Editor’s note: Two paragraphs previously in this article were removed. They gestured disrespectfully to protesters and police and did not meet The Daily Californian’s editorial standards.
Too hungover and in need of caffeine to think twice about what we were doing, we automatically surrendered to the stereotypes of our demographic. Our crew — mostly white, mostly straight, and in this moment, basic as fuck, was that group emerging from the BART escalator out into the San Francisco Civic Center daylight, tinseled with rainbow flags and glitter, late for the parade, zero percent nude, with Starbucks in hand.
As obnoxious as our entrance may seem, on paper, our participation in SF Pride was right in line with the behavior of most people around us. We proudly and flamboyantly owned the “outsiders in solidarity” role — at least we hoped so. In other words, we knew that the festivities weren’t for us, yet we still indulged in one of the fundamental beauties of Pride: the celebration of the concept of identity and the equality, individuality and autonomy all laced within it.
We were highly aware of our image on this day and possessed major FOBD (Fear Of Being a Dick), and were so self-conscious that we felt the need to explain it to the barista as he rung up our orders and scribbled our names on the plastic cups. He laughed at us and told us to chill. Thinking we were then friends with him, we precociously asked him for his name.
“Richard,” he said. And, strangely enough, he was not the last Richard we encountered that day. In fact, he was the first of at least four:
- Richard, you were our first (literal, not figurative — you were very chill) Dick of the Day!
- Our BART train was about halfway into a spontaneous group performance of “Don’t Stop Believin’” (yes, embarrassing), about to hit chorus number two, when there was a sudden decrescendo and the voices fizzled out. This was probably because everyone involved suddenly could not breathe, as the jam-packed car — which already smelled like booze, sweat and vomit — was hit with a methane bomb. Think formaldehyde times the smell of Crossroads late-night nachos times post-Game Day morning breath and then multiply the potency of that deadly aroma by about 10,000. That’s what this fart smelled like. To whomever farted on BART right as the train went under the Bay, we have one message for you — say it with us like Jerry Spicoli: “You dick!”
- If you are straight and showed up to Pride in rave clothes for the sole purpose of raving, then you are a dick. It’s important to demonstrate solidarity, but this can easily bleed into self-indulgence. The dick move isn’t raving itself or having a good time (though if you would like to hear that argument, please click here), but rather it’s the act of making someone else’s experience your party. And yes, to observe this behavior we had to (gasp) listen to the electronic dance music playing at the scene. Dicks!
- The first one we saw was peeping out of a hula skirt, saying hello every time his owner danced and his non-Kosher brethren soon followed throughout the course of the day. Painted rainbow, hugged in leather and chains, unshaved and uncut — there were real-life dicks everywhere. This captured one of the most positive elements of the Pride celebration. Pride is a love fest of self-expression, uninhibited statements of identity, affection and freedom. Nudity is not only a massive “fuck you” to the Establishment, but also a positive and peaceful way to make waves, break barriers and demonstrate pride in who you really are. Moral of the story: Don’t be a dick, just show your dick.
Remember that Pride never stops! And also remember: Don’t be a dick!