Remember Chicago Pride 2011? If you were one of the throngs of black-out drunks that patronized the parade this year, you probably don’t remember it. But let me tell you, it was a hot mess. Overcrowded streets, unruly gays, mob mentality. It was more of a riot with floats than a parade.
So suffice it to say, I’m not really looking forward to Market Days 2011. If it’s anything like Pride, you can bet your g-stringed butt I’ll be out of there faster than a gay kid in a small town. There’s nothing hot about slurred speech and sangria stains. Nor do I care to be a bystander to a bear fight. If you want to engage in combat, join the military. They’re open to gay recruits.
Also, if the crowd is anything like Market Days 2010, I don’t think I’ll have the patience to stay more than 15 minutes. Last year Market Days’ attendance swelled well beyond capacity. There were points along Halsted that the bottleneck was so bad that you literally were at a standstill for a good five to ten minutes. Walking from one end of the fest to the other was a half-day venture. My time is too precious, and funnel cake is just not worth it. I don’t care if it’s a wall of shirtless hunks barricading my path. I’ll pull a Regan and order to tear down that wall.
Also, 7-11 will not be selling packaged alcohol during Market Days hours at the request of the bar owners. I’m not one to drink much, but this blatant strong-arming of the Northhalsted Business Alliance is ridiculous. The level of control that the gay bars exert on the local community has grown to mafia-level proportions. Also, I still stand by my belief that the gay bars are the opiate to our community. We used to be bound to one another through activism and art. Now we’re all just drinking buddies. Meh. I get it. I’m the spinning wheel to your sewing machine.
So if it is the clusterfuck I am expecting, what is a boy to do? Well, you know where you can find me. I’ll be at the place where everybody knows your stage name. And they’re always glad you came (but that you refrain from cumming on the dancers). That’s right. The good ole Lucky Horseshoe, land of broken dreams, empty promises and dollar bills. My sanctuary of sanity in the midst of the strip.
God save the queens.