It was interesting that it was happening, but what was happening wasn’t interesting anymore… There’s nothing. Not because there isn’t anything, but because what is there is not for us… It’s not popular for its sentimental universality. It’s successful because of its unproblematic banality. It is shiny and happy and lubricated, ready to be lodged perpetually up the market’s own ass, but it’s not fun anymore.
We’re off. A few blocks in, I’m self-consciously rubbing my sentimentally leaking tear ducts. It’s my first pride parade this side of the barricades. It’s better than a press pass. Turns out that two miles of very densely-packed Manhattan cheering from both sides of the road can be very asserting and cathartic. Hi, Mom!