EDGE on the Net

There I was, alone at a Greenwich Village Pride party, trying to find new reasons to feel good about man love since the last time I got talked into heading downtown for the big day, a good ten years ago. I’d fended off the idiot who wouldn’t stop telling Michael Jackson jokes, and who, were he in possession of sobriety, or a brain, would have caught on that I wasn’t amused. It reminded me a lot of those old O.J. jokes, especially since a gay colleague of mine, upon hearing of Jackson’s death, remarked that both men would be punished equally by God. And I thought Kentucky’s "bring your gun to Church day" was reason enough to re-think His master plan.

What a difference these insults were to the thousands of honors and tributes and cry-fests from celebrities world-wide; the same ones who remained silent when Jackson faced twenty years in prison and, still being alive and all, could have used the support. Someone on Facebook said that Michael Jackson hadn’t even died; that his "death" was a publicity stunt to sell more concert tickets. That’s absurd; Elvis would never stand for it.

I wasn’t proud of the fact that, after all these years, it still bothered me that the sole Chelsea Boy in the room, in a tailored T and designer deltoids, didn’t glance my way. Granted, he spent the entire night silently contemplating his reflection, an especially impressive feat as there wasn’t a mirror in sight. Nor was I proud that the 62-page "Pride" edition of "HX" magazine -- so revolutionary, original, independent, when it first appeared -- contained 34 pages of semi-naked men, all of whom looked as if they’d been separated at Photoshop birth. Professional waxers have reason to be proud.

The "frat party" pride celebration wasn’t the only thing getting me down, or the sad irony that the men were almost identical to the guys at those real UCLA frat parties my roommate used to drag me to, except probably less fun to sleep with. The last Broadway show I was forced to sit through made me so angry I almost vowed to skip seeing theater altogether and take up a more useful hobby, like knitting or crystal meth. Then there’s Lady GaGa, the latest fabulous dance singer homo-loving diva, who, on repeated playing, sounds exactly like every other fabulous dance singer homo-loving diva since the ’80s, except the one they’re all desperate to replace.

I usually resent being called "family" by gay people, who tend to use the term every June to prove they care. It reminds me of Christmas. There are times when it’s sincere, but even that authenticity wears off around the same time as the ecstasy. Some use the phrase when they invite you to their expensive, men-only clubs or all-guy cruises (boat, but not women or ugos, included). I dislike the term most when gay employers use it, as it’s almost always as an excuse; either to deny you a raise ("hey, it’s about family; not money"), or to scold you for complaining about working conditions ("hey, it’s about family; not equal rights").

Liza Minnelli once sang that, when something wonderful happens, it’s "a quiet thing," more of an internal celebration than a fireworks show. I kept that in mind as I ran over the little things I’m proud of, like being good to my friends or not laughing as loud as the straight couple next to me during "The Hangover." But on this night I felt more like that chick in "A Chorus Line," the one who takes an acting class and feels nothing. The people I know who come in from out of state for Pride every year have one thing on their minds and too often nothing on their dicks. The next-day litter on the street makes me want to apologize for every nasty thought I’ve had about Irish drunks on March 18. Maybe I’m still a little disillusioned that "Pride’s" synonym is "Sex," and not the "I love my own" definition.

I was mulling over my shame as I headed back into the 14th Street subway station, when I had an epiphany. Watching a very proud gay man in a leather jock strap, cowboy hat, and "Victim of H8" button barf on his flip-flops, my thoughts turned to Perez Hilton, and Liza’s tune morphed into "New York, New York," complete with bells ringing and twelve-piece orchestra. While the uncanny resemblance of the puke to Perez Hilton’s hair might have instigated my "Chorus Line" reversal of feelings, it was the recent actions of Hilton, aka Mario Lavandeira, that got me to thinking.

Hilton’s latest scum-sucking antics have included Tweeting his followers and instructing them to call Toronto 911 (apparently, typing "call 911" so that the emergency line will be tied up is much easier than simply typing "911"), after being punched by Black Eyed Peas manager Liborio Molina, who was pissed off when Hilton called star Will.i.am a faggot. Before that incident he had the good graces to post sexually explicit photos of Dustin Lance Black, who was "sold-out" by a friend (bastards!), and who should be thankful for Hilton’s kind warning that nude photos will always surface as long as there are parasites like Hilton surfing for them.

Hilton belongs in the same category as Sarah Palin; people who have nothing to contribute to society but narcissistic ramblings and personal gain. There is a fine line between writing about them (that’s what they want), and ignoring them (left alone, they’re like children playing with matches). Both people claim to be speaking for their "family," or their "community," when, in truth, both are speaking for their reflections.

Perez Hilton makes me proud to be a gay man (not to be confused with a man who is proud of Perez Hilton). In our quest for equality, we’ve produced exactly what should be our right; an All American Fucker who happens to be gay. Hilton plays the queer card when it’s to his advantage; his lawsuit (if, indeed, it goes through) money (if, indeed, he gets any) was to be donated to the Matthew Shepard Foundation, until Judy Shepard learned of it through the media and turned the "offer" down. Perez should be ignored, his site boycotted, and for moral reasons. The gay factor shouldn’t factor in.

Openly gay congressman Jeffery Mingo stated on the Facebook Site "Perez Hilton Does Not Speak for Me" that he admires the gossip blogger because he’s "a proud Hispanic. He could choose to pass as white and never mention his Cuban heritage, but he fights that...Go, Bear of Color!"

With all due respect to the congressman’s candor, he’s missing the point. The reason "Speak for the Gay Community" was left off the Site’s name (it was started by my friend Charles Neeley), is that Perez Hilton doesn’t speak for the majority of people, gay or straight, black or white, Latin or Bear. He speaks for himself, and giving him extra credit for good gayness goes against equal rights. It’s no different from people who think Sarah Palin advances the rights of the female sex simply because she has a vagina (which is her only platform of substance).

Perez Hilton is the difference between now and the last Gay Pride Party I attended, ten ’mo years ago. And so are greedy gay entrepreneurs, and obnoxious beer-swiveling homos at social events. And so are members of the "community" who deliberately keep out women from their bars, or straights off their beaches, and so are gay drunks who litter the streets and let the low-life garbage workers take care of their morning-after mess, and who bitch when heterosexuals move into Chelsea, then bitch louder when married couples with children replace married gay couples with children at Fire Island shares. And so is everyone who, given opportunity, is held accountable.

This Fourth of July, we celebrated our Independence with legal marriage in six states, and mourned our Union with a Stonewall-redux bar raid in Texas and a Don’t Ask, Just Kill murder in California. When "Happy Pride Day" truly becomes as superficial and reflexive as "Merry Christmas," we can let the parade pass us by and march for the Human Race.