I enjoyed myself yesterday. It was good seeing S and J, two friends from my days in graduate school here in California. They are both charming hosts and sharp wits. We walked around a bit, enjoying the different types of music and the various booths for organizations and vendors. We ate some tasty kabobs and had more than our share of beer. We watched some performers on the so-called Main Stage, and we shopped for rings together. No, not those kind of rings, but the ones we found were quite nice.
Some observations I made during the day yesterday:
Where would the organizers of the festival be without American Idol? Among the performers this weekend were Fantasia Barrino, Syesha Mercado, and Blake Lewis, one winner and two finalists. Of those three, I saw Mercado (whom I initially thought was Rihanna thanks to her performance of two Rihanna songs back to back) and Lewis, and both are assured singers, Lewis being the more experimental and edgy of the two. However, if it weren't for the TV show, the gays would be left with Teri Nunn and Berlin (whom I also saw) and Deborah Cox and Expose, none of them performers at the top of the charts these days.
The dance "tent" should be renamed The Land of the Ken Dolls. I've not seen so many shirtless guys with the same basic body since, well, the last time I was at Pride. There is definitely a specific body that is prized among gay men, and you can tell they've put in some heavy duty hours in the gym to achieve it. I just find it sad, though, that you could take the head off one guy and put it on another guy's body, and no one would be able to tell. And the body type cuts across ethnicities too. It's not just white guys who have "the look."
It's almost embarrassing to watch porn stars with any clothes on. Several boys from Randy Blue (some of you know what I'm talking about) marched in the parade and then walked around the festival site yesterday. My friends and I have, naturally, seen some of these guys' work. It's very disconcerting, though, to see a handsome, muscular young man wearing a pair of baby blue shorts when you know what he looks like naked. And in various positions.
The parade always starts with Dykes on Bikes. I have never figured out why. There must be a story about how they became the traditional beginning of the parade. Nevertheless, here's my proof that there was, indeed, a parade:
I received a signed baseball cap from Pat Rocco yesterday. He was one of this year's honorees, and I was apparently the only person in my area who recognized him. I applauded him as he passed, and he waved me over to the convertible and presented me with the cap. It was really a surprising moment, and he's a very generous man. Here's someone who helped to found the festival and has gone on to have an intriguing career as an independent/underground/experimental filmmaker. You'd think he would have needed a lot of caps to distribute. (The cap came in handy, too, as the sun came out and proceeded to scorch us for most of the afternoon.)
Lots of people distribute promotional material during the parade and festival. You get lots of lube and condoms, unsurprisingly, and plenty of fliers for various events and clubs. I also got a paddle, courtesy of the Pleasure Chest, which says "Spank Someone Happy." Not sure when I'll get to put that to use, but I suppose it will be good to have it handy just in case. However, the most interesting thing I got was a flier for a "dating" service. A very young Asian guy was distributing the cards to selected men only, and I happened to receive one of them. (S and J were not invited.) It's for a website called Gay Sugar Daddy Finder. Now before you start, let me assure you that he didn't think I was on the market to find a sugar daddy for myself. I must look like a potential sugar daddy to him. Sigh. I guess I should be flattered, but it's tough not to wonder if that is what life has left for me. I don't make anywhere near enough money to be considered a sugar daddy, and I'm not especially interested in younger men anyway, but perhaps this is where you wind up when you reach my age.
I will admit that I don't often feel like I'm truly a part of the gay community. What tends to represent our community is the image of the young, muscular, hairless type of guy, the Ken Dolls I spoke of earlier. That's not me. It never has been me. Oh, of course, I've been young, but the guys my age who come to Pride now are really of two camps, for the most part: guys who are trying to look like they're still young and guys who just want to look at those who are still young. I'm neither of those. I was always skinny until I hit my late 30s. Then I guess my metabolism changed, and I got lazy. I'll never be a cover boy, and frankly, I don't have the time and energy to become one. As for the hairlessness, well, I'm on my way, but in all the wrong places, sadly. I'm close to joining the Bald Brigade, as I dubbed them yesterday.
However, despite all of that, I did feel at times that I belonged yesterday. I still love watching guys dancing together in the country music pavilion. It's a thrill I could never have imagined growing up. People were, for the most part, very kind to each other. I managed to get through the entire day without one beer being spilled on me by someone, for example, and I figure that has to be a major accomplishment. And I even got to speak to a couple of people who struck up conversations with me. Of course, most of them were lesbians or bisexual women or fairy godmothers, but the point remains that I wasn't completely invisible. That's quite refreshing for me to realize, considering how often I feel as if I am that way.
I still want to attend Pride someday with someone I love. I still want to hold hands with someone and walk around and dance together and listen to the performers and buy useless crap for each other and eat cheap food and drink too much. And I still want to talk after the festival is over about how much fun we had and how much we're looking forward to the next one.
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