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fr_defenestratoAnd wetter. Yes, I like water sports, but fuck already. I was getting ready to leave the hotel to walk down to Peachtree Center for fewd (you know, fewd) when the thunder started growling. The parade was scheduled to kick off at 1 p.m. Five of one there are occasional fat drops of rain—much like there were Saturday for a half hour or so, prior to the reemergence of the fabulous, steam-making sun—so I chanced it and headed out. Two blocks away and the rain has steadily progressed to where I'm getting wetter'n I wanna be (I have, in three separate pocketses, a camera, my cell phone, and a packa squares) so I duck into a doorway to wait for the "isolated T-storm" to pass.
What's with this term "isolated" anyway? One assumes it means a thunderstorm separated on either side by periods of fair or clear weather; well, hell, broaden the scale enough and EVERY thunderstorm is so separated. So are ice ages. Why do them weatherpeoples tantalize us with this word "isolated", making us believe we're in for a south Florida-style 5-minute gale followed by suddenly blue skies for the rest of the afternoon?
Forty-five minutes later, after the water backup in the street drains had literally blown this manhole cover
out of its seating and into the street (I have video from my camera but it needs shrinkage before any hosting sites will accept it), I decide hunger trumps dryness and scramble down the block, around the corner, and up Peachtree to the mall.
Which is closed on Sundays.
So I wait around more under architectural cover, wondering whether they've postponed the parade kickoff and how that'll affect traffic and logistics... and when the rain lets up a wee bit I head further up Peachtree, and sure enough, there's the parade already going by, turning down Ralph McGill Boulevard to head to the Civic Center. I duck into a dilapidated retail space with a few dozen other queers (much to the chagrin, methinks of the dozen or so homeless persons squatting there)
and watch some parade. Less rain (but still not no rain) and I head to Peachtree further in search of any open eating establishment. Apparently there is no such thing in downtown Atlanta on a Sunday. It's like one big Chick-Fil-A.
I missed most of the parade in terms of getting photos; it was only after the rain was back to a drizzle that I dared bust out the camera, shield it as well as I could, and snap photos of this float and these guys in underwear and, in particular, this man in a ridiculous Obama mask (honestly, doesn't it look like the just repainted the overstock of Reagan masks?), whose underwear was pretty much the ONLY good thing about the afternoon's interminable rain:
And then the rain picked up again and I re-stowed my camera... my shorts are dangerously wet at this point and I've long since taken my shirt off and now am alternate wringing it out and using it as a makeshift rain visor. Well fuck it, the pridefest food vendors will be open, so I bag the rest of the parade and walk down McGill Blvd. to the Civic Center and slam some garbage fewd. (One of said vendors had two signs posted using quotation marks for emphasis, which is one of my very favorite really, really stupid mistakes, because it makes the opposite point of what they're trying to say:
Ha ha.)
I readily admit, when I'm not otherwise engaged at events like this I'm always looking out for hot guys to ogle. (Not "oogle", thank you very much.) And depending on the hotness quotient and my mood I may ask whether I can take a picture. A surprising percentage of men I asked responded, politely, in the negative; the only reason I can think of for this unusual level of shyness is that, well, this is still the South, and folks here may still have more at stake should the wrong people see photos of them wandering around half-naked at a queer pride festival. Maybe I'm wrong and there's some other explanation, but I definitely get a more cautious vibe from the celebrants here than in, say, D.C. or Chicago.
I wanted to snap this guy
particularly because his torso was just exquisite, elaborately ab-ified and further decorated with a long north-south scar. He had to ask his lover's permission for me to take the picture; I gave him a photo bizcard; later as I was heading out of the fest grounds, the lover ran over to me and asked, on behalf of Scarbelly, how much I would charge for a photo shoot. I'm hoping they follow up with email... this guy would be a rare pleasure to shoot.
Ah, and then there were these guys:
whose participation in the parade I'd missed, but I caught them just entering the fest area. My best guess is this is a modern gay approximation of Aztec ceremonial garb; in practice it's just hot. Francisco is by far the cutest of this bunch o'guys:
Innee?
