I always forget how horrible Pride is, I mean no I don't forget how horrible it is. What I forget is how all-encompassing it becomes. I've only seen a few gay tourists so far, and I haven't been to anything remotely Pride-specific except film screenings, but I already feel like I'm supposed to be experiencing something.
Strangely now I'm feeling better about the whole thing, but I like the poetry of these earlier thoughts
Usually, I think of Thanksgiving as the worst holiday -- celebrating 300 years of genocide with miles of dead turkey, no turkey is what you eat these are dead turkeys. Then there's July Fourth and all of that hyper-patriotism and blasts of mineral-laden bright-skied fury fantasia -- oh no, that's right around the corner! Of course, Christmas is the religious consumer family nightmare (yes, whether you're crossing yourself or just crossing the street). But I actually think maybe Pride is worse than any of these, especially here in San Francisco where it's such a consumer spectacle -- I'm going to a movie later tonight and I'm already worried that it will feel like Pride, just shoot me up with a hundred cocktails and then I can swim!
That's the scary part -- wanting to hold my arms around someone like recognition, like exposition, like heavenly higher-than-the-sky extradition -- do you know what I mean? Oh, the lure the lure the lore the lure of that right-around-the-corner blast-off-and-never-come-down arms out mouth wide open take me, tell me, hold my eyelids open and then pour Budweiser in, drink me I'm nothing but a body waiting, a body waiting for the rest.
Mattilda blogs at nobodypasses.blogspot.com