What do I want? A rich husband with a 10-inch D! When do I want it? NOW!
So we went to the march and everything. It’s taken me a couple of days to write it up because I’m still really not sure how I felt about the whole thing. By now I suppose it’s irrelevant– if it wasn’t already irrelevant from the start– but in the spirit of the march, WHATEVER.
Sunday was a beautiful day in Washington– maybe too beautiful– and everyone seemed to be in a really good mood. (Maybe too good.) My comrades and I were really hung over and hungry and no one had gotten much sleep and some of us (me) had gone to bed lonelier than others. Even so, with the weather and everything, it was hard to be too grumpy. (Regular readers will know that grumpy is my default mood, so this is saying a lot.)
The metro had been packed with people on the way downtown, and the crowd had seemed fairly evenly divided between young-ish gays (several somewhat hot!) and twenty-something girls of the type that my sister likes to call “Sparklefatties.” My fellow marcher Brian was complaining the whole ride about Barack Obama’s speech to the HRC the night before, but I was more interested in eavesdropping on the girls behind me who were talking about their friend who “makes the best f*ckin’ Jell-o shots.”
Like I say, we were all hungry, so the first thing we did was stop at Starbucks, hoping that they maybe they still had those egg sandwich things they were doing for awhile, or at least those disgusting muffins. We were shit out of luck: the gays had already descended like a plague of marriage-minded locusts, and the glass cases were bare of literally everything except crumbs and wrappers. Not even a sticky bun! (Actually those were probs the first to go.) So we were forced to head next-door to Burger King, which was the first sign that none of us would be getting laid that day by horny paraders. No one wants to f*ck someone who tastes like Whopper!
The march itself was, um, kind of leisurely. Had the Westboro Baptist Church dosed everyone’s Starbucks with Quaaludes in a genius scheme to make everyone complacent and cheery? I wouldn’t put it past Shirley Phelps Roper, but I think it’s more likely that it was just a combination of the weather and our own native bourgeoise docility. Shirley may be a scheming bitch, but where would she get all those pillz? Right?
So everyone was sort of just milling down the parade route with their coffee and everything. It was plenty crowded, I guess, but it never felt at all packed like other marches I’ve been to usually are. There was room to move around and even smoke a cigarette without bothering anyone too much. There was some halfhearted chanting, but most of it petered out pretty quickly, because who wants to f*cking chant?
The only people with any real kind of get-up-and-go were the pink masked anarchists a few feet away from us, who were delighting in playing their giant drums and singing a song that went something like, “Assimilationist and middle class, HRC can lick my ass!” The Human Rights Coalition delegation that was marching directly ahead of them were unamused, but seemed too befuddled to do anything about it, and eventually the anarchists got bored, shut up, and enjoyed the sunshine like everyone else. (At least as much as they could enjoy anything under their bandana-masks.)
We strolled past the White House, where a everyone was posing for pictures. There were some tourists but even the fanny-packed out-of-towners in star-spangled t-shirts seemed okay with the paraders. Maybe they didn’t realize it was a gay march– there were only a few drag queens, a lot of families and young children, and a shitload of straight marchers. Signs were fairly few and far-between, and the signs that people did have were on the whole pussyish.
Eventually we met up with some lezzie friends who’d driven down for the day and made our to the Capital lawn for the rally. At this point, people started losing their shit because there was no celly service. Panic! Everyone was racing around the lawn of the Capital hyperventilating and waving their phones in the air, hoping to attract beams of reception. You can take away our marriage rights but you do not f*ck with our cellphone service!
I myself did not need to make any phone calls, so I spread myself out on the lawn and chilled hard. It seemed like there were plenty of people there, but there was still plenty of room to stretch out. Most of the rallyers weren’t really listening to the speakers, who you couldn’t really see from where we were anyway, so mostly everyone was just chatting. I saw two people I’d slept with at some point or another, but I opted not to say hello. Awkward!
Suddenly, there was a COMMOTION. All across the Capital grounds, grown-ass gays started squealing and rushing the stage. I stood up to try to see what was going on. Could it be? IT WAS! Lady Gaga had made her appearance at the podium. She gave a speech. “We are putting more than pressure on this lawn!” she said. I looked around. She was right: there were also cigarette butts, apple-cores (lesbians!) and some discarded flyers that some socialists had been handing out. Everyone cheered. Then it was over, and although there were more speakers left, people started to decamp. We stuck around, and then when it was srsly emptying out we left too.
We went to Union station, where one of our number was to catch the train. He had awhile before he had to depart, so we went to my favorite restaurant, Pizzeria Uno, where we were sandwiched between two tables of high school students, also coming back from the march. (Don’t worry, I got a few numbers!) The whole train station was full of marchers in full rainbow regalia, which was actually nice. But we lingered, and eventually the gay high schoolers were replaced by pink-hatted Susan G. Komen Marchers for Breast Cancer who gave us dirty looks as we talked loudly about rim-jobs and orgies. It was over.