In which willendorf5761 goes to gay pride, and is reminded that she is a boring old fart
Gay pride edition of the "I am so fucking old" series. These days, I'm so fucking old, even
thedeepquietsaid I was so fucking old.
Ten ways gay pride showed me I am fucking old, in no particular order:
1. We wouldn't have gone at all, except we promised to sit at a table for our synagogue.
2. We arrived late and left early.
3. I wore a t-shirt that did not have any writing on it. I wore no labrys, double woman symbol, or rainbow crap of any kind.
4. I didn't come home with a pile of brochures. Didn't get any stickers, beads, or buttons, either. I did come home with some free samples of catfood, though.
5. I didn't even bother to pick up a program.
6. Our booth was near the drag stage. We couldn't see, but we could hear the music, and I was really happy when Donna Summer's "Heaven Knows" came on. I wanted more disco.
7. I found the (very few) Xian protesters mildly amusing, rather than disturbing or contemptible. A bunch of queers were mocking them from inside the festival, and I said to thedeepquiet, "It's not nice to tease the Christians." I considered offering to spell them at the gate while they went in for smoothies, but chickened out.
8. I was not even tempted to take off my shirt, even though it was really. fucking. hot.
thedeepquietmade a comment about shirtless men, and I said, "Fifteen years ago I would have taken off my shirt, too." You heard me: it has been fifteen years since I took my shirt off someplace where girls were not supposed to take off their shirts.
9. I was more interested in checking out cute dogs than I was in cute women.
10, and worst of all. I didn't dance.
I griped about going, but I did end up having a reasonably good time, which is what usually happens after I gripe about going someplace festive. People watching was fun. I scored a Chick tract, which made me happy, although I would have been happier if it had been "Doom Town" or one of the other really over-the-top anti-gay ones rather than boring old "This is Your Life." The group handing out the tracts is based in Virginia, which shows they care way more about gay pride than I do. There is no way I would travel that far just to attend gay pride. We found out about a really cool-sounding new women's (excuse me, womyn's) space and I bought a beautiful sculpture of a four-breasted goddess for
thedeepquiet ("She has four boobs, just like us!" I exclaimed). Which reminds me that we promised to email them information about purchasing a ramp. Oh, and I got to tell someone I hate the Human Rights Campaign. And it didn't rain. And 18 people signed our shul's guest book. So it's all good.
thedeepquietsaid I was so fucking old.
Ten ways gay pride showed me I am fucking old, in no particular order:
1. We wouldn't have gone at all, except we promised to sit at a table for our synagogue.
2. We arrived late and left early.
3. I wore a t-shirt that did not have any writing on it. I wore no labrys, double woman symbol, or rainbow crap of any kind.
4. I didn't come home with a pile of brochures. Didn't get any stickers, beads, or buttons, either. I did come home with some free samples of catfood, though.
5. I didn't even bother to pick up a program.
6. Our booth was near the drag stage. We couldn't see, but we could hear the music, and I was really happy when Donna Summer's "Heaven Knows" came on. I wanted more disco.
7. I found the (very few) Xian protesters mildly amusing, rather than disturbing or contemptible. A bunch of queers were mocking them from inside the festival, and I said to thedeepquiet, "It's not nice to tease the Christians." I considered offering to spell them at the gate while they went in for smoothies, but chickened out.
8. I was not even tempted to take off my shirt, even though it was really. fucking. hot.
thedeepquietmade a comment about shirtless men, and I said, "Fifteen years ago I would have taken off my shirt, too." You heard me: it has been fifteen years since I took my shirt off someplace where girls were not supposed to take off their shirts.
9. I was more interested in checking out cute dogs than I was in cute women.
10, and worst of all. I didn't dance.
I griped about going, but I did end up having a reasonably good time, which is what usually happens after I gripe about going someplace festive. People watching was fun. I scored a Chick tract, which made me happy, although I would have been happier if it had been "Doom Town" or one of the other really over-the-top anti-gay ones rather than boring old "This is Your Life." The group handing out the tracts is based in Virginia, which shows they care way more about gay pride than I do. There is no way I would travel that far just to attend gay pride. We found out about a really cool-sounding new women's (excuse me, womyn's) space and I bought a beautiful sculpture of a four-breasted goddess for
thedeepquiet ("She has four boobs, just like us!" I exclaimed). Which reminds me that we promised to email them information about purchasing a ramp. Oh, and I got to tell someone I hate the Human Rights Campaign. And it didn't rain. And 18 people signed our shul's guest book. So it's all good.