Kris Dresen Draws

she said, chapter three, page 05 is up. A refreshing summer treat!

If you remember my alter-ego Maggie Bitter the Bad Lesbian, then you may recall her documenting of the 2005 Dyke March here in Chicago. If you’re not, well, here it is. It’s the very least I can do to acknowledge Pride Weekend.

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When Dykes Go Marching

Well, it’s June. You know that that means, right?

Yep. It’s “Hey, I Fully Support Your Lifestyle But I’m Not A Fag, OK?” month, also known as Gay Pride Month.  Don’t get me wrong, I am all about being able to be out and open without fear of discrimination, but the next time a bunch of drag queens decide to go a-rioting I hope they do it in the cooler weather of spring or fall. The sun and humidity can really make pride celebration a matter of comfort.

As my pal Mrs. Biederhof said, “I’ll celebrate by wrapping my naked self in a rainbow flag and standing in front of the air conditioner.”

With that attitude in hand, Mrs Biederhof and I headed to Andersonville (dyke central for the Chicagoland area) to witness the Chicago Dyke March (apparently the word parade is either too patriarchal, not punk rock enough, or just plain gay). We had heard much about this marching of dykes that attempted to be a subset of a subculture. Well, we’d heard that it existed, but that’s about it. So we headed to Clark Street and the designated start time of 1:30. Now, for most marches, or parades, streets are cordoned-off, parking restricted, saw horses placed, and crowds gather. Not so with the Dyke March. We stood at the corner bewildered at the utter lack of, well, dykes, let alone dykes marching. We stood in the ever-increasingly warm sun chatting as the minutes tick-tick-ticked away. We became restless and checked our watches, 2:00PM. I pointed out what appeared to be the staging area a few blocks down. We made our way over. Ah, yes, there was the telltale sound of a lesbian gathering – tribal drumming.

Now, this is the part where I would normally go off on the whole “I am lesbian therefore I drum” mentality. But you know what? In the spirit of, good lord, lesbian solidarity, I’m gonna cut my percussive sisters a break. I mean, at least they’ve embraced drums. It could have been bagpipes. “I am lesbian therefore I drone!” Then they would be apt to croon “Danny Boy” only to change it to “Dani Boi.” So, yeah. I’ll be content with the drums, thank you very much.

Mrs Biederhof and I parked our selves on the curb because you know nothing crawls slower than a bunch of lesbians trying to agree on something – like when to start a march. We withered in the sun as we watched unshaven leg after unshaven leg stroll by. Sorry, ladies, as gay as I am, I like smooth legs on ANY gender. What? You gonna take my Rainbow Card back? Speaking of hair…

Hey! Drag kings! If you’re going to do the facial hair thing as part of your character, might I suggest springing for a theatrical-quality moustache and goatee? Seriously, the Sharpie/eyebrow pencil squiggles on your face? Ain’t working. You don’t look king-like so much as a doofus with marker on her face. I’m just sayin’. XXOO Maggie B.

Back to the Dyke March! Or should I say back to waiting for the Dyke March. Mrs Biederhof and I grew weary of waiting for the gals to form a committee to assign a task force to write a manifesto to form a quorum to take a vote to plan a meeting to decide when to get the march started. We wandered back to Clark Street to find some shade and some food. We settled at a window-side table in a the air-conditioned goodness of a Middle Eastern restaurant so we would have a view of the march if it ever got it’s shit together.

So we ate, talked, ate, talked more, sat around, talked, waited, talked and still no march. We checked our watches yet again – 3:30PM. Oh, come on, ladies! It’s a march! You walk (or march, if you’re a traditionalist) from point A to point B! Throw in some lesbians and – boom – a dyke march! Really! Nobody’s expecting rocket science.

Mrs Biederhof excused herself to go to the restroom. No sooner than she had left the table than a single police car started down the street, lights flashing. The march had begun! First off, as always, were the dykes on bikes. Or rather, THE dyke on A bike. Yep. A solitary lesbian on her hog, gunning the engine to provide a rather tepid mating call of the easily swoonable. And then behind her? All of the lesbians in Chicago. And that’s it, just a mass of lesbians walking down the middle of the street. No floats, no banners other than a few poster board and marker jobs – “Condoms Not Bombs” and “Community Sparks a Revolution.” A few obligatory rainbow flags flew and some costumed fools were riding around on kids’ bikes. What any of these had to do with dykes is beyond me. Maybe I’m just behind on my reading.

By the time Mrs Biederhof had returned the march was nearly over. We went out to the street to witness the marvel that was the Dyke March in its natural habitat. That’s when I noticed that there was nobody really there for the specific purpose of witnessing the march. The people on the sidewalks all sort of stopped and gawked. Anybody who cared about the march was marching. Of course, it didn’t help that there were several topless women among the marchers. They had the “these make it OK” pasties on, but one rather, er, earthy gal had her bare ta-ta’s painted with – what else – a rainbow flag pattern. Again, I beg you women who go topless – not only in the Dyke March but also the Pride Parade – please don’t. You know how you watch American Idol and can’t believe how some of those kids who audition think they can sing but really, truly can’t yet are convinced that they’re the next big thing? Apply that delusion to your breasts. Trust me, you’ll thank me in the long run.

The march just sort of trickled to an end. It lasted less than five minutes. At the very end was a convertible with an older lesbian couple in it that appeared to be cranky and yelling at the onlookers. One held a piece of poster board that said “Married partners for 39 years.” Um, OK. Congrats, ladies. But they sure seemed hostile about it. I guess gay marriage is just like any other hetero marriage.

The next day the Chicago Pride Parade was held. I opted not to go because, well, you’ve seen one big gay parade, you’ve seen them all. Apparently nearly half a million people came down to Boystown to witness the drag queens and guys with assless chaps dance down Halsted Street. See now, if only the dykes would call their little hoedown a parade. Apparently nobody likes a march but everyone loves a parade.

New page is up! A few days early, too.

New page is up!

Next week might be an off week. I’m not sure yet. Guess we’ll all find out together!

New page is up.