There was something missing.
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Sure, all the elements were there.
Campy drag queens. Gender-bending beauties. Outrageous fashion. Peek-a-boo nudity. Politicians gamely waving from convertibles. Loud music that made you want to shake it like you just don’t care.
But this year, the Gay Pride Parade–held Sunday in Wrigleyville–normally a major fashion bacchanalia (think bad boy designer Todd Oldham and take it way over the top), lacked the snap, crackle and pop of years gone by.
Indeed, there was a certain subdued quality that gave the whole affair a been-there-done-that flavor.
Last year, boys in Catholic schoolgirls’ skirts were all the rage. This time around, those plaid kilts just looked like reruns. And did we really need to see 100 or so copycat Priscillas (a la the drag queen from last year’s sleeper flick, “Priscilla, Queen of the Desert”) running around?
I mean, really, a little individuality was in order here.
There were, of course, some high points: The ROTC–The Righteously Outrageous Twirling Corps–decked out in camouflage shorts and bandanas, combat boots, and tiny rainbow flags. They stepped, kicked and shook their booties, all the while twirling mammoth white rifles. And yes, they were righteously outrageous.
The girls co-opted the hip-hop underwear-and-baggy shorts combo, sporting droopy blue jean shorts that slid down their hips, revealing lacy white panties and artfully pierced navels. Doc Martens and slouchy white socks finished off the look.
Then there was the dude who wore a sexy black and white checkerboard bikini with a sexy sheer black pegnoir. The hula skirts worn with rollerblades–and nothing else–weren’t bad, either.
There were some things I didn’t need to see. Like the guy who managed to pierce the family jewels.
Mary J. Boxer
Spotted in the July issue of Interview magazine: supermodel Veronica Webb–she of the multiple careers and Revlon contract–interviews hip hop singer Mary J. Blige–she of the bleached-out hair, B-girl nails and bombed-out voice.
They might live in the same city, but evidently the distance between Webb’s world–Fashion’s Seventh Avenue–and Blige’s–the rough and tumble Yonkers–was too wide a gap to bridge.
Because girlfriends did not get along.
Blige kept things lively, smoking her dinner, dodging questions–“The more you ask me stupid questions, the more I’m going to give you stupid answers”– and pulling off a Heineken cap with her teeth.
Then she challenged Webb to a duel.
Webb declined.
Which, incidentally, appeared to be the smartest thing Webb did during the entire interview.