As sure as Kilimanjaro rises like Olympus above the Serengeti…
-Africa by Toto
“Here, drink this.” Holly directed as I rustled around the room to figure out where the hell my other sock had gone. I raised the glass to my lips, hoping it was just water, but knowing it wouldn’t be. Just as I suspected, vodka and Sprite. “You looked like you could use a cocktail.” She said. The simple act of making me imbibe a liquor drink at 9:30 in the morning set me an a collision course with adventure.
“Front Page News?” Holly asked (Front Page News is our usual Sunday Brunch joint). “You know it.” I replied. She wandered downstairs to rally the troops while I continued to hunt for my sock. After a few more unsuccessful minutes of searching, I stepped out on the porch into what has to have been the most beautiful day in recent memory.
“Change of plans.” Holly said, wearing a Snuggie of all things. “We’re going to Park Tavern instead.” “That’s fine with me. As long as food is involved.” I replied.
Then it hit me. Park Tavern is at Piedmont Park. The Gay Pride Parade is at Piedmont Park this weekend. Ruh-Roh. I didn’t say anything, but I guess Jacoby could read the hesitation on my face. “I heard you needed some more condoms, this is a lot easier than going to Kroger. Come on.” She said. I laughed out loud but followed, thinking that there better be some liquor at this event or I’m in trouble.
My attitude towards the gay movement can best be described as ambivalent. I’m not gay, I don’t really hang out out with many gay people. It’s not really a conscious decision, it’s just the way things worked out. Just like I don’t have any Muslim or Hindu friends. For better or for worse, I don’t really concern myself with the social ills of society. I’ve got my own troubles to solve, and believe me, it’s a full-time job. I may sympathize with a particular individual’s plight, but for the most part I don’t get caught up in movements. My only real rule about that sort of thing is “don’t spoil someone else’s good time.” As long as you’re not hurting anyone, I’ll be the last person to ever speak ill of you. With that in mind, I found my happy ass at the F’n Pride Fest.
The Getup
For some reason, whenever someone talks about the Pride Festival, I get that song by Toto, Africa, stuck in my head. Perhaps it’s has something to do with a pride of lions (yes, that’s what a pack of lions is called) and lions live in Africa, I don’t know. Nonetheless, I walked around all day singing the one line I knew. “I bless the rains down in Africa.”
The only portion of the festival we really saw was the parade, so I can’t speak of what went down when everybody got drunk and started moshing around the stage. I gotta say though, it was pretty tame. I went into this thing a bit hesitant, actually expecting to be a bit uncomfortable at times, but I wasn’t at all. It certainly was no small town 4th of July parade, but this is Atlanta, there’s always a controversy. The Grand Marshal for the parade was a female officer from the Atlanta Police Department. She’s the liason for gay/lesbian issues or something of that nature. Normally this wouldn’t be a big deal, but last month, the APD decided to raid a gay bar in Atlanta and detained a bunch of folks and it got rather ugly. I don’t know if there was just cause or whatever, but it certainly widened the divide between the law and that segment of the community. The APD had some officers in the parade and there was a big protest group that marched too. Nice gesture on the APD’s part.
Probably the most humorous portion of the entire parade (besides Holly giving Cheez-its to every one that drove by) was the angry black contingent. They were revved up about something and honestly, it was more like they were in a 1960′s civil rights march. It didn’t fit in with the celebratory mood of the rest of the parade. As insensitive as it sounds, it was pretty damn funny.
Probably the only time I felt awkward during the entire event was when I had to use the restroom. I had to walk a good ways to get to the little porta-shitter things and for some reason I had felt it necessary to wear a wig from the night before all day. Needless to say, I looked like a damn fool. Nobody in our group bothered to say anything to me though, they just expect it of me. So I’m standing there waiting in line for the pisser and I’m pretty well drunk by this point (they had a good deal on Vodka and Sprite). I turn to this guy that’ s next to me and ask him if he’s in line. Immediately about five heads turn my direction. I guess they weren’t expecting such a Southern drawl from a narrow ass in a Halloween wig with aviators on. Definitely one of those “one of us does not belong” moments.
After visiting the porta-shitter and grabbing another liquor drink, the park area was beginning to get crowded. Somebody had the good sense to set up a karaoke booth. As I walked past, a rather large woman started into a stirring rendition of Come To My Window by Melissa Etheridge. Classic. That’s truly one of the things I miss most about college, getting to hear people sing bad renditions of popular songs on a weekly basis.
Overall, I’ve gotta give props to Atlanta’s Gay Community on this one. It seems like they’ve done a good job of inserting themselves into the mainstream culture. I wasn’t shocked. I wasn’t appalled. It just kind of seemed like another parade to me. Honestly, I was a lot less freaked out by this than I am those God-Forsaken Hipsters that always clog the sidewalks in Little Five Points. Gay people don’t wear skinny jeans.
