The Queer Issue
ASSIMILATION MAY SWEEP most of the quirks of gay culture under its carpet, but the pride parade will not be one of them. This is not because the pride parade is unceasingly wonderful. No, the pride parade is, in fact, increasingly unbearable, general good cheer notwithstanding. The pride parade is simply one of those bloated, tired institutions that can't die because it has established itself so firmly as a bloated, tired institution. It fulfills a cheesy niche just to the left of all of popular culture's rights.
The pride parade is the slightly tacky aftertaste of every Rose Bowl, the off-color whisperings beneath every Miss America pageant, the second thought of every Seafair. It's the necessary yin of the American parade scene, stuffing all of its yangs into tight cut-off shorts. Where else can America go to embrace the sagging, relentless flesh of its naked ambitions? There is nothing more American than "Look at me!" and the pride parade is "Look at me!" and then some. The good-natured, bad taste exhibitionism it celebrates will be around as long as there are really unappealing penises and boobies whose owners are convinced of their God-given right to foist them in your face.