So that was that. One can only do so much wandering around the same booths and tents; I hunted for a while for Mike and Alonzo from the night before at Club 708, but didn't find them. Back to the hotel and stayed in the rest of the night. (I had thought to head back to Swinging Richard for an early evening but they're closed Sundays, too.) Ordered Chinese food for dinner. Crashed early; woke up at 3:45 for a 5:40 flight back to Dulles. At work now. At what point did this itinerary look like a good idea?
What's with this term "isolated" anyway? One assumes it means a thunderstorm separated on either side by periods of fair or clear weather; well, hell, broaden the scale enough and EVERY thunderstorm is so separated. So are ice ages. Why do them weatherpeoples tantalize us with this word "isolated", making us believe we're in for a south Florida-style 5-minute gale followed by suddenly blue skies for the rest of the afternoon?
Forty-five minutes later, after the water backup in the street drains had literally blown this manhole cover
out of its seating and into the street (I have video from my camera but it needs shrinkage before any hosting sites will accept it), I decide hunger trumps dryness and scramble down the block, around the corner, and up Peachtree to the mall.
Which is closed on Sundays.
So I wait around more under architectural cover, wondering whether they've postponed the parade kickoff and how that'll affect traffic and logistics... and when the rain lets up a wee bit I head further up Peachtree, and sure enough, there's the parade already going by, turning down Ralph McGill Boulevard to head to the Civic Center. I duck into a dilapidated retail space with a few dozen other queers (much to the chagrin, methinks of the dozen or so homeless persons squatting there)
and watch some parade. Less rain (but still not no rain) and I head to Peachtree further in search of any open eating establishment. Apparently there is no such thing in downtown Atlanta on a Sunday. It's like one big Chick-Fil-A.
I missed most of the parade in terms of getting photos; it was only after the rain was back to a drizzle that I dared bust out the camera, shield it as well as I could, and snap photos of this float and these guys in underwear and, in particular, this man in a ridiculous Obama mask (honestly, doesn't it look like the just repainted the overstock of Reagan masks?), whose underwear was pretty much the ONLY good thing about the afternoon's interminable rain:
And then the rain picked up again and I re-stowed my camera... my shorts are dangerously wet at this point and I've long since taken my shirt off and now am alternate wringing it out and using it as a makeshift rain visor. Well fuck it, the pridefest food vendors will be open, so I bag the rest of the parade and walk down McGill Blvd. to the Civic Center and slam some garbage fewd. (One of said vendors had two signs posted using quotation marks for emphasis, which is one of my very favorite really, really stupid mistakes, because it makes the opposite point of what they're trying to say:
Ha ha.)
I readily admit, when I'm not otherwise engaged at events like this I'm always looking out for hot guys to ogle. (Not "oogle", thank you very much.) And depending on the hotness quotient and my mood I may ask whether I can take a picture. A surprising percentage of men I asked responded, politely, in the negative; the only reason I can think of for this unusual level of shyness is that, well, this is still the South, and folks here may still have more at stake should the wrong people see photos of them wandering around half-naked at a queer pride festival. Maybe I'm wrong and there's some other explanation, but I definitely get a more cautious vibe from the celebrants here than in, say, D.C. or Chicago.
I wanted to snap this guy
particularly because his torso was just exquisite, elaborately ab-ified and further decorated with a long north-south scar. He had to ask his lover's permission for me to take the picture; I gave him a photo bizcard; later as I was heading out of the fest grounds, the lover ran over to me and asked, on behalf of Scarbelly, how much I would charge for a photo shoot. I'm hoping they follow up with email... this guy would be a rare pleasure to shoot.
Ah, and then there were these guys:
whose participation in the parade I'd missed, but I caught them just entering the fest area. My best guess is this is a modern gay approximation of Aztec ceremonial garb; in practice it's just hot. Francisco is by far the cutest of this bunch o'guys:
Innee?
So that was that. One can only do so much wandering around the same booths and tents; I hunted for a while for Mike and Alonzo from the night before at Club 708, but didn't find them. Back to the hotel and stayed in the rest of the night. (I had thought to head back to Swinging Richard for an early evening but they're closed Sundays, too.) Ordered Chinese food for dinner. Crashed early; woke up at 3:45 for a 5:40 flight back to Dulles. At work now. At what point did this itinerary look like a good idea?
