Don't tempt me with a good time | Love in the time of regression

Dear reader, I have attended the various Pride events in our community, not only to become more connected with my fellow queers, but also in pursuit of a column that gets through the meat and muscle, past the bone, and straight into the marrow of this long, glittering, tragicomic gay saga that somehow demands an entire month of celebration.

Now, if you've met me, you know I am not a dyed-mullet, pierced-nose, rainbow-cape-sporting queer (not that there's anything wrong with that). I am, instead, an archaic gay: a balding-and-therefore-hat-wearing, no-white-shoes-after-Labor-Day, gin-and-tonic-with-a-side-of-dashed-hopes-and-hopeless-romanticism queer.

I love my fellow queers dearly, but where some see Pride as beginning with a riot, I can't help but note that said riot occurred while much of the community was mourning the loss of our patron saint, Judy Garland. For younger readers, this would be the rough equivalent of Lady Gaga suddenly dying. History is rarely as tidy as activists would like and rarely as glamorous as gay men insist.

This is to say that I generally avoid involving myself in hyperbolic homo drama.

Nevertheless, Wenatchee has taken a turn.

Much like Target, which once greeted June with wall-to-wall rainbows and now appears to offer little more than a shirt reading, "I'd do a threesome with a girl for my boyfriend's birthday," the city seems to have scaled back its enthusiasm. No Pride banners hang from the light posts this year. Instead, we have the AI-designed America's Family Month banners, which are so unintentionally camp that they somehow circle back around to being gayer than the rainbow ones.

The banners remain up, though. Local businesses display them in their windows, and somehow I like that better. Business owners are wearing their support - or their bigotry - on their sleeves. There is something refreshingly honest about public declarations. At least hypocrisy has the decency to be embarrassed.

Anyway, I'm losing track of myself. This is supposed to be a witty events recap.

I attended the City Council meeting where the Pride Month proclamation was read. It felt less like a recognition and more like an apology for incompetence. And that sucks.

Afterward, I went to the Pride kickoff party at Yonder Cider. There, I ran into Ernest Palmer and Michael Murphy. It was the first time I'd spent any prolonged time with them outside a group setting.

I've always admired older, long-term gay couples. They possess so many of the things I aspire to have: houses with cute yards, full-time jobs supplemented by improbable side hustles, cats, companionship, and the sort of hard-earned domestic peace that can only be achieved after decades of arguing over where to put the mail.

Michael told me about organizing Olympia's first Pride parade, his reign as Mr. Gay Washington, how police refused to escort participants through the streets, and how some people sewed razor blades into their club outfits for protection. He told me that this year feels more like 30 years ago than any year since.

I watched him and Ernest dance together - shamelessly, joyfully, and with just enough chaos to make it interesting - and all I could think was: I hope one day I'm dancing with my life partner in the basement of a repurposed train depot.

Yet I was still unsure how to approach writing about Pride. It's so much bigger than I can comfortably fit into words.

So I attended Pride Night at the AppleSox.

Surely, I thought, this would do the trick. Between America's pastime and the queer community, there had to be threads to tie together. Jockstraps, pitching and catching, matching outfits - the material practically writes itself.

The game was well attended, and it was wonderful to see such a broad cross-section of the community turn out. Even Mike "Maddog" Magnotti was there sporting a "You Are Safe With Me" pin - a prime example of how people can change with the times, regardless of when they were raised.

Still, it wasn't what I was looking for. It lacked that spark, that moment of clarity.

About an hour and a half into the game, I left. The Sox were up by seven, and the wind was making a stronger argument than baseball was. As I walked back to my car, I passed a set of sprinklers, and suddenly, I had it.

Oscar Wilde once wrote, "To love oneself is the beginning of a lifelong romance."

In part, that's what Pride is about.

It's waking up each day and, as a former lover once wrote, loving yourself a little more than you did the day before. And as Auntie Ru reminds us, "If you can't love yourself, how in the hell are you going to love somebody else?"

That's the other side of Pride. It is a celebration of loving yourself even when you're told that who you are is wrong, sinful, strange, or perverse. And it is about loving other people for exactly who they are.

Yes, Pride began with bricks thrown by queers.

But it is not just for queers.

It's for the disabled finding ways to live and love in a society that often values productivity more than humanity. It's for veterans abandoned by the country they swore to protect. It's for immigrants who arrive chasing promises that reality rarely keeps. It's even for those who, deep down, struggle to love themselves and instead place their faith in angry men on pulpits or con men offering simple answers to complicated fears.

Pride is acceptance of yourself and compassion for those making their way through this long, glittering, tragicomic saga alongside you.

And if you ask me, that sounds an awful lot like the teachings of a man who lived 2,000-some years ago and died for what he believed in.

On June 20, there will be a big ol' gay party in Lincoln Park from 11 a.m. to 6 p.m. I hear there will be more than 65 vendors, live performances, and, best of all, no judgment - only love.

Come out for it! It's sure to be a good time.

(P.S. I couldn't find a natural place to put this, so I'll leave it here: a sincere shoutout to all the lesbians out there for rolling up your sleeves and getting things done. Every movement needs visionaries, but it also needs somebody willing to bring a folding table and a clipboard.)

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This story was originally published June 16, 2026 at 12:17 PM.