The parade of hoses Or Your pride is showing

I wasn’t going to write anything about the Gay Pride Parade. Like most virgin experiences, it’s better to keep things to yourself.

Plus, I need a personal a moratorium on the topic. The right wing nuts are trying to make a political issue about gays and marriage and family values, which sets off an endless cycle of sameness in a debate where new points are hardly ever made.

In Chicago we had to deal with a week’s worth of talk radio about Sox manager Ozzie Guillen calling one of the biggest prima donna sportswriters ever a fag from other sports writers who got on their high horses. Because, as we know, sports guys with radio shows never use locker room talk and there is nary a homophobe in the bunch.

But back to the event. When you make your first openly gay friends when they invite you to tag along to their parade with them it’s a nice gesture.

Even if one of them thinks he is clever and wears a T-shirt he bought at Hot Topic that says “Taste My Rainbow.” It was clever until he saw about a dozen other people in the same shirt. He also kept telling a joke about not ever wearing boxer shorts to the parade because he would get a boner. He reminded me of my corny dad, if my dad turned out to be gay, which aside from his love of watching figure skating and the music of Barbara Streisand, I am pretty sure isn’t the case.

Next year I will invite the boys to the South Side Irish parade and wear my plaid shorts and wool sweater. Wait, I already wore that outfit down in Beverly. Up North, I wore my usual baggy shorts with a checked camp shirt (no double meaning intended) and, for a touch of gay, a black sleeveless T-shirt under the top.

Anyway, parades of all sorts are funny in part because groups that don’t want to be stereotyped trot out the stereotypes. Plus, human sexuality is pretty funny when you stop to think about it. So this had the potential to be twice the funny.

But both the Irish and the gay parades are way too long, so to speak, clocking in at over three hours each, which makes you sleepy, even if you aren’t drinking.

Both are filled with politicians and drag queens. Wait, in the Irish parade those are step dancers, not drag queens.

Both draw families. The questions kids ask are different, though.

On the South Side, it can be, “Daddy, why is that man sick? Why is he throwing up in the garbage can?” Or, “Can I pee on the bushes, too?”

On the North Side, it could have been, “Daddy, why is that man wearing my Superman Underoos, and why did he put his socks in them?” Or, “Can I take a bubble bath outside, too?”

The South Side parade had men in kilts, while the North Side had men in dresses and gubernatorial candidate Judy Barr Topinka who was in pants but who looked a lot like some of the guys in dresses. Poor Judy looks a bit like the transgendered, and let’s be honest. God has not been kind to these people -- they don’t look fabulous as either sex (see John Lithgow in The World According to Garp).

And our illustrious governor Rod was shaking hands. Metrosexual he is, it appeared by his graying sideburns that he dies his well-coiffed mane.

And fabulous was the cliché of the day. Another moratorium: if I seen another twink with six pack abs, bleached teeth and gelled hair dancing about in his spandex boy shorts, it will be too soon.

Also, drag queens with biceps like tree trunks dressed like they are in the carnival down in Rio scare me. Maybe my mom made me watch a Carmen Miranda movie when I was little, who knows?

Another moratorium: gays, at least parading ones, should get over the disco music. There was one Latin rock band. That was nice, but add some show tunes, even.

For you suburban dads, there weren’t too many of those lipstick lesbians marching by, but there were crew-cutted dykes on bikes revving their engines.

Mostly, there were companies giving away crap, including beads as everything is a Mardi Gras anymore. This was the most corporate parade I have ever attended, though, and I can see why.

Most gays don’t have kids, which means they have expendable income. They are a desirable demographic, especially in a big city, which is to say pink and green look great together.

Money changes everything.

I feel so much safer now

A couple summers ago I read a pretty good novel called Big If, by Mark Costello. It’s about the lives of Secret Service agents guarding the Vice President as he runs to be Top Dog.

I bring this up because of the dog and pony show the Bush Administration put on last week about catching the “terrorists” down in Florida.

Now in the novel, these agents had to filter through information and scour crowds all the time for potential trouble. They have offices filled with files on possible assassins, many of whom have taken the time to send incoherent ramblings to the White House, others who belong to various groups of one sort or another of crazy.

This is what these people do for a living -- keeping an eye out for the troubled and insane. Every day risk assessment.

Somehow a group of disgruntled guys in the Miami ghetto of Liberty City who belong to what appears to be another wackadoo cult seems like what the Secret Service is used to, which is to say they hardly qualify for a press conference.

And here’s how I picture the exchange about what was supposed to be one of their targets -- assuming they could get money and find someone who even knew anything about explosives, then found a way to Chicago.

Goofy Guy # 1: Man, we should blow up that Sears Tower. It’s pretty tall. I been there. I got scared up there so it must be the work of the white devil.

Goofy Guy #2: Word

Goofy Guy # 3: Yeah, like we can find some terrorists or maybe just head to Indiana around the 4th of July and buy some explosives.

Goofy Guy # 2: Word up.

Exactly how hard must it have been to infiltrate this group. Even the FBI seemed embarrassed that the Bushies blew this up into a big event.

Thing is, if they keep doing this scary Halloween stuff for every knuckle head wannabe, no one is going to believe the boys who cried Osama if and when that awful day comes when it is for real.

What jackasses.

Rear Window, or Tinkle, Tinkle, Little Star

They say that Martin Luther had his moments of reformation revelation in the bathroom on the toilet where he spent a lot of time, allegedly because he was frequently constipated.

It could be true, though I’m guessing the second thing off the printing press after the Bible was Hamburg Hotties or some other such publication so he could have had other reasons for his me time.

But I doubt the dole German had a window behind the toilet to distract him. Let me tell you, it is most unnerving to get rid of the extra Miller Lite when your dangling your tackle and you notice the partygoers below milling about and the duct tape chord meandering from a nearby plug out the aforementioned glass.

I found myself in that very situation last Friday night upon accompanying some friends to a graduation soiree held by parents of a friend of their son.

Why would you put a window, a rear window, if you will, right behind your behind where and when you park it on the porcelain? Sure, it can air out the place. And sure, it was on the second floor. And sure, you can see if anyone suspicious is in your large driveway while you drain the snake.

But there’s always a chance, given the right lighting conditions and angle, that they can see you, too. Or, should you be a mobster, with your back to the window, you’d be a prime candidate to be shot on your throne.

It is kind of fun, though, if you’ve had a little too much beer at a party, to look down on the people below while you tinkle, a human aquarium bubbling below. Hey, they put up newspapers and even TVs above urinals now, so there is precedent for such distractions.

Besides, it was just one more quirky thing about this gathering. But I suppose anyone’s group of friends can seem strange to an outsider, especially a get-together of nice suburban white folk.

Hey, since I am one of them, I know of which I speak. We like to wear baggy shorts and flip flops and the “wild” guys have those wacky Hawaiian shirts. And at about 40 the men and women start to look way too much like each other. Which is why the guys tend to grow beards.

We are the people who made Hootie and the Blowfish a hit. And we still listen to the music of are youth way too much.

I can admit it. That’s me, too -- some of the time. Just some of the time.

At this shindig, I felt a bit like a guy in a Steely Dan song, only a shade less creepy than those characters. You know, they call Alabama the Crimson Tide, call me Deacon Blue. That kind of guy -- but not going near the hot 17 year old cheerleaders there for the band, like they would in a Steely Dan song.

Actually the band, although made up of teens, was there for the Mom and Dad as it only played 70s music - some lite funk and tourist blues, but mostly hippy type 70s music, and, truth be told, I hate hippies. If I had kids and they liked the Grateful Dead, I’d be having random drug tests every other week (which I guess would mean they wouldn’t be so random).

Looking at the crowd, I would liken their kids’ band to them being at a party in their youth and them playing Glenn Miller music and digging it. Nothing wrong with big band music, mind you, but still.

One of the dads requested Mustang Sally, so he could sing along. He had a goatee. He also asked me if I saw Miles Davis in concert, as I had a Miles Davis T-shirt on (with really baggy plaid shorts -- I, too, can be very white).

