Contrarian: Leave the Leather Bike Shorts at Home

IN JUNE, THE city will drape itself in the rainbow flag as lots of men who seem to have nothing to do but sit-ups descend on Center City en masse for our annual gay pride parade — ostensibly to watch other men who do lots of sit-ups cruise by on floats.

In Philadelphia — birthplace of the Giovanni’s Room bookstore, Henri David’s Halloween bash, and the urban legend of hunky television personality Jerry Penacoli — the parade is meant to serve as a celebration of liberation for all of us who engage in the love that dare not speak its name. And you know, that’s fine. After all, the Irish get their own parade, as do the Italians, the Puerto Ricans and a bunch of others. (Don’t get me started on the cross-dressing Mummers.) All the flag-waving and chest-thumping serves a purpose — it’s an exclamation point on said particular group’s long journey to societal assimilation and acceptance, and an homage to its culture.

The problem is that the “gay culture” venerated in this annual event is actually, well, gross: men wearing very little shaking their asses to thumping techno, clownish drag queens, leather daddies. What was once done for shock value now has little shock, less value (at one parade I went to, the North American Man/Boy Love Association marched), and no relevance to contemporary gay life. All of which is why, after two decades of breathless progress in attaining and growing our civil rights, we’ve hit a wall.

Like a willful teenage girl tuning out her mother’s protests that her belly ring and bitch boots send the wrong message, the pride festival clings steadfastly to its state of rebellion, daring anyone to say something. That’s historical, and even understandable. It’s also pretty stupid. Because for all of the tolerance we’ve gained, there’s a lot more yet to be earned.

I want to get to a place where two men can hold hands walking down the street, not in the gay ghetto at 13th and Pine, but in Port Richmond. In Kensington. In Delaware County, for that matter. “Well, that’s your problem” is the rejoinder to those who would threaten us for attempting such PDA on their turf. But it’s not their problem. It’s ours. And at this stage of the fight, we’re not going to fix it wearing bike chains and fake eyelashes.

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