I don’t like parades. Are you surprised? It’s not the result of some deep-seated horror the result of a bad clown experience, but rather the glib artifice that is reduced to the most neutered spectacle possible. The aura of all sign and no signified that pervades the few I’ve attended in the past ten years is relentless.
This is not the fault of many of the participants, particularly those in the Pride Parade, or Mermaid Day, or even tonight — which, if you read the sanitized history as the ‘official‘ site, doesn’t mention that the wide open participatory nature means political/social commentary costumes make it far more interesting than just playing dress up — none of whom would be able to get within twenty miles of Orlando without arrest.
The Disnefication is a result of the management evidenced at each in the form of crowd and traffic control by the police. The stagy nature that results (people wait patiently — of if not, at least without evident agitation — to cross, the route never deviates) makes what one sees, no matter how outre, look about as dangerous (and unattractive, in many cases) as public access cable. Now, if Gregg Brown was grand marshal, who knows what kind of fun would be had (an aside — the web truly ruins the scary attic that was public access. Concrete TV has a website, right? I’m not even going to Google that. I don’t want to know).
But even if police control of nearly seven foot tall (in heels), sweaty and preening drag queens doesn’t render the events as cartoon, then the army of hipster documentarians will. The last Mermaid Day parade I went to was so awash in Leicas that there was no danger of one having theirs stolen, since everyone had one. For every overweight, naked, painted-green man living the alternative dream, there were eight photographers. And this was a good five years before the words ‘photo blogger’ had entered the media lexicon.
The history of parades is highly contested: they have been used as tools of social control (through the ominous and/or inspiring display of martial force) and spontaneous (or contrived) demonstrations of resistance. But in both cases, they are clear assertions of authority by a group wishing to institute control of public space. Any group that sponsors a gathering recognizes this, which is why IGLO’s yearly battle with the Hibernians will continue indefinitely, and the NYPD treats Critical Mass as if Sendero Luminoso had come ashore at Pier 17.
Though we no longer have demonstrations of military power (unless of course, one counts St. Patrick’s), we don’t much have labor marches either. It seems we are afforded only one marginal group per generation. Critical Mass is this generation’s ACT UP! It would be unfair to argue that “back in the day” public protest was more freely expressed: people died at Haymarket. We all live in a gauzy nostalgia that releases us from actually putting our politics at risk, and so we are happy for the sliver of malcontents who continue to flock to Tompkins as a matter of fashion, figuring they will get around to rioting sooner or later, and we can pat ourselves on the back, and then dress up as Ionesco character for the Halloween Parade. So witty, us.
But the streets aren’t entirely policed. There are smaller rituals that occur with enough elasticity (and I’m not talking about the New Jersey/UES Interlopers Association that has its weekly parade on Avenue B) that it feels like people can congregate and march of their own volition and without oversight. There is a yearly garden blessing parade in the East Village; a Cinco de Mayo parade, if I remember, as well. There’s even the Idiotarod. And the cutesy, ready for its Crispin Porter + Bogusky close-up, Chegwin. I hear that they do all kinds of crazy stuff out there in Williamsburg (but don’t try and go there — you’ll ruin it!).
These exemplify the two strands of New York culture we desperately believe still persist: social justice, and clever, insidery, making-of-history moments. Every drunken stumble down the street that isn’t accompanied by some permutation of “What do we want? [a new and original chant for lefty protests!] When do we want it? [yesterday!]” is hoping it will end up as storied as Duchamp climbing the Washington Square Monument.
So make your way over to Sixth Avenue, and cheer in some self-satisfied Park Slope way at all the folks that were going as Harriet Miers and had to rejigger suddenly to go as Karl Rove in handcuffs. Or the hordes of slutty nurses, slutty teachers, or slutty sluts. A slutty Harriet Miers, that would be inspired. Or, you know, don’t, because there will be two dozen photo bloggers tomorrow that will make it look more interesting than it was.
