Well, shit

In all my fun Cedar Rapids Pride Festing I never took any pictures. But I rocked my rainbow couture with hundreds of lovely rainbow-clad people from all over the LGBTQ+ spectrum along with more lovely friends than I can count. And when I just left, I passed a woman on a motorcycle parked next to a requisite bitch-crazy hate preacher. She was reviving her engine at full rev to drown out the goat-fucking vomit he was trying to yell into his sad little bitch-boy megaphone while a huge circle of us perverts blew bubbles at him. They weren’t ribbon-festooned gift bags of flaming shit, but it was a lovely start.

#LoveWins #ExceptForBitchBoy

I didn’t really know anybody by the time the first pride parade happened soon after I moved to Chicago

So I went by myself to watch it. And, standing among thousands and thousands of cheering, smiling, happy, proud people who were watching with groups of friends and waving at other friends who squeezed by on the crowded sidewalks, I never felt more alone.

It was actually so devastating in my mind that pride weekend literally filled me with dread for the next 15 years I lived in Chicago.

I did notice that first year that the people dancing and waving on the floats looked very happy—and they didn’t have to be surrounded by friends or even anybody as they enjoyed the parade from their glorified perches. So I made up my mind that I needed to make the connections to get myself on a float by the next pride parade.

As I slowly—finally!—made Chicago friends and watched the next few parades with them, I still harbored an irrational, unshakable dread that I’d lose them—or they’d actually leave me—and I’d be alone all over again in the crowds. So I kept trying to figure out how to get myself on a float.

Then I joined the Chicago Gay Men’s Chorus. And we marched in the parade! But not on a float. And I very very stupidly decided to wear my rollerblades and they hurt and I was bad at stopping so I kept running into people and I was so miserable I had to hobble home the moment it was over so I couldn’t hang out and celebrate with anyone afterward so as far as I’m concerned the whole experience didn’t count and I don’t want to talk about it.

Then! Finally! I got on a float! And let me tell you: Though standing in a Speedo sucking in your abs and holding on for dear life on a lurching, frequently stopping vehicle technically sucks all the fun out of it, having hundreds of millions (in my fantasies my math says I have hundreds of millions of adoring fans so shut up) of people screaming and cheering for you is ALMOST as awesome as dancing and waving high on a moving platform where the cooling breezes are plenty, the jostling crowds are penned up on the sidewalks below you and the scenery changes by the second to keep everything interesting.

Plus you get to dance to your favorite disco hits.

I got myself onto many more floats for the rest of my years in Chicago. The weather was always perfect, my cheering, adoring fans swelled into the billions (shut up), and the joy and pride were always plenty. And my irrational dread—though never gone—was always in check.

Today is Chicago’s pride parade. My Facebook and Instagram feeds are filled with joyful, excited, rainbow-colored, mostly shirtless pictures of my Chicago friends and acquaintances already celebrating, and while I’m thrilled and proud to have (eventually) been a part of those traditions, our dramatically more subdued Cedar Rapids pride festival next weekend is now WAY more my speed. And not my Speedo.

So I wish all of you celebrating pride in Chicago today—whether on the sidewalks or on a float—an awesome day and an awesome experience both personally and with everyone around you. I’ll be happily painting my room—and no doubt dancing to my favorite disco hits and/or belting to my favorite show tunes—instead. And we all can’t stop the music.

Happy World Pride Weekend, gurls! (snap!)

Tears

Of joy, of fury, of gratitude, of promise. This documentary is profoundly, deeply moving and profoundly, deeply inspiring. See it.

#Pride101: The 50th Anniversary of Stonewall

Fifty years ago today, the New York City police raided the Stonewall Inn--a gay bar in Greenwich Village that catered to drag queens--in an ongoing campaign of harassment and intimidation specifically targeted at people wearing clothing that didn’t conform to the conventions of their “assigned gender.” These arrests usually led to people’s names and photographs being published in the newspaper … which carried the high risk of the them losing their jobs and even their families.

Usually the people submissively complied as they were being arrested. But this time they fought back. When an officer clubbed a black lesbian named Stormé DeLarverie over the head for complaining that her handcuffs were too tight, the crowd that had gathered outside the club had had enough. Marsha P. Johnson, a black drag queen, and Sylvia Rivera, a Latinx queen, were two of the first to actively resist the police that night, and their fellow queens joined them in throwing bricks, bottles and shot glasses at officers and effectively shutting down the raid. I mention these people’s ethnicities and orientations here to give credit to the non-white, non-cis-presenting people for showing the courage and gumption to initiate the fight back and start what ended up being six days of riots in the neighborhood surrounding the Stonewall Inn that finally ignited a national fight for the rights and equalities that everyone under the LGBTQ+ rainbow enjoys today.

