The Pride and the Production: Another play on gay in three “acts”

By J. Corbett Holmes

“Hey, when is Gay Pride in L.A.?” Brett asked, as we alternately maneuvered through our gym workout. “It's in a few weeks, but to be honest, I didn't really know when it was until yesterday,” I admitted. Several conversations about Gay Pride had taken place recently, but most of them were with disinterested friends who'd be celebrating the proud day elsewhere. “Yesterday I got a card in the mail about all the events of the weekend,” I offered. Brett nodded. “Do you think there's too many things now and that's why we're blurry on the specifics?” I inquired. ”Definitely,” he shot back with conviction. “Gay Pride doesn't feel special anymore. It's gotten so commercial.” Those words were certainly something to consider as I looked toward the upcoming day of gay. With Brett's comment about commercialism, oddly, I thought of Broadway, and how yesterday's stars of the stage have been replaced by the filmy free-ride-fame of today. And now, just like Broadway, as I thought about Gay Pride Day, my cranium began to combine the commercialism of today's gay with my more colorful, less profitable gay of yesterday. Reality was sadly sinking in. Then I thought, well, to truly honor my founding fathers of fabulous, I'll write a play! Something to display my dismay with the”today of gay!” I'll mix the realities of homo and hotel-heiress, with the think pink proclamations of politically past, gayer days!

When I received my event card in the mail from the city of West Hollywood, happily, it was pink. The 3x5 card offered me suggestions on how to make my play “write.” Taking a nod from the line above my address, I would (naturally) cast myself as the star, and my name would be “Occupant.” Additionally the card was kind enough to supply me with producers of my play— Christopher Street West. The play would take place in three acts based on a trilogy of upcoming events and past experiences. In another helpful call from the card, my producers boasted a projected 300,000 audience members. And thanks to a strong production team and copious commercial sponsors, I began to think like the today of gay! Success was in the heir!

ACT 1

The segregation of the sisterhood

The Gay Day Play takes place in a small, albeit world-class city somewhere west of Kansas. The stage set portrays a simple life, yet still possesses a commercial quality. As the play begins, we see a wide road adorned with glittery golden bricks. In the background is a large hotel with a billboard that reads, “Extravagant life luxuries at simple, realistic prices!” Alternating American and rainbow flags smack against a procession of poles that line the sparkly street. It is dusk.

A spotlight fades up to reveal the main character—Occupant. Occupant is in his forties. His head is shaved to help show the audience his thoughts; he is colorful in his presentation, but shy and introspective. He lives to instill change. The song “I Will Survive” fades up in volume.

We see Occupant look towards the hotel billboard with confusion. He appears to be lost. At Occupant's feet is an abundant amount of classic yet colorful “baggage.” It conveys a well-traveled look. One of the traveling cases bears a vibrant rainbow sticker boasting “Homo or Bust” Occupant's hand holds a hairy, shaking animal of considerable size. His name is Dickie. They are both wearing matching T-shirts boasting the moniker “Which way 2 B Gay?”

Girls move in pairs down the boulevard behind them, exchanging various displays of affection for one another. A duo of women holding an over-sized banner cross in front of Occupant. They settle stage left. In bold, capital letters the words “LESBIANS MAKE LOVE, NOT WAR!” are painted across its canvas face. As Occupant stands reading the banner, we hear loud motorcycle sounds from off stage. A passerby stops to ask him a question.

PASSERBY. “What is this?”

A procession of women on motorcycles revs excitement onto the rear stage. Signs of exclamation carried on sticks follow. Messages boasting statements like “WOMEN OF THE WORLD UNITE” slice statements into the darkening staged sky.

OCCUPANT. “I think it's the Dyke Gay Pride Parade.”

PASSERBY. (dazed) “Well, why are they having this parade today? Isn't the Gay Pride Parade on Sunday?”

OCCUPANT. (shrugs)

And for the next two minutes the pair watches the parade. The procession begins and ends within the stage. And then it is gone. A spotlight strengthens at Occupant's feet. Dickie too has disappeared along with the procession. He is lost. The stage goes black.

ACT 2

Becoming more gay for pay

The curtain rises and strobe lights flash in and out, revealing clustered rows of tented booths, each selling something, and all shadowed by a gargantuan blue building painted in the background. A chain link fence surrounds the stage as a line of workers sell tickets from behind its barrier. There are numerous signs boasting a $15 admission to enter through the proud gates of gay. From within, we hear a mixture of sounds (cell phones, disco, country/western, salsa, etc.). The sounds weaken just enough to hear the slight barking of a dog.

Occupant is wearing jeans and a T-shirt that says “I have a bone-r u seen my dog?”

OCCUPANT. (clutches chain-link fence, looking desperate) “I know you're in there, Dickie. If I only had 15 dollars, we could be together!”

Occupant looks down at his wrist. His arm bears a yellow rubber bracelet. He pulls on it.

OCCUPANT. (talking to hand) “It only cost me a dollar to show my support for Lance Armstrong. Why do I need 15 to display being gay? Especially today.”

The stage goes black.

ACT 3

A Gay American in Paris?

The curtain rises again on the gold glittery gateway known as a world class city. Occupant is sandwiched between a procession of floats and a sidewalk of observers. A conveyer belt moves a large double-decker bus across the stage. The bus is plastered with ads for vodka. The vehicle is busting at the seams as a gaggle of barely clad, gyrating, go-go boys shake and stir their cantankerous “cock-tails” from atop the bus. The crowd becomes drunk. Occupant is silent. The double-decker-display does nothing to quench his thirst.

OCCUPANT. (looking misplaced) “Dickie, where are you in all of this?”

Occupant resumes his prolonged look of confusion over the commercialism of the hooch-dancing hotties. Then the stage becomes silent, as socially aware car after unassuming float rides by with barely a notice from the crowd. No music is played.

OCCUPANT. (looking thirsty) “I could sure use some milk.”

A car celebrating the Harvey Milk foundation rolls by. Through the austere silence, Occupant hears barking. Dickie jumps from the car into Occupant's hands. He is wearing a T-shirt that reads “Got Pride?“ Unexplained feelings between a man and his dog begin to arise. Occupant smiles clutching Dickie. Dickie wags his tail. Car after group continue to move in one direction across the stage. Then there is a noticeable change in the heir. Dickie begins to growl. Music fades in. “I feel pretty. I feel pretty and witty and gay! Who's the pretty girl in the limo now? Who could that imposter girl be? Such a pretty smile, such a pretty face, such a pretty me!” A single spot envelops Occupant. The rest of the stage goes dark.

OCCUPANT. “Gay? I didn't know she was gay? I saw the video. The only Paris that I know that's gay, they all speak French!”

DICKIE. (Licks Occupant's face then barks!)

OCCUPANT. “There's no place like homo, Dickie! Somewhere over the rainbow, new words can fly and next Pride so must I!”

The stage goes dark except for a single ”commercial” spot, which illuminates the large hotel sign. It reads: “Hilton to give good head-liner” on her gay-vaca-day from reality! Fade to black.

Upon completion of my Gay Day Play, while I've learned numerous things about fame and commercialism, I discovered one important thing: Money may buy you lots of exposure, it may even afford you a coming out party, but it can't really make you proud! Sadly, gone are the commercial free displays of yesterday's gay, which are now replaced by the realities of the production of pride. From Judy to Stonewall, over the rainbow we dared, to a hotel heiress that cared? Somewhere over the rainbow, new words try, that's hot! You decide?

For your shaving graces, contact me at shavingsfrommyhead@yahoo.com.