At times the crowd at the Pride Parade was more interesting than the marchers. Call me crazy, but I found the bare-chested hunks on the sidewalk more appealing than the various church groups, worthy as they may be.
When the sun became too hot and we moved closer to the buildings for the shade, the parade suddenly faded into the background. The denizens and would-be denizens of Hillcrest strutted in front of us. Shirtless gym-bunnies (unaware of people staring at them); hugely bosomed “ladies;” a handsome muscle man making it to 6 feet via his 8 inch platform boots; scads of couples of indeterminate gender; flocks of slender young men in skimpy swim suits and 5 inch stilettoes and the inevitable dogs and babies costumed with varying degrees of creativity and success.
Not all was pleasing. I’m sorry, but too many job-killing tattoos, plugs, rings and studs on faces and places I don’t want to think about and, sad to say, too often nakedness of shuddering visibility. Hey, guys and gals, there comes a time … so sue me.
What a pleasure to see so many couples holding hands and the groups of seemingly non-LGBT people supporting us. Such a good time was had by all that one almost felt sorry for the few protesters (almost).
A point to ponder. As acceptance of LGBT lifestyles becomes commonplace, will we someday become so ordinary and acceptable that a parade will no longer be of any significance?
On one hand that would be nice, but I would miss it. Would you?
Tears of joy
The last couple of weeks have been filled with fun and frolicking, although not as much as in the past, especially the frolicking. Amidst the madness, I almost missed a most significant happening. It was revealed in a nationwide media announcement so unexpected, so stunning, tears of joy sprang from these ancient, rheumy orbs and hallelujahs from this wizened, toothless maw. Wait a minute! Let’s not over do the hyperbole. I mean I was happy. The general public joined in the celebration with the possible exception of the health nuts and Dunkin’ Donut fans.
Surely by now you’ve guessed my topic! Twinkies have returned to the national menu!
Some may remember my brief of April 12, 2012 issue #73 commenting on the not-to-be-endured announcement of the closing of the Hostess production lines and my attempt to corner the market of the last few boxes of the yellow manna at Ralphs. I pale at the memory of the battle between me and my fellow devotees. The carnage in aisle 7 was not a pretty sight.
As the months dragged on and my cache dwindled to a precious few, you can imagine how heartbreaking and grueling the enforcement of my self-imposed rationing became.
Now, oh happy day, with wild abandon I can discard those stale and slightly moldy survivors.
A new supply of yellow, spongy delight is once again rightfully ensconced in my pantry and I am free to grab a couple for breakfast and, ever mindful of my borderline diabetes, wash them down with a can of a diet cola.