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Parade of Fools.
I don’t like parades. Are you surprised? It’s not the result of some deep-seated horror the result of a bad clown experience, but rather the glib artifice that is reduced to the most neutered spectacle possible. The aura of all sign and no signified that pervades the few I’ve attended in the past ten years is relentless.
This is not the fault of many of the participants, particularly those in the Pride Parade, or Mermaid Day, or even tonight — which, if you read the sanitized history as the ‘official‘ site, doesn’t mention that the wide open participatory nature means political/social commentary costumes make it far more interesting than just playing dress up — none of whom would be able to get within twenty miles of Orlando without arrest.
The Disnefication is a result of the management evidenced at each in the form of crowd and traffic control by the police. The stagy nature that results (people wait patiently — of if not, at least without evident agitation — to cross, the route never deviates) makes what one sees, no matter how outre, look about as dangerous (and unattractive, in many cases) as public access cable. Now, if Gregg Brown was grand marshal, who knows what kind of fun would be had (an aside — the web truly ruins the scary attic that was public access. Concrete TV has a website, right? I’m not even going to Google that. I don’t want to know).
But even if police control of nearly seven foot tall (in heels), sweaty and preening drag queens doesn’t render the events as cartoon, then the army of hipster documentarians will. The last Mermaid Day parade I went to was so awash in Leicas that there was no danger of one having theirs stolen, since everyone had one. For every overweight, naked, painted-green man living the alternative dream, there were eight photographers. And this was a good five years before the words ‘photo blogger’ had entered the media lexicon.
The history of parades is highly contested: they have been used as tools of social control (through the ominous and/or inspiring display of martial force) and spontaneous (or contrived) demonstrations of resistance. But in both cases, they are clear assertions of authority by a group wishing to institute control of public space. Any group that sponsors a gathering recognizes this, which is why IGLO’s yearly battle with the Hibernians will continue indefinitely, and the NYPD treats Critical Mass as if Sendero Luminoso had come ashore at Pier 17.
Though we no longer have demonstrations of military power (unless of course, one counts St. Patrick’s), we don’t much have labor marches either. It seems we are afforded only one marginal group per generation. Critical Mass is this generation’s ACT UP! It would be unfair to argue that “back in the day” public protest was more freely expressed: people died at Haymarket. We all live in a gauzy nostalgia that releases us from actually putting our politics at risk, and so we are happy for the sliver of malcontents who continue to flock to Tompkins as a matter of fashion, figuring they will get around to rioting sooner or later, and we can pat ourselves on the back, and then dress up as Ionesco character for the Halloween Parade. So witty, us.
But the streets aren’t entirely policed. There are smaller rituals that occur with enough elasticity (and I’m not talking about the New Jersey/UES Interlopers Association that has its weekly parade on Avenue B) that it feels like people can congregate and march of their own volition and without oversight. There is a yearly garden blessing parade in the East Village; a Cinco de Mayo parade, if I remember, as well. There’s even the Idiotarod. And the cutesy, ready for its Crispin Porter + Bogusky close-up, Chegwin. I hear that they do all kinds of crazy stuff out there in Williamsburg (but don’t try and go there — you’ll ruin it!).
These exemplify the two strands of New York culture we desperately believe still persist: social justice, and clever, insidery, making-of-history moments. Every drunken stumble down the street that isn’t accompanied by some permutation of “What do we want? [a new and original chant for lefty protests!] When do we want it? [yesterday!]” is hoping it will end up as storied as Duchamp climbing the Washington Square Monument.
So make your way over to Sixth Avenue, and cheer in some self-satisfied Park Slope way at all the folks that were going as Harriet Miers and had to rejigger suddenly to go as Karl Rove in handcuffs. Or the hordes of slutty nurses, slutty teachers, or slutty sluts. A slutty Harriet Miers, that would be inspired. Or, you know, don’t, because there will be two dozen photo bloggers tomorrow that will make it look more interesting than it was.