Stonewall wasn’t the first riot in defiance of police raids; in 1959 angry gays fought police after a raid of Cooper’s Do-Nuts--a gay-friendly diner--in Los Angeles, and in 1966 a trans woman threw a cup of hot coffee in a police officer’s face in a raid at Compton’s Cafeteria in San Francisco, sparking a riot that inspired the city to acknowledge the trans community and develop a network of trans-specific social, mental-health and medical services. But Stonewall was the turning point. The police raid quickly drew a large mob whose collective lifetimes of oppression and discrimination boiled over into a violent revolt that trapped police in the bar until the NYC Tactical Patrol Force was dispatched to rescue them. Riots erupted the next night and through the week in the Christopher Street and other nearby gay neighborhoods, including one mob that threatened to burn down the offices of The Village Voice for describing the riots as "forces of faggotry" and "Sunday fag follies." The next year, an orginization called Chicago Gay Liberation organized a parade on the anniversary of the Stonewall riot, and the city has staged a parade on the last Saturday in June ever since.

Now every major metropolis and many smaller cities have pride parades and events, many of which spill beyond the last week of June to pop up in celebrations all year. But June is officially Pride month in the hearts and minds of gay people--and an exploding population of straight people and businesses large and small--and we owe it all to the brave gay people who had had enough and fought back at great risk to themselves and even to our community fifty years ago today.

THIS IS WHY WE CELEBRATE PRIDE.

#Pride101:

Virtually every pride parade and public event draws a crowd of hate-filled, mouth-frothing religious bigots carrying signs (notice the ever-popular message in this photo: GAY = Got AIDS Yet?) and screaming at us with bullhorns and often trying to goad us into physical fights so they can videotape them and whimper to the police about the cruel persecution they endure just for expressing their First Amendment rights. At bigger events like the Chicago Pride Parade, they're walled off in pens like the rabid swine they are at the end of the route where they're more of a nuisance than a violence-inciting threat. But at smaller events like the Cedar Rapids Pride Fest, they wander freely in much smaller numbers at the perimeters, hauling massive signs as if they were crosses and yelling into bullhorns and goading us from afar so they can run like the cowards they are if they feel outnumbered and/or want to stoke their wannabe persecution complexes. But we keep showing up to our events, not letting their cruel, puerile, relentless harassment undermine our celebration of who we are how far we've come. THIS IS WHY WE USE THE WORD PRIDE.

In celebration of Pride month, I have burst out of the closet!

And by “burst out of the closet” I mean “removed the floor guides, carefully lifted the closet doors from their roller tracks, carried them upstairs to the garage where I have drop cloths and rag-draped saw horses set up, given them two coats of bullshit-one-coat paint, let them become thoroughly dry, and brought them back downstairs to wait for the door frame to completely dry so I can re-install them.”

#Pride101

Liberty Counsel (rule of thumb: "Liberty" almost always means "hate gay people") has made a lucrative industry of selling hatred toward gay people as an easy-sell loss leader to promoting less visceral add-on products like hatred toward non-Evangelicals and boycotts of Disney. Since 1989, they've enjoyed tax-free access to politicians and influence on public policy in their quest to literally kill gay people--among other undesirables--by halting funding on AIDS research, killing sex-education programs, preventing access to HPV vaccines, and defunding Planned Parenthood's low- and no-cost medical services. And now this: Liberty Counsel Chariman Matt Staver has issued a de facto endorsement of lynching gay and transgender people by removing them from a Senate anti-lynching bill. The Southern Poverty Law Center designated Liberty Counsel as an official hate group in 2015, yet it continues to exert influence on our elected representatives. Thankfully, many members of Congress oppose Liberty Counsel's amoral depravity and actively fight for all of our citizens. But it's clearly an ongoing war between good and Liberty Counsel's evil. THIS IS WHY WE NEED TO UNITE UNDER THE BANNER OF PRIDE.

#Pride101

Probably every gay, lesbian and trans person you know has been called a faggot. Or worse. I have. More times than I can remember. Probably every gay, lesbian and trans person you know has had something thrown at them with the intention to hurt or humiliate them. I have. It was a barrage of eggs as some friends and I stood on a sidewalk in Chicago's Boystown. Where we'd assumed we were immune from such bullshit. The worthless cowards who threw the eggs missed all of us and ran away cackling like they were big men who somehow mattered in the world. Many gay, lesbian and trans people have been physically, violently assaulted. I never have, but I have friends who've been assaulted so violently that they've been hospitalized. It's 2019. The homophobic violence that our forebears endured may have lessened, but it hasn't stopped. But we all still get up, walk out the door every day, and live our lives as openly as we dare and as comfortably as we can. THIS IS WHY WE CALL IT PRIDE.

