Pride+Rain=Fun?

Well, I did it.

I went to my first Gay Pride event. Ever.

Several people have remarked that it was a little lackluster, this year. The participants not as exuberant, the weather too nasty, the fun not as fun.

I say them nay. I had a great time. Granted, it was my first, so I don't have parties of years past to which to compare it, but what the hey. A fellow inmate at The Velvet Prison™ told me the story of the Delta Airlines delegation, whose inflated, blimp-like airplane float was nixed by the cops at the last minute for safety concerns. Apparently they were afraid that those who forget history are doomed to repeat it, and despite the Delta folks having all the requisite permits and permissions, just arbitrarily shot it down. So to speak.

Still, despite its apparent flaws, I had a really good time. I met up with Topher at his place around 2 p.m. I was under the mistaken impression

that the parade went down 6th Avenue, so I was a little taken aback when I exited the subway at 6th & 16th to discover no crowds at all.

My bad.

So we trundled over to 5th Avenue, and I was swallowed by the experience that is Gay Pride. It was quite something. At first, I was a little put off by just how loud it was. We happened upon the parade as a contingent of prideful Bronx residents went by on their sound system-laden float. Their loud sound system-laden float. Like, ear-bleeding loud.

Of course, as a short guy, being at the back of the crowd didn't make it so easty to see. My first impression of the parade wasn't so great.

But, like all good things, patience and tenacity were required.

We wended our way down to the Village, where we met up with a friend of Topher's who hooked us up with rooftop access along West 8th, right along the parade route. Killer, baby.

It was here where we saw this truck leading a group of flag-twirling homosexuals. They were pretty good, and I think they deserve extra props for coming up with their group name. Just inventing that name is reason enough to start a flag troupe, I think. I'm just saying.

This guy spent most of the afternoon giving me a heart attack. He was pretty liquored up (or at least seemed that way) and danced and gyrated on the edge of the abyss all day.

I was convinced he was going to plunge to his death. His antics, however, greatly pleased Topher's friend, who grew increasingly anxious to make his acquaintance as the afternoon rolled on.

There were a surprising – to me – number of corporate sponsors with floats in the parade. L'Oréal had – if not the greatest float – the most enthusiastic and energetic participants. And, on balance, the cutest. The L'Oréal crew was so chock full of cute men that I wondered if there were any straight people at the company at all. Not that I'd be complaining if there weren't. Who better to take care of your skin that looks-obsessed homos and lesbians? I'm just saying. Anyway, the young men who were the vanguard of L'Oréal's float were just cute as buttons, and the folks dancing on the float had enough energy to light up a small midwestern city. Yay them, say I.

Speaking of enthusiasm, there was this guy. This guy was your average – you'll pardon the pun – Joe. Not some 0% body fat Chelsea Clone. That just had to hurt his wrists. Or maybe I'm just old.

Oh, and remember the guy who was hanging from the fire escape on the building across the way? He eventually climbed down to the street level and joined the parade. Here we see him dancing with the guys from Congregation Beth Simchat Torah. The gay Jews.

This is part of what I loved about Pride. I got a surprising feeling of community from the experience. Not my usual "beautiful people making me feel invisible" experience of large gatherings of The Gays. I felt like I was a part of something larger; a group with which I could identify myself. It was really cool.

Okay, so here's the crazy part. After the parade, but before I went off to meet Fozzie (to whom I'd promised a reunion evening after his weekend away), we wandered west to a party given by some other friends of Topher's.

It was filled with a very interesting array of people, from a dermatologist with the most beautiful tanned skin I've ever seen on a man who looked like a Chelsea Clone, to a big, bearish composer dude whose signature introduction was, "XXXXX is my name." Every time he was introduced. I Xed it out for privacy's sake, but I'll tell you what: No one at that party forgot his name. Which I'm sure was the point.

Most interestingly, there was a guy there (accompnanied by a pixie-ish little fellow with glitter for eye-liner) who introduced himself thusly: "I'm So-and-So. I run a rent boy concern, and this is my latest acquisition, So-and-So" at which point he indicated Sr. Twink.

You could have knocked me over with a feather.

I work in the theater, baby. And I've seen porn films. There's not much that The Gays can do that surprises me. But this was the first time I'd ever actually met a gay pimp and his ho.

New York City is a wonderland, my friends.

Not that I regret the evening with Fozzie (who, poor dear, had a sore throat and needed some luvin'. Not that kind, you freak), but I'm told that after I left, the place became a veritable cornucopia of shirtless muscle queens. Oh, to have been a fly on that wall.

So that's my pride experience. It was pretty cool. I'll do it again next year, as long as I have access to a roof top from which to watch it.

And another invitation to a party full of weird, interesting, prideful (and hopefully inclusive) folk.