Actually, I had seen the grump genius trumpeter, but the shirt was from a museum exhibit. He seemed disappointed with that news. (Since Davis has been dead for quite some time, it was sort of an odd question.) I would rather he sang a Ramones tune, but I am glad he didn’t do Buffett.

Odder still, to a slob like me at least, was how immaculate the garage was at this place. Not a cobweb in sight. Concrete so scrubbed you could eat your pasta salad off it. A scant few tools and bikes hung on the wall. A solitary set of golf clubs lonely between the table of food and the other one with the chilled wines and keg.

I worry about people who have such tidy garages -- and I would see another one later that night, one replete with a TV even.

Maybe it’s all part of the package, self-cleaning, even, along with the requisite shades of beige decor. But too clean is what causes allergies, OCD, and is how I imagine the homes of serial killers to be.

What did set this house apart, though, was, since it stands in an unincorporated part of Elgin, Illinois, there wasn’t the sameness to the designs of the neighbor’s places.

In fact, down the block there was a garish fountain on the front lawn, seeing it which is what probably made me have to go to the can in the first place.

And the house with the party was a sort of faux California/southwest style, that salmon stucco finish you see out that way, but which must seem pretty incongruous in February out on what used to be a cornfield.

As for it being a house party, though, remember, white people very rarely dance. Too bad. It would have been a nice night for it. Van Morrison even has a song about it, one most of them probably know.

The Wedding of Ernie and Bert

All the trouble going on around the world, the wars, the idiot terrorists, the diseases, the hunger, global warming, the deficit, the crumbling infrastructure, unaffordable health care, it’s a good thing politicians recently took the time to debate the issue of a constitutional amendment banning gay marriage.

Now I’m not sure how many congressman and senators have been to such a soiree, how many did their homework to see what the fuss is all about before deciding it may or may not be worth changing a monumental document in human rights.

But judging by the affair I attended Saturday, the only thing banning gay marriage might accomplish is saving gays from themselves. That is, it will take away from the alleged fabulousness that we know all gay people possess and leave them as dull as boring as any heterosexual couple.

For this event (which the groom of the two insisted to me was not a marriage, because that’s a “breeder” term and see my post “My Dinner with Austin” for details) was a very nice afternoon, but a pretty staid affair. In fact, I would say it was the whitest event I have attended in some time. I’ve heard that Barry Manilow concerts get wilder than this.

Who knew gays could be so boring? I mean, there wasn’t a Mae West, a Little Orphan Annie, a 6’ 240-pound drag queen in heels to be had. There were no show tunes, no chaps, no dancing even, no flannel.

Well, there was plaid, as I wore a kilt for effect. Note to guys of either persuasion: A few women were intrigued by the look (and you gotta be stocky to pull it off, so to speak) as were a few guys. Of course, I found out that at least a couple guys assumed I was gay because of my “dress,” which amused me because: a) I know 300-pound jocks who could hurl them into space who I am pretty sure are straight (not that it should matter) who wear kilts and b) if you don’t want to be stereotyped, don’t make any assumptions yourselves.

Also, the kilt is not a dress. It is a traditional Celtic garment dating back centuries. People who wore kilts kicked ass, despite the silly hose. It is history and heritage.

Would you PC types freak out if an African showed up in clothing from his homeland? I don’t think so.

Besides, I look damn good in one.

Anyway, I’m glad I sported the tartan (with a black vest, tie and sport coat with white shirt, mind you) if nothing else to have something to talk about. Even if it did get old saying, yes I do wear underwear with it, at least in public.

Top it off, this was an afternoon party, in a restaurant, which leaves your ass dragging by 5:30 p.m. I mean that’s not only dull, that’s AARP dull.

Which isn’t to say I didn’t have a good time. They put me and my friends at the kids tables in the back of the place, just in case, with the happy couple and all but 10 of the 60 or so guests out of our view.

