Monday, March 26, 2001

Our day in the park

The weather was gorgeous, though, and thousands upon thousands of homosexuals (including a couple hundred with cute pooches in tow) flocked to Tower Grove Park for the doings. After four years in this locale, they've finally gotten the layout right: booths lining a shaded walk, mainstage in the sunny circle of the park, necessary services off to the side.

I must admit to skipping the parade (call me when they start calling it a "march" again, please) and I will also skip my rant about the fact our St. Louis festival was organized, in part at least, by a marketing company based in Seattle. In the end, the manifold corporate sponsorships were appropriately played down, and I guess if it keeps the festivities free, I can't grouse about the rare event held open to everyone in town, regardless of their pocketbook.

It was a decidedly non-political day all around, save for fine speech by Barbara Smith, with the obligatory reminder of the interconnectedness of oppression and the moral necessity of "all for one and one for all" in political organizing. Other than that, even the folks getting ready to launch the whimsically named MONA (Missouri Non-Discrimination Act) stayed in their booth and waited for folks to ask them what's up. I practically had to beg the sole referendum huckster I saw on the grounds to show me his petition. The gay agenda, it seemed, had adjourned for the day.

The "-fest" portion of the event, though, was very much in evidence, passable cover bands, a decent DJ in the dance pavillion and enough rainbow-encrusted crap available for purchase to keep me stocked for the next 365. It certainly warms the cockles of my cynical fag-activist heart to see gayboy larvae gyrating to the sounds of Labelle, even if they do recognize "Lady Marmalade" only from the recent Moulin Rouge movie remix. Giuchie, Giuchie, ya ya dada, boys, "Hello, hey Jo, you wanna give it a go?".

There should probably be some sort of rider in the contracts of mainstage performers spelling out a limitation on how many covers of "I Will Survive" and "We Are Family" are permissible in a four-hour period. I danced or at least wiggled a little whenever they were played, anyway. An anthem is an anthem, after all.

As always, I ran into people I hadn't seen or dated in ten years, and others I had hoped to avoid. I caught up with friends I see only once or twice each year, and made some new friends besides.

I used to believe that the only way gay people were going to be accorded civil rights and respect were if we collectively began to act as though we already had them. That isn't the case, of course, but it certainly felt like it on Sunday.

How delightfully distressing. How distressingly delightful. What a swell party it was.