Gay Pride

I decided to meet Annie and her friend at the Gay Pride Parade (okay, obviously I'm a little late in posting this one). I decided to wear my "Have you seen my weiner?" t-shirt, which I have worn correctly only once before. I've worn it inside-out many times, but I'm afraid of offending the ladies and gentlemen in my neighborhood with it. But, I figured, who am I going to offend at the Gay Pride Parade? Everyone will ignore me, gawking instead at the shirtless ladies and men in pink spandex.

When I arrived at the parade, however, I noticed that everyone seemed to have toned it down a notch since the parades I used to attend in the 1990s. A lot of people seemed to have kids, too. I felt a little ashamed, actually, at my t-shirt, but that was okay. I enjoy feeling shame. (The shirt itself is my way to shame myself about my promiscuous period - again in the 90s - where I would "take it out" in a variety of settings). My friend Tim and I used to joke about our "Gay Shame Parade," which consisted of just the two of us, plus whichever loners and outcasts were currently in our circle. Then Tim moved away to Berlin. Sigh. Now it's just me, a parade of one.

Everyone is so ra-ra about everything these days. People cheered for the Bank of America float, for God's sake. They even cheered for the NYPD's brass band. I dutifully booed and hissed any float that featured a bank's logo, and I definitely booed the NYPD, but I was the only one booing. I don't get Lady Gaga, either.

Alice Walker wrote once that "resistance is the secret of joy." And Sheryl Crow lamented that "it's hard to make a stand." Parade volunteers pranced by, handing out stickers for the crowd to wear, but I politely declined all of them, except for the one I'm wearing in this pic. The sticker for SAGE, the elderly gays. I could rock this town, friends, but first I have to take a Boniva.