This probably was a good thing, allowing us to enjoy our multi-course meal without having to pretend to pay attention to the choreographed toasts in between each served dish.

(See that aforementioned old blog post again). For all Austin’s talk about not wanting it to be a wedding party, but for the lack of a formal ceremony, it quacked like a duck. Hell, there was even a frilly cake.

Actually, because of how he framed it with the speeches, I took to calling it a gay mitzvah. And framed it he did, like an architect only Ayn Rand could love (and erasing from the blueprints that the lovebirds met through a 900 phone number dating pool).

He even told the carefully chosen speakers (each to represent a different group of friends) that there were to be toasts, not roasts.

Now I did my part to fuck with the blueprints - the kilt but one of the techniques. I got them a photographer as their gift, which wasn’t part of the grand design (which is why I had to really bite my lip hard when I heard a guest bitch when my friend who took the photos at no cost to the couple and paid out of my pocket and at a rate less than she could demand, left before the end. I so wanted to tell this women that there weren’t even going to be any pictures, but I think I just went to get a drink instead, something high priced and on the couple’s tab.)

The photographer got a mandolin player to come and serenade the couple, at my initial suggestion and her charming powers of persuasion.

But best of all on changing the grand design was Austin’s dad. He joked about how he shouldn’t have let his son watch Sesame Street as a kid. Now his boy and his betrothed are a couple that bear an uncanny resemblance to Ernie and Bert.

He joked about telling his construction buddies about going to a gay wedding on Saturday, then to see the Care Bears with his granddaughter on Sunday.

He was gracious and funny and it was probably hard for him, but you could tell his love for his son tempered everything he said.

Save the speeches for the convention. Acceptance is about moments like that.

If you want to change the world, use jokes, dancing and spontaneity, not suits, scripts and platitudes -- especially at a party. Otherwise what you have is a political party, and who wants be have anything to do with one of those anymore?

One is, one isn't

What’s more fun: when you meet somebody who turns expectations on their head, or when you meet someone who is the living, breathing stereotype?

Surely that’s a philosophical question for the ages.

First, the guy who broke the mold. And I am quite sure he could break just about anything he wants to break. Big Bob is a power lifter, competes in strongman competitions and in Scottish Highland games, tossing cabers and hurling stones into space.

Mac could build a truck using him as a model. A buddy of his said Bob looks like he ate two babies and they wound up in his shoulders. He can squat lift a dozen Paris Hiltons -- and at this point shouldn’t somebody squat lift her?

Bob is an accountant by trade. It’s ok. Go ahead and chuckle. His pals say that’s the common reaction. So is a little guffaw of surprise when Bob tells you he was on the swim team in high school back when he weighed 220 pounds.

Think of how intimidating a power lifting accountant could be for you come audit time. Or if you were one of those wispy high school boy swimmers lining up next to a guy who looks like he could literally eat you for breakfast.

As much as Bob defies silly expectations honed from years of watching bad sitcoms and reading sloppy sports columnists, Scott goes the other way, so to speak.

Scott teaches speech and coaches the debate team at a small college in Pennsylvania. From what I have told you thus far, would it shock you if I told you he wore glasses?

That he is so chubby he bears an uncanny resemblance to cartoon character Peter Griffin on Family Guy? That he is single? That he likes to play Dungeons and Dragons? That he likes Madonna for her worthless pop value?

That he is spending his summer working at a Boy Scout camp, where there is no cable TV and he gets not even one full free day a week and he has to wear the scout uniform - but he draws the line at the kerchief?

While I was amused by most of the above, it also brought out my inner mean jock self. I can be as much a dork as anyone, but for some reason, even though this guy seemed pleasant enough, I just wanted to give him a swirly.

And I actually told him, “Dude, you are so not going to get laid this summer (and thinking, fall, winter and spring for that matter),” after having but one beer.

Come on, though. Who thinks it’s a good idea to spend your summer when you are in your 30s and single working at a Boy Scout camp?

That part of the nerd puzzle kind of creeped me out.

But, given the stupid shit I wind up doing, who am I to judge?