Undercover at Fayetteville Pride

Fayetteville hosted its first-ever Pride event, featuring a parade and hours of “family-friendly entertainment” on historic Courthouse Square. But alert guardians of public virtue who comment on The Citizen website warned of sinister motives and even debauchery. Well, one usually must drive to Atlanta to find debauchery. Plus, you have to pay for parking—I hate to pay for parking, don’t you?

Being an intrepid reporter (and needing some column material), I decided to investigate these claims and report back to my faithful readers. Wishing to blend in, I dug through my closet for a sufficiently flamboyant costume. My wardrobe is anything but daring and hasn’t been updated much this century, yet I assembled a pair of orange pants and a black shirt that could best be described as “accidentally expressive.” I’ll try to smile disarmingly as well.

I parked for free at Stonewall Village and joined roughly a thousand attendees gathered at the Courthouse Square before the parade. There were some rainbow outfits, dyed hair, painted faces, and eclectic headgear, but most were clad as pedestrianly as was I. My ever-vigilant eye searched for immodesty but found only a distressing abundance of normalcy. I decided to redouble my efforts to detect deviation. I saw a bearded man in a skirt, but closer inspection revealed a Scottish kilt.

The parade was but a brief affair with the usual lineup of merchants, politicians, and a diminutive band. The Free Mom Hugs float was an unexpected deviation from the conventional, but I suspect that these mature ladies were lured into participation by some devious machinations.

Having been warned of subversive grooming activities, I was wary of the Snippity Doo Dog Pet Grooming float, but along with the Humane Society marchers, only animals appeared to be in their purview. A clever subterfuge? Perhaps.

Likewise, parade participants handed out rainbow flags, keychains, and bracelets rather than the sort of illicit paraphernalia my more excited sources had led me to expect. Local Presbyterians, Lutherans, and Episcopalians waved heartily as they marched behind their church banners. I had hoped to uncover all the predicted extravagancies, but alas, the parade contained no orgies, no bacchanals, and hardly an exposed midriff. 

Of course, the vice of pride was everywhere visible, though it barely qualifies for Terrace One of Dante’s Purgatorio rather than a prime suite in the Inferno.

The Courthouse crowd grew noticeably busier after the parade, so I blended into the audience, intent on exposing the drag show. Master of Ceremonies Taylor Alxndr took the stage in head-to-toe purple, and I was shocked to see such flamboyant eyelashes. Fayette County native Molly appeared next in a sparkling one-piece, though a bushy red beard clearly detracted from the traditional diva aesthetic.

At the peril of generational shaming, I maintain that the drag queens of my youth far outshone these performers. Milton Berle as the nagging wife and Jonathan Winters as Maude Frickert were hilarious. And Flip Wilson’s Geraldine—“The devil made me do it!”—was the gold standard for cross-dressing comedy.

A runway contest was announced, and several attendees lined up to strut on the imaginary walkway. The contestants entertained with exaggerated steps, serious stares, and playful flips of the hair. Applause selected a matronly septuagenarian in an enormous pink hat as the winner. When several children began running in circles, Alxndr simply joined them, leaving me thoroughly perplexed. I had been promised a masterclass in radical indoctrination, yet the kids were clearly calling the shots.

I was startled when Griffin City Commissioner Zachery Fuller took the stage wearing a black shift. Even a fashion illiterate like me could see that pairing it with athletic socks and running shoes was an unforgivable ensemble. He rambled on about unity and acceptance, stubbornly refusing to voice a single grievance. Indeed, