Congratulations to all parade participants and especially to the planners who did a fantastic job organizing this huge project. I heard nothing but great comments from the senior contingent – except about the length of three and a half hours. We cannot sit nor wait that long if you catch my drift.
Amidst the gaiety and gayness, serious messages were also given and taken note of as they should have been. I am grateful that stronger actions were put off for a more suitable time.
Note my title is in the singular. Of course there were many worthy, fantastic sights and performances, but I didn’t see any of them for the simple reason I was in the parade and therefore couldn’t watch it. I was close to the front in the trolley sponsored by FOG, my favorite men’s group, Fellowship of Older Gays.
It was my first participation in any parade and I thoroughly enjoyed riding not walking even though it meant the whole extravaganza behind was lost to me and my fellow riders. In its place were thousands and thousands of people smiling, waving and cheering.
Block after block it was the same until we came to my special, memorable moment. As we slowed to turn onto Sixth, two handsome young men rushed out from the crowded sidewalk, got close to us and shouted (so we could hear, bless them) “Thank you. Without you, we wouldn’t be having this parade!” A real emotional surge struck me to the heart as it would any LGBT senior. I’m sure many more were thinking that, or should have been. I wish they had been more vocal. But I won’t quibble. Those two made my day. They could make my night also, but fantasies have their limits.
The sailor and his dinghy
A recent wander through YouTube brought up a high school memory of a classmate’s party when his parents were away. He asks us to bring our special records. Naively misunderstanding “special,” I brought my Yma Sumac treasure (look her up, kids). Appreciation for this unique artist was cruelly lacking and she was quickly replaced with risqué songstress Ruth Wallis (check Google).
Long-ago censors were strict, but mild naughtiness was allowed if the jacket warned “no sale to under 18.” I must mention I had a date, a girl! This was obligatory as was the ghastly after-party necking session, an agony all senior LGBTers remember. We all knew the songs were “for adults only” and felt immensely sophisticated.
Then came Ruth’s most famous ditty “The Cutest Little Dinghy in the Navy” with its enchanting chorale. Being from coastal Maine, I knew this was a row-boat with a sail and was a serious admirer of a good dinghy (I still am). She sang of the hero’s various adventures and suddenly new meanings became clear – to me at least; don’t know about my date. Didn’t ask. I was eagerly trying to catch all the lyrics. My mind began to fantasize, unfortunately leading to unwholesome visions and, horror of horrors, a wave of lust tightened my trousers – a teenage boy’s worst nightmare (actually for guys of any age).
There was no way to handle the situation. Compounded calamity, a new record was put on and we were expected to stand up and dance! As misery mounted, I stared at my nice, but undesired date, thought of the soon-coming petting purgatory and lo, the tide receded. I can’t believe the effect a dinghy still has on me.