#Pride101

Before the 1969 Stonewall riots, virtually every aspect of being gay was illegal to varying degrees in America: being openly gay, showing public affection, having any kind of sex, marriage, adoption, assembly in public, assembly in private, going to gay bars … even owning bars with any form of gay designation. The only gay bars that existed were owned by crime syndicates, who definitely weren’t at the vanguard of fighting for gay liberation; they saw in the gay population a steady and highly dependent form of revenue that the mobs could protect via their considerable influence over law enforcement. We were exploited for our desperate need to find each other and for the money we were willing to pay to feel like we weren’t alone. We paid exorbitant prices for watered-down, bottom-shelf liquor. We gathered in buildings that were unclean, unsafe and unimportant to society. The subtexts were shame, risk, secrecy, and arrest and public humiliation if we were caught entering or exiting these bars. But in the gathering momentum of our achievements in equality over the last half century, our forebears demanded--and slowly, surely got--our growing equality and our freedom to live our lives openly and safely and without imposed shame and exploitation. THIS IS WHY WE CALL IT PRIDE.

#Pride101

It's 2019--a literal half century after the Stonewall riots and the dawn of our demands for equality, justice and our right to exist in peace--and "religious" leaders like Tennessee pastor--and sheriff's detective Grayson Fritts--just today today are angrily demanding "the death penalty for someone being a homosexual" from their pulpits and on their wide-reaching media "ministries" and inciting continued harassment and violence against us from their morally bankrupt followers. And we continue to resist and survive and love and support each other and live the open, brave lives that our forebears fought so hard to pass down to us. THIS IS WHY WE CALL IT PRIDE.

Yup

Really, new Pride shirt that I slept itchily in last night?

Is all of this even remotely necessary?

Brand new Pride couture and assorted mannequin boobies

In the midst of all my heartless, unsentimental purging of once-beloved shoes and clothing

... I may or may not have just ordered some pride apparel I totally don’t need.

11/11/11

My grandpa Lawrence Arthur—who joined my grandpa Arthur LeRoy to be the inspiration for my middle name—served in World War I with his three brothers Ole, Gustav and Robert. They build bridges in Russia, built hospitals in France and served stateside when the war ended.

Grandpa Arthur LeRoy was a veterinarian during World War II who was promoted to battlefield surgeon on the front lines in the Philippines and Okinawa.

My dad was in the Army at the very early days of the Vietnam War, serving in Thailand and the Philippines triangulating radio signals to find their broadcast locations. I unfortunately can’t find a photo of him in uniform.

11:00 today—the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month—marks the 100th anniversary of the end of World War I, when the Allies signed the armistice with Germany, and the United States 11th Field Artillery Regiment fired the symbolic closing shot of the war.

I can't even begin to describe how much respect and appreciation I have for my veteran forebears, along with all of our country’s active duty and veteran military personnel. Past and present, they live vastly different lives when they're worlds away from us and once they return and live among us as well. The anguish they feel when they're waiting to be deployed. The abject terror they live with every day when they're on the front lines. The thought that the friendships they build can be ripped from them in one explosion, one hail of gunfire, one sunken ship, one innocent step on a land mine. The survivor's guilt when they return home but their friends and comrades-in-arms don't. But all their work, their sacrifices, their days of boredom and nights of fear continue to keep all of us back home safe from what they lived and continue to live with for months and years at a time.

I'm humbled by their selfless sacrifices and their service. I'm proud to have so many veteran relatives and friends to be proud of. And in awe of. And thankful for.

Thank you.

What have you done today to make you feel proud?

June is pride month for most cities, but Cedar Rapids has our pride fest in July out of sisterly courtesy to Chicago so they don’t lose out to us on all the good parade float rentals. (YOU’RE WELCOME.) But somebody wasn’t so considerate and beat us out on the readable-size pride-fest banner we’ve hung over our entrance. Ours may be slightly small, but it’s just as mightily jubilant.

I didn’t really know anybody by the time the first pride parade happened soon after I moved to Chicago

So I went by myself to watch it. And, standing among thousands and thousands of cheering, smiling, happy, proud people who were watching with groups of friends and waving at other friends who squeezed by on the crowded sidewalks, I never felt more alone.

It was actually so devastating in my mind that pride weekend literally filled me with dread for the next 15 years I lived in Chicago.

I did notice that first year that the people dancing and waving on the floats looked very happy—and they didn’t have to be surrounded by friends or even anybody as they enjoyed the parade from their glorified perches. So I made up my mind that I needed to make the connections to get myself on a float by the next pride parade.

As I slowly—finally!—made Chicago friends and watched the next few parades with them, I still harbored an irrational, unshakable dread that I’d lose them—or they’d actually leave me—and I’d be alone all over again in the crowds. So I kept trying to figure out how to get myself on a float.

