The arrival of LA Gay Pride 2011’s Grand Marshall was heralded by a dozen sheriff deputies warning people to back away from the street. The warning fell flat on the weary ears of a thinning crowd that stood for hours, patiently enduring the seemingly unending stream of floats: Super market trucks, cheerleaders in drag with varicose veins, TV network temps, someone named Maria Concita Alonso, proud-of-their-gay-Asian-son mom’s taping the crowd like undercover N.S.A. agents.
I spotted Margaret Cho wearing a sour expession calling to mind Michael Kors on Project Runaway. Then from out of nowhere , came screams of ” … MY parade, and MY float!”
A diminutive young man stood at the top of a nondescript float. He wore loose, silvery shorts and held a microphone. A German friend squinted, pointed at the slender creature with heart shaped lips and asked, “That is who?”
“I’M JOHNNY WEIR!” the nimble munchkin bellowed, as if on cue. “And it’s MY parade, and MY float.”
As the floats continued their majestic roll west, we craned our necks to check out the backside of the former Olympian and Proud-Wearer-of-Minx-Made-from-Anally-Executed-Tiny-Animals. After all, figure skaters are known for their spectacular asses. Okay, this was not about pride. But the day was also on some level about booty. So I was just doing the compare- and-contrast thing. As his unbuttoned shirt fluttered in the wind, it flashed and revealed Johnny Weir’s … muffin top.
Then again, if Johnny Weir didn’t want to wear his undies higher ,well, damnit, this was HIS parade, and HIS float and who were we to object?