The Homeowner: Some things never change

By Mike Prevatt

So there we were last night, all crammed in the small kitchen, drinking cocktails out of plastic cups and stuffing our faces with those crack-laced Mother's frosted circus animal cookies, spending one last time with our friends James and Oliver before their big move to Boston. During a conversation lull, I realize our city's pride parade--which I had planned to attend after taking a pass last year--is 12 short hours away. I bring it up, and the one straight person in the room--total fag hag, too--immediately offers, "It's just like high school. It's about who's more popular, who's more beautiful..."

She's totally right, I think. Why the hell would I want to willingly throw myself into that snake pit? I know exactly what'll happen if I go. I'll drive down, get stuck in traffic three blocks before I even hit the general area where the parade is to take place, spend $10 just to park in a parking structure where the spots are so small I'll end up scraping my car against one of those fucking concrete pillars, walk down to the parade route, find the one free spot on the lawn only to realize it has a blocked view, step in dog shit, burn my scalp in 15 minutes because I forgot my sunscreen, watch my fellow gay men act like attention-starved idiots and yet still feel like an outsider because I'm not hanging off someone who fills out an "athletic fit" tee, like at least half of the other dudes there around my age.

But 12 hours later, there I am, making my way toward the parade. I'm not sure why I decided to go after all. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe I felt obligated. Maybe I'm just a masochist. Or (more like it), maybe it was because I talked my sister into going. And if either of us weren't feelin' it, we could just go to the new Target nearby and spend money on stupid shit.

So, we walk (and walk and walk...), realizing that we've actually missed a good portion of the parade, but there are still floats coasting down the boulevard and blasting Beyonce's "Crazy in Love"--populated by vaguely enthusiastic and wholly amateur go-go boys--as well as several motorcars carrying People Who Think They're Important. I stop to look at some helicopter that looks like it's just taken off behind the bar we're perched in front of, and someone with a cowboy hat and a sleeveless, unbuttoned flannel tells me, "They're after you!" I just assume he's just making small talk before he asks me to join him in a bathroom stall, so I smile politely and keep walking.

And we keep walking. Quite a crowd has come out, no pun intended. There are kids all over the place, ones small enough to know exactly what's under the kilts of all the (mostly non-Anglo) men wearing them. There is a surprising amount of people with walkers and canes, dodging prancing trannies and show-offs on Segways. Unlike at night, there are lesbians everywhere--even middle-aged Korean lesbians, whom my sister gawks at like they're a rare breed of animal she's never seen before. Most everyone else seems to make up the Men Over 25 demographic, which relieves me, if only because I've realized that all twinks are really good for is porn.

After a while, it just feels like a normal Sunday afternoon out in the gay community, only with bigger crowds and street teams made up of 15-year-olds giving away lube and hair-care shwag. But the one aspect that was making this day feel decidedly more different than anything else was the political electricity in the air. I might've been attending a gay pride parade, but technically it was every bit a Democratic voter rally, too.

Planes with banners were flying above urging "the gay vote." People everywhere were wearing stickers that said, "Bush, you're fired!" atop shirts that simply read, "I do." Pro-gay-marriage supporters with clipboards and Dontamend.com bumper stickers were standing at nearly every corner. The Human Rights Campaign had one of the largest groups marching in the parade, carrying a gigantic flag bearing its blue/yellow insignia. And the "Wax Bush" shirts were clearly a hit. It was all so pervasive, I nearly empathized with my sister, who's essentially a Republican; her party had absolutely no presence, unless it was its representatives' likenesses displayed in derogatory ways. I wish Mary Cheney--the vice-president's gay daughter--had been there to see it.

Finally, we stop walking and grab a burger. Reveling in the enthusiasm around me, I've almost forgotten the various the aspects of being gay that frustrate me, and that I tend to dwell on--until, that is, we overhear some guy telling a joke. "What do you bring on a second gay date?" he asked. His table had no answer. "What second date?" he offers by way of a punchline. And it takes this one joke to send me hurtling me back to Earth. Nothing seems to really change. Yet, as we walked back outside and faced the barrage of anti-GOP propaganda, I wondered if maybe this would be the year when something finally does change. Here's to getting our heads out of the clouds and preventing a second Bush date.

The Homeowner appears biweekly. Send your comments and nude pics (especially if you look like Jake Gyllenhaal) to oughtabeinporn@yahoo.com.