Then I joined the Chicago Gay Men’s Chorus. And we marched in the parade! But not on a float. And I very very stupidly decided to wear my rollerblades and they hurt and I was bad at stopping so I kept running into people and I was so miserable I had to hobble home the moment it was over so I couldn’t hang out and celebrate with anyone afterward so as far as I’m concerned the whole experience didn’t count and I don’t want to talk about it.

Then! Finally! I got on a float! And let me tell you: Though standing in a Speedo sucking in your abs and holding on for dear life on a lurching, frequently stopping vehicle technically sucks all the fun out of it, having hundreds of millions (in my fantasies my math says I have hundreds of millions of adoring fans so shut up) of people screaming and cheering for you is ALMOST as awesome as dancing and waving high on a moving platform where the cooling breezes are plenty, the jostling crowds are penned up on the sidewalks below you and the scenery changes by the second to keep everything interesting.

Plus you get to dance to your favorite disco hits.

I got myself onto many more floats for the rest of my years in Chicago. The weather was always perfect, my cheering, adoring fans swelled into the billions (shut up), and the joy and pride were always plenty. And my irrational dread—though never gone—was always in check.

Today is Chicago’s pride parade. My Facebook and Instagram feeds are filled with joyful, excited, rainbow-colored pictures of my Chicago friends and acquaintances already celebrating, and while I’m thrilled and proud to have (eventually) been a part of those traditions, our dramatically more subdued Cedar Rapids pride festival in two weeks is now WAY more my speed. And not my Speedo.

So I wish all of you celebrating pride in Chicago today—whether on the sidewalks or on a float—an awesome day and an awesome experience both personally and with everyone around you. I’ll be happily cleaning the garage—and no doubt dancing to my favorite disco hits—instead. And we all can’t stop the music.

What the hell do gay people have to be proud of?

On this, the Gay High Holidays of the Tony Awards, I offer again my annual explanation and celebration of what gay pride means from my own journey and my own experience and my own big-ol’-proud-gay-man perspective:

We’re proud because despite relentless persecution everywhere we turn—when organized religion viciously attacks and censures and vilifies us in the name of selective morality, when our families disown us, when our elected officials bargain away our equality for hate votes they try to disguise as so-called “religious liberty,” when communities and cities and entire states codify our families into second-class citizenship, when small-importance bakers with the backing of the big-money hate industry take their unhinged loathing of us all the way to the Supreme Court, when our employers fire us, when our landlords evict us, when our police harass us, when our neighbors and colleagues and fellow citizens openly insult and condemn and mock and berate and even beat and kill us—we continue to survive.

We’re proud because pride is the opposite of shame—and despite what systemic bigotry and the ugliest sides of organized religion work so hard to make the world believe, there is nothing shameful about being gay. We’re proud because—thanks to the incredible bravery shown by gay people who lived their lives openly sometimes to the point of being defiantly in the decades before us—we can live our lives more and more openly at home, at work, with our families, on social media … and even on national television.

We're proud because we've worked tirelessly to achieve legal equality in marriage, adoption, parental rights and many other ways that make our families recognized as Families in our states and across our country. And though we have much more to accomplish—and though bigotry disguised as morality and religion and the supposed mandates of constituents work and sometimes succeed at eroding our newfound equalities—we have the momentum and intelligence and drive and humanity and ability to keep driving back the hate as we continue to drive forward with both our newfound and future equalities.

We’re proud because through our tireless work and the prevailing powers of common sense and compassion, Don’t Ask Don’t Tell and Proposition Hate and the so-called Defense of Marriage Act have collapsed in on their illogical, immoral, meritless foundations—and new legislative attempts to dehumanize us gain little to no traction or visibility and soon die on the trash heap as well.

We’re proud because we are smart enough to overcome the self-loathing that our venomous, mindlessly theocratic society forces on us, and we have the power to stop its destructive cycle by fighting back and by making intelligent choices involving sex and drugs and money and relationships and the way we live our lives—and by using our lives as examples of success and humanity and love that other gay people can see and respect and emulate and achieve more and more easily.

We’re proud because after all we’ve been through, the world increasingly continues to notice and respect us and enthusiastically appropriate the often fabulous culture we’ve assembled from the common struggles and glorious diversity of our disparate lives.

We’re proud because more and more often and in more and more contexts our country and our culture see the fact that we’re gay as frankly boring.

We’re proud because especially this month and always all year we’re celebrating with parties and street fairs and parades overflowing with drag queens, leather queens, muscle queens, dad-bod queens, glitter queens, you’d-never-even-know-they-were-queens queens and even straight-but-honorary-queens-for-a-day queens, and together we can see beyond the pride in the parades of our lives and together celebrate the underlying Pride in the parades of our lives.

Quite simply, we’re proud that we have so incredibly much to be proud of.

National Coming Out Day = pants of a color not found in nature