June is pride month, and I’ve always had an ambivalence towards it. I’m not saying I’ve had any ambivalence towards being gay ever since I came out at 16 — no, no, I wear my faggotry like a motherfucking medal. But I’ve always had problems with the corporatization of pride. These are the same corporations that were content to just let us die when we trying to fight for our rights in the 60s and 70s and just trying to live in the era of AIDS and the 80s. It wasn’t until they sniffed the money that we have that they decided to come around. And then there is this:
Um, no. The Stonewall Riots were a bunch of my fellow degenerate trannies and fags who were sick of NYPD’s shit and fucked shit up. That the police are there to protect the interests of the aforementioned corporations that already give me a lot of ambivalence even further makes me want to smoke crack. And, you know, police violence and all.
So it’s no surprise that the last time I went to a pride parade was in the mid-00s — it was so unmemorable I don’t even remember when exactly I went. To drag me to a pride celebration, it would need to have these:
- A subversive anti-Rupaul’s drag show featuring the most fucked up looking drag queens hopefully missing teeth.
- Library of anarchist literature and porn
- Kink demonstrations and classes
- Vaginas and vulvas everywhere
- No children. As John Waters wrote in Cecil B. Demented, family is just a dirty word for censorship
To sleep — perchance to dream.