As the remaining sun worshippers ran for cover, the joke on the street was God didn’t want a gay parade that day. For nearly two hours before GayFest 2007, a bitter storm had broken out over Bucureşti throwing torrents of rain to scour the dusty cityscape. Sewers threatened to backup. Dogs were silent.
Just before the witching hour, the irony of the heavens played its’ final card and lifted inclimate sanctions. Beneath the nimbostratus patchwork, Romanians were beginning to assemble to express their call for full acceptance of homosexuality.
Temporary fencing had been erected in a bid to keep things orderly as well as act as a barrier to any early antics by playerhaters. Perhaps a statement of solidarity, the Romanian Jandarmeria had stationed a large number of attractive men in uniform alongside the gay paraders.
Due to Romania’s recent shameful displays of violent intolerance and 1940s-like hatred, the anti-riot brigade of law enforcement professionals were not only armed to the teeth but had a massive caravan of paddy wagons on hand to deal with most any size crowd of hooligans.
The rain had delayed a number of participants from joining up in a timely fashion, so event organizers waited a little longer than advisable to get things underway. To pass the time, all one had to do was check out the cops to play Spot the Closetcase.
There was an ecclectic collection of gays, lesbians, bi-sexuals, bi-curious, straight well-wishers, people in denial, men in drag, and black-hooded “anarchists” replete with cliché Alternative Tentacles garb. All in all, it was a diverse bunch of fairly reasonable size given the bad weather and expectation of violence.
It’s the zany headwear like rainbow feathered punk wigs that attracted a plethora of low-brow journalists whose sole objective was to advance their leeching careers by the salient chronicling of exclusive shockjock highlights for the talking heads on your boob tube. And, believe me, the shallow whores of media were everywhere, eagerly constructing sensationalism for the ad revenue.
Yes, the Prince of the Parade was in attendance.
As were the fashion confused and afro-Elvis type gonzo revelers.
Nope, it wasn’t only men in the march who worked on maintaining a smooth complexion and precision goatee trimjob set below some George Michael eyes.
Not that his jock comrades took notice. Most of them weren’t the questionable sort. And all of them, irrespective of my speculative pandering, played the part of consummate professionals once the parade got underway. Although, at this point, it looks as if Mr. Bean had a touch of narcolepsy.
Some churchly folk came by to represent the invisible man in the sky.
Then, we got under way.
It was the hip thing to do: call your scared friends at home, “Oh my god, you should so totally be here. Everything’s fine and we’re having a blast. There’s some great music for dance marching and we’ve got beefcake bodyguards. I told you to come out, sweetie. Watch for me on TV, mmmkay? Ciao.”
In the midst of all the parading, the television crews were especially interested in the new spokesgay for Rothman’s cigarettes since they’ve introduced an innovative line of designer smokables for the queer in you.
Happily, anti-fascist representatives pointed out the monstrosity of Gigi Becali.
Someone needs a new stylist.
This tall drink of water was one of the better sights to see. Charming, fun, and very friendly, this gentleman was a master of eye liner and had the kind of plush eyelashes both gays and women dream of. Plus his sidekick was a cutie, too.
Some people tried to remain anonymous…
…while others were proud to be seen.
Jokes and laughter abounded.
This little, masked dance machine had a motor in his trunk that just wouldn’t quit. His back bumper was a non-stop hypnotic party incessantly swishing and swirling to the beat. “When the rumba rhythm starts to play…”
As hundreds of dedicated police officers carried out their duty of protecting the parade, the flotilla of paddy wagons rumbled past as they moved from the starting point to the march destination where they would wait to pick up any malcontents. Each truck spewed forth noxious clouds of dark fumes into the lungs of GayFest participants.
Radios came abuzz with urgent warnings. Commanders rapidly barked orders at the well-disciplined troops. And our line of protection began the ominous process of donning their riot gear en route.
A mobile crowd control unit armed with a water cannon was strategically placed toward the end of the march trail.
K-9 units rushed past growing crowds along side the road who watched us march. They were headed farther ahead of the parade to where trouble was looming. A little tension began to build.
