Goodness knows I have ranted and raved against the corporate and apolitical nature of Pride events in the past. Some of that may have simply been because I knew no-one who was attending and had no-one to share the experience with (and, yes, I did try once or twice to be sociable – it got these ‘What’s that THING doing talking to us?’ looks that are not terribly encouraging and, were I not so depressed in the days in which such events occurred, not extremely healthy for the glarers).

In recent years, aided by the fact that I have a boyfriend to take in the spectacle with and, to some extent, the resources necessary to stay in Toronto for a day or two so I do not feel rushed, I have found it a tad more pleasant.

2002’s Pride in Toronto, Canada happened to coincide with the Canada Day weekend (June 28 to July 1), and, since my fella is soon off to Texas, we decided to stay in the big city from Friday to Monday.

On Friday evening, we long- marched over to Lee’s Palace to try and see NYC’s Toilet Boys perform as part of the Vazeleen Gay Shame festival (well, I was the one who wanted to – Arne was along for the walk and the company). That was too crowded,

sadly, so we simply had lemonade and ginger beer across the road and watched the

attendees troop in, which was almost more entertaining, though I’ll never know (at

the risk of sounding old, my fondness for crowded, smoky rock clubs is all but dead).

The next day, we browsed around the city, watched the Dyke March (which is

generally more fun and diverse than the Pride Parade, and even included FTMs and

possibly men-born-men this year, which was possibly an encouraging sign of embracing

transgenderism and bisexuality) and, in the evening, caught a concert by The Hidden

Cameras (check out www.musicismyboyfriend.com for more info).

This Toronto-based ensemble does joyous music, spiritual yet hardly ethereal or

pie-in-the-sky (word from Joe Hill – that celestial meringue is a lie…). That particular

evening, it included up to twenty members, including numerous go-go dancers (one of

whom was naked, a fact which did not go unnoticed by more than one old queen around

me who wished she had brought her binoculars) and a generally huge musical sound

which suffered from being outdoors and poorly mixed, but was still stirring. They sold

quite a few copies of their CD, which causes me to wonder what folks thought, since it

was recorded as a one-man project by frontman Joel Gibb that sounds little like that

concert. I confess to buying the T-shirt and the button, as I’m merchandise-prone (ask

me about the cute ‘cub stuff’ guy in Kingston who convinced me to buy a glittery pink

shirt advertising that band, all too aware that I was following him around the club with

my tongue hanging out, though, thankfully, not literally.)

On Sunday, in addition to more browsing (during which I was kidnapped by an

evil drama troupe and forced to pose for a picture plugging A Chorus Line (if you MUST

see the evidence, try www.geocities.com/timpictures2/dance10looks3.bmp – heck, it

might be up at www.mrubinoff.com - but I refuse to be victimized… J )), and me

actually obtaining a Bear hat (Arne is convinced I will march in next year’s Parade,

wherever we may be (more on THAT later) bare-chested – to which I would reply: "With

MY coloration!? Oh, I think NOT…"), we watched the Parade, which was big, loud,

crass and still fun (nice to see Marc Hall, an Oshawa high schooler who won the right to

attend the prom with his boyfriend…). Yes, I took pictures, but mine tend to be of

unions and political things, so the Firemen floats (and even Bears – took the picture one

year – didn’t change - saw no reason to keep snapping away…) are not in MY photo

albums.

After the Parade, we went to see Scott Free from Chicago, at the AlternaQueer

stage, who had thanked me in his second CD (check his music at www.scottfree.net –

you would not regret it…) and who I was looking forward to meeting.

Sadly, the sound of his show was also a bit disappointing (it was himself on

vocals and guitar, a drum machine and the percussionist pictured with us above, whose

name is escaping me (l. to r. – the percussionist, Mr. Free and myself, who only goes to

the gym to drill observation holes into the shower stalls)), but it was nice to meet him,

get a great big sweaty hug (woof!!) and have that very nice picture taken (the straight

boys on my work team felt conflicted over their admiration of the two fellows’

physiques, I assure you * heh heh *).

As it happens, the MC at the event was one Pedro Serrano, a DJ, spoken-word

artist and musician from New Jersey whom I had read about for many years and had

hoped to meet. I got that chance, and even gave him a copy of my tape for him and his

radio partner-in-crime Bill Stella. Another very nice-looking fellow, and smart to boot

(no skinhead-related pun intended J ).

But a major part of the trip to Toronto was to talk to my fellow in depth (and do

other things related to intimacy – look into past issues of this ‘zine for details J ), since

he is soon off to Texas to pursue an important new step in his academic career. To wit,

he has actually been offered a position which could lead to a semi-permanent place at the

university for which he will be working. In addition to the fact that no offers came in

from Canada, the fact that this has the possibility of a more stable residence (which I

know my boy longs for – he wants a place with lots of book shelves, a bed that actually

fits him and a proper kitchen…modest, but important, goals…) makes it an opportunity

he definitely should not turn down, and one which, much as it grieves my heart in the

short run, I would not begrudge him.

I hope at some point in the future to join him, once I save up some money and

take some of the steps necessary to go to the United States. A lot of people I know say

they cannot picture me in Texas – I would delight in proving them wrong (though my

perverse streak might almost enjoy proving them RIGHT more). Besides, if that’s where

my sweetheart is going to be, how could I choose otherwise? Timmybear wants his den

to be wherever his sweet puppy Arne sets up his doghouse (sick bags? Just to your left,

you heartless cynics… J ). So, if some day you hear of a big ol’ PunkBear wreaking

havoc in Lubbock, Texas, you’ll know I made it. In the meantime, at least until next

spring, Canada will still have me to kick around.