3.24.16 Editor’s Desk

3.24.16 Editor’s Desk
Billy Manes
Billy Manes

If indeed America loves its second chances and good things come in threes – except maybe celebrity deaths, right? – then it’s fair to say that, even in this shifting sociopolitical landscape of rancor and finance, that Tampa Pride has hit its sweet spot in its third iteration. Once the epitome of what everybody understood a pride celebration to be – think poppers, leather, and Priscilla the Queen of the Wong Foo – the annual event’s organizers aren’t bothering with so much bacchanalia these days. Like similar celebrations the world over, the substances have been traded for substance, the hook-ups for hope.

There’s certainly an argument to be made for the old, leather-daddy days of tripping over a drag queen’s wayward Lucite heel while running toward a rather attractive man-mirage. That outsider mentality wherein cultural miscegenation that was frowned upon by anti-assimilationists is deeply embedded in the LGBT psyche, right there next to Anita Bryant’s pie face and 4.a.m. couch surfing after being abandoned by your parents for being gay. What we used to do was throw it all out the window, don a frock and a wig and make the celebratory best of it. Don’t get us wrong; it’s easier to glorify our sideways glances of bad behavior when they are indeed in the rear view mirror. Many of us lost numerous friends to irresponsible sex, drug use, even violence. It was a civil war, and it doesn’t really need to be reenacted. (Although, it’s fun sometimes. Not gonna sanitize everything, are we?)

In this week’s issue, that trajectory couldn’t be more clearly elucidated than in the history of Tampa Pride, resuscitated just last year in the face of marriage equality and to the delight of huge crowds. There are vodka-dry cruise ships, torrential downpours and social shifts projected on this mini-history, but Tampa Pride wouldn’t be held down. And, for that, we are incredibly grateful. We still love to party, but we also love ourselves a little bit more, generally speaking.

Once again, we’re faced with the question of a pride celebration’s purpose when all the battles have been won, and once again we’re staring down those generalizations. We have to. HIV/AIDS is on an historic rise in the state of Florida, workplace rights are still not ensured, you can still be kicked out of your house by your parent or, now, your landlord, grown-up. The anthill kicked up by strides in equality isn’t going to hose itself down the driveway. We’ll politely escort it there in a parade.

But that’s not all we have this week, obviously. With politics taking center stage on its own parade to the August primaries and the November general election, it’s somehow comforting to hear that comedian Kathy Griffin – who is playing precisely 5 million Florida shows in coming weeks – has some ridiculous stories about Donald Trump as, effectively, #floridaman. Just ask SuzeOrman!

Our political column Uprisings returns, ruminating on the need for unity in among progressive-minded people as our arena’s burn with conservative rage. Oh, also, is Pam Bondi going to be in Trump’s cabinet? Also, poster boy for nothing-to-say Marco Rubio drops out of the primary? The sky is falling! The sky is falling!

Just one more reason, then, that we’re happy to welcome the return of Pet Shop Boys with their reasonably optimistic – by PSB standards – album Super. It isn’t easy being so nostalgic and futuristic at the same time, but somehow our old friends manage it in spades.

As usual, you’ll find updates on pending regional news – birth certificates for same-sex couples, school board fights over promoting homophobia and ignoring compassion, the comings and goings, the love and laughter, of a gay spring in bloom.

So, take a minute, water yourself with a light cocktail (or not, if you’ve outgrown that!) and soak us in. As for me, I’ll be watching the streets for leather-daddies and Lucite heels, poppers and broken glasses, wigs and won’ts. I wouldn’t want to trip and fall, not in this golden age. We’re all getting a little older, wiser and clumsier. Happy Pride, Tampa. Second time’s the charm.

Three is a crowd.

“Let me let you let me run.”

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