Any parade that begins with Dykes on Bikes can’t be bad, can it?
She was cute, but turned her head at the wrong moment:
T. scoped out a spot under a tree near Christopher and Bleeker, and she, E., N., T., T., and I shifted on and off the tree-protector stand and tried to catch whatever breeze deigned to blow our way.
At one point, near the front of the parade, there was an, oh, 10-15 minute break while. . . something was (not) going up further on. While I groused whether this was a parade or a sit-in these 99 luft (and whatever else is German for the rest of the colors) ballons kept us company:
Soon, enough, the parade re-upped, with the support of our officers in (pink and) blue:
Of course, this was a gay pride parade, which meant queens:
Fairies:
And niiiiice young men in underwear:
(Be glad I cropped out the guy with bare ass. Not good.)
And, of course, that is gay pride means that this is still (still!) a question:
Overall, it was nice. I’m not really a parade person, but there are worse things than hanging out with T., E., and N. (T. & T. booked at some point) on a warm Sunday afternoon in the Village.
One final note: There was a lot of Michael Jackson music. A lot. The sweetest moment, however, may have been when one group played Whitney Houston’s ‘I wanna dance with somebody,’ and the whole crowd sang along. As the float moved down Christopher, all you could hear was us singing ‘I wanna dance/with somebody who loves me.’
AbsurdBeats 