Pride.

Today was the big gay pride parade in Boston. Earl and I were hoping to attend this year as we have in the past, but on-call fell on the same weekend and well, work won. It’s kind of disappointing, because I would have loved to meet up with some fellow bloggers in Boston. Oh well.

I’ve been to Boston’s pride parade on several occasions, having lived there for a while in the late 1980s. One year I marched in the gay pride parade, 1989 I believe, as a member of DECplus, or Digital Equipment Corporation People Like US. Working for DEC at the time (obviously), I was fortunate to be part of DECplus and a smaller social group, BGLAD (Bisexual, Gay & Lesbian At Digital), that got together from time to time. Unfortunately, I’ve lost touch with everyone I used to hang out with. I sometimes wonder whatever happened to all those folks.

Gay pride is an interesting experience for those participating and those that are just watching the parade from the sidelines. You see every type of person on the street, the outrageous, the gorgeous, the conservative and the mundane. At the 1990 parade, a woman literally hit me upside the head with a Bible as I we were nearing the end of the march at Boston Common. She told me I was going to hell and then hit my right up side the head with a very worn Bible. I retaliated by spitting in her face. I looked her in the eye and actually spit in her face. She didn’t care, as she apparently had been given the same treatment by others in the parade ahead of me; she just continued to scream at everyone around her.

I was such a rebel back in the day.

The news coverage of gay pride always highlights the Dikes on Bikes, the 300 pound men dressed up like Wonder Woman and the leathermen that forgot to cover their ass cheeks when they put their chaps on that morning. News isn’t news unless it’s outrageous apparently, so the camera skims over 98% of the crowd, never focusing on the families, the couples, the gay firefighters or the lesbian cops. As far as television coverage is concerned it’s all about those wild and zany homosexuals that like to wear pink peacock feathers on a headdress.

So while I’m sitting at home, enjoying a mundane weekend loathing the weather and busying myself with work in comfortable jeans and a plain old t-shirt, I still can say “Happy Pride”.

I just can’t say it on television.

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