We're all so over Pride. Can't commit to going, we have been going so often. We're all busy, we don't know which party we will go to, and if you have seen one parade you have seen them all really. I mean, again, year after year. We'll see. You going? Oh maybe, well, I don't think so.
Not me. I love Pride. I love the parades. I think marching is even better than just watching them, but if I have no-one to march with I love to just watch. I'll remember what it was like to march through a single row of people just gawking, or a dead stretch, and I'll instead clap and do my best to make it fun to be a marcher. "Yay Unitarians!" "Yay Lowell High GSA!" "Yay Methodists!" "Yay random drag queen!" "Honey I love the shoes!" "Yay GLBT bankers!"
And of course in a new city I had to watch the parade. So I parked myself right accoss from Selfridges, in London's busiest shopping street, now cordoned off, and got ready. And got peckish because I was early. Turns out I was in front of a Starbucks (which had the biggest contingent of barristas than I have ever seen working in a Sbucks, slamming through orders like an assembly line) and found myself for the first time ever watching a Pride parade, not in oppressive humidity, not being baked away in desert sun, but on a clear cool summer day with sanwiches and a light frappe in my hand, passing time sitting on a bus stop bench waiting for it to start. And a lovely parade it was.
Not as high in church groups as say a Boston parade, and of course no floats repeating key scenes of Mommy Dearest like in LA, but large contingents of "Yay massive amounts of glbt policemen! Yay gay rugby players! Yay glbt fire-department volunteers hey is that 'Dirty Dan'? Yay glbt British Airways in their smart uniforms I love you but could you please make the flight to Düsseldorf be on time more?" And only three bar floats or so. And very few people in leather, which sucks, because that is so the whole point. And everyone liked being clapped and cheered on.
It all ended in Trafalgar square, where I also went to, and realized I'd be wandering around knowing no-one, without a designated spot where, after years of habits, all my friends would converge on because I neither have the large group of friends yet or the history of habits, until I noticed two heavily facially-pierced leatherdudes entranced by my furry shoulders (Yes, you can see the
tan-lines of my tanktop today). So I went up to meet them because I am always down with hanging with the freaks.This was fun for a couple of hours and then I decided to move on to Soho where, I was told, everyone would be out in the street drinking all day and partying around. The novel, specific-to-Pride, part of that sentence in the UK is that they would be out in the street.
Where of course, you know, I also wouldn't know anyone and would just wander to get a feeling for my first year of Pride in London, except that I ran into Cristopher, someone I actually had met from online, and we met some new friends, and everyone was petting my back and then asking each-other if they were going to Megawoof that night -- the party for the Big, the Roided, and especially the Furry -- and of course everyone else was all "Oh I don't know, I am so tired, I have been before..." and I just said I was going. Which, after I had gone home and ate and lounged, I did. And then left early at 2AM after having seen Christopher and danced very suggestively with him, as with one random hot stranger who was into it, with some stares in the beginning from these stuck-up British musclebear homos who weren't getting into the spirit of things because their drugs obviously hadn't kicked in yet. And even then; I have never seen a room with so much wall-to-wall dancing flesh and so little actual contact. Maybe I left too early after having danced near non-stop for three hours. Maybe that was because I was tired, or maybe because on some level those frigid (non-)fuckers were annoying me.
Today I dragged myself out of bed to make it to Kensington in time to meet up for brunch with Reeta, a former Disney Mobile colleague who is visiting, who after brunch (Eggs! Pancakes!) met up with two other friends back in Soho in a notorious pastry shop (More eggs! Salmon! Hot chocolate so rich I had to slurp it spoon by spoon! Cake! Other people's cake they weren't finishing!) and then went to a pub near Picadilly to watch Wimbledon (Water! My god, please, water, nothing else!) Reeta has only seen me eat the lunches i brought into work, all steamed veggies and chicken, so she had no idea I actually could Eat, and was a little stunned. I decided not to tell her any food stories; in between processing the last months of DM, mothers dying, subsequent dead-mother jokes, and gossiping about dating experiences in the UK, we already went through enough details so intimate we can never have a normal professional relationship again anyway.
Last week in Ddorf tomorrow. I have promised myself I will write an entry on how it all actually was. I know susandennis
wants details, and these random twitter snippets just will not do.