The further we went the thicker the clusters of disapproving onlookers got. Glaring and frowning or jeering and taunting, you could see a deeply burning hatred in the eyes of a large number of people claiming to be followers of Christ’s philosophy of animosity toward your fellow man.
None of this stopped the dancing, of course.
Equestrian police from the anti-riot crowd control units trotted past at a fast clip toward the problem areas just ahead of us. And the tension built just a little higher.
The police seemed to become increasingly wary of the stream of onlookers who followed us down the last street, but I personally thought it quite obvious that most of these pretty boy teenagers must have been curious about if not attracted to gay men. The waifs hardly left our side, just keeping pace while gawking and smiling from ear to ear.
In an interesting twist on symbolic historicism, these two guys were calling for cultural comparisons to classical Rome. Is it wrong to admit I just loved the sandals?
Frankly, not all the drag queens deserved to rank very high on the royalty-o-meter, but there were at least one or two transvestites who rather fetching. Just behind this blond bombshell, the guy in the sunglasses was hiding his powder blue eyes that looked right out of a Hollywood set.
Is it really that much of a stretch to say I feel some kind of David Gahan vibe happening here?
Not everyone loves a shutterbug. Just ask this disgruntled photography subject.
An anxious police force sprung into action immediately upon arrival at our destination. They ushered people into awaiting vans and taxis in an effort to make sure everyone got out safely before the troubles got out of hand. Our little band of merrymakers made a mad dash for the exits on foot.
On the way out, public safety officials yelled instructions at us to hide rainbow flags, banners, or any other evidence that we had been part of the march because the golani were surely on the prowl to bash a few gays. I became visibly excited by the prospects of such an encounter.
Sadistically longing even.
I suppose it might be a form of sickness to actually look forward to a confrontation, but I’d been planning on it for days on end. Just to imagine some nutjob in a sports jersey making the error of swinging a fist in the direction of anyone in my crew… well, it’s a guilty pleasure of mine to think about neonazi’s getting a little bonk on the bean.
Sadly, I’ll cut to the chase here because there wasn’t any action. The riot police did a great job of instilling respect into the would-be attackers. Our posse safely landed in a nearby cafe to grab a drink to celebrate our successful completion of a human rights march.
There was plenty of chocolate and laughter to go around.
On big, flat-screen television, we watched a bit of the live news coverage as ignorant cavemen stupidly attacked trained riot police even though the parade had already dissipated into the pulsating capillaries of Bucureşti.
There was a brief reprise when a platoon of jandarmeria scrambled by the large glass windows of our cafe. Not wanting to miss any throwdown, I snatched my camera bag and slipped out the door to follow them down the block. Shocked and nervous Romanian pedestrians were lined up against the buildings unwilling to move until some authority declared the hostilities over.
Not I.
I zipped around the corner and tumbled myself right into the thick of the action, nearly earning myself a little rough treatment from the highly aggressive police force. Surrounded on all sides, I thought I might get my clock cleaned but apparently my holding a camera seemed to clue them into the idea I wasn’t an accomplice of the golani they were tossing around like ragdolls.
While it was a beautiful thing to witness, I’ll admit I flubbed up the chance to snag photos. My first reaction was to avoid getting beat by nightsticks, but a few second later I snapped away some shots. They turned out blurry and worthless. Sorry.
After five or six little snots had been hauled off by the men in black, things calmed down a little. Law enforcement stuck around a wee bit longer to make sure the attackers had been found. I couldn’t help but notice they had a Boba Fett thing going on.
After that, I returned to the cafe where my adoptive friends welcomed me back to the cold lemonade, chocolate, and surprising television coverage of out-of-control Becali followers who continued to attack police despite the fact that there were no gay people around.
And that’s how it went down, y’all. We marched. Tensions rose, but the police handled the whackos. The teargas, flying rocks, mass arrests, and bits of rioting stuff on TV was mostly just some fools attacking law enforcement officers after GayFest was well over.
Imi pare bine to mischievous Dezordinea Ordonata, civilized Adevaratul Mitzy, gentle Ştefan, suave Jorge, and charming Andressa.
Thanks to lively Bunissima. Extra special thanks (with whip cream and nuts) to the irrepressible Top Dog.
