just once in culottes and penny loafers with real pennies to see what happens. I lay good odds I don’t make it back to my house without being accosted in a fashion hate crime.  If Gays are so damned liberal, how come I can’t go to the event naked and really start a public outcry about what is “normal”?  Ha, I say.


No.  I will stay home, where, if nothing else, at least I have my pride.

No comments:

Post a Comment