Intro by Jesse Davidson:

It seems like there are almost two sides to events, what is going on in the venue and the stories people are creating during the show. The potentially booze induced, hormone fueled nights your parents are afraid to tell you about. Some people having the night of their lives and others the worst. Regardless, the stories are the hidden narrative that aren’t usually discussed. So here’s one young woman’s recap of her night at West Hollywood’s Pride Festival. We hope you enjoy it.

“Buy the Ticket, Take the Ride” -Hunter S Thompson

On the Streets: LAPRIDE

By Danielle White

Just south of Acton, I received a message from editor, Jesse Davidson asking if I could review my trip to West Hollywood’s GLBTQ PRIDE Festival. If I remember anything, I lamented. Asking a 22-year-old Los-Angeles-native alcoholic butch lesbian to refrain from getting blackout drunk at LAPRIDE was a lot to ask. But still, I persevered (mostly). Here is what I (am able to) recall from the past weekend.

THE DRIVE

After responding to Jesse’s request, I felt a surge of energy and excitement for the day to come. Just as quickly after, I felt my seatbelt strangle me because some asshole cut us off all the way from the far right lane. The dipshit missed his exit and thought he could take a chance and hug the off-ramp. I prayed to the SoCal Traffic Gods that ‘maybe you could just give me one trip to LA without this bullshit.‘ The SoCal Traffic Gods are blatantly awful at responding to prayer. So, I sparked a bowl of some foul tasting but stoney Humboldt Gold Rush and made goofy faces at passing drivers for about 2 hours. Upon arriving to Hollywood, we realized that we had overlooked one very vital part of our trip: fucking parking.

FUCKING PARKING

We had arrived. The sun was barely peeking through the morning marine fog, few people had actually started partying (“attending brunch” is what we call it in the GLBTQ community), and the smell of over-priced but still essentially cheap coffee was rich in the air. Though there were few human bodies to be found on otherwise busy Santa Monica Blvd, the amount of cars parked on the streets was unfathomable. There are approximately 3.5 million people in Los Angeles and I can almost guess that every single one of those motherfuckers was parked RIGHT THERE. We backtracked for 30 minutes or so, always minding Mary Jane and her rage-reducing charms. Eventually we ended up in a parking garage on La Cienega and Sunset. Mind you, the festival was about ¾ of a mile away, on a hot day in June, and we would be drinking heavily. We ignored these conditions because we saved $17 on parking being this far and that meant we could drink heavily-er. We parked the car and pounded three beers each before making our way onto the street.

GETTING DRUNK WHILE SURROUNDED BY DONGS

After the celebratory arrival beer, we wandered into the West Hollywood Pavilion’s Market and immediately bought more alcohol. After pounding a bottle of Malibu, we wandered for a bit before consuming a couple more beers we had left in the car. By this time I was already questioning my ability to form proper sentences, meanwhile watching in awe just how many people were showing up to the festival. Now, while I had imbibed in many alcohols and was feeling pretty confident in my physical appearance, I had NOTHING on the men of Gay Pride. Muscle-bound gym junkies in nothing more than banana hammocks flocked the streets. It was reminiscent of Red Hot Chili Peppers’ sock foray, if RHCP was 8000 dudes instead of four and everyone’s socks were a neon hue.

My girlfriend and I broke away from the group we were with to find a bathroom, as beer bladder had set in with a vengeance. Never have I seen so many live sausage links. And hopefully, I never will again. However, I did get $30 worth of free beauty products so it was totally worth it.

DJ’S

Three stages were presented: Top 40 Pop Stage, Hip-Hop Underground Stage, and the Main Stage, which played a mix of 80’s jams and queer culture hits before and between the live performances. I desperately tried not to get sweat on the entire time. Breathing was difficult. The music was awful. Point to the main stage for playing Echo and the Bunnymen and to the hip-hop stage for having male AND female go-go dancers.

PERFORMERS THAT AREN’T KE$HA

Who cares?

Wilson Phillips was there. And they were just as forgettable live as they were in 1994 on alt radio. I literally had to look up the band as I’m writing this. ‘What was that band that played before Ke$ha?’ I had asked myself. And I was sobering up at this point.

‘This is called “being responsible.” ’ I would tell myself, ‘This is what will help my article.’

Never was I so wrong. The prospect of seeing Ke$ha semi-sober hit me like a bag of bricks. So the lady and I set off on another adventure to acquire alcohol. We left the festival itself and hit the streets. I acquired a $4 bottle of Taaka and was approached by an elderly man with a gallon of Kessler. ‘Why not?’ I asked myself, and quickly helped to devour the 200+ ounces of cheap whiskey on the street behind Rage. I stumbled back into the park feeling like Barney from The Simpsons and fought my way to the main stage where Ke$ha would be playing.

THE FINAL ACT, KE$HA

I was nearly attacked by the crowd. Four thousand people in attendance, and I had chosen to stand in the very center. A young man in an obnoxious Hawaiian-style shirt elbowed me constantly in the ribs and his friends were fist-pumping into the back of my head. Ke$ha had barely reached the stage before I had had enough. I left the crowd and stood out on the side for an extra-echoey rendition of “Tick-Tock.” I can’t say whether or not I enjoyed the show, but I can say that finding lounge couches behind the vendors’ booths saved my life. Pride is an exhausting experience. I finished the show on my ass, and trekked the long way back to the car on jello knees before passing out in the passenger’s seat.

OVERALL

Overall, I would say PRIDE is a tradition of inebriation and over-indulgence. For those in the mood to party like animals and end up bruised and sore and probably hung-over perpetually for the week ahead, I’d say this is the place for you. As for myself, I’d say I’m getting way too old for this shit. I’ll stick to music festivals with carry-in seating and shows at small venues. Provided they have comfy chairs and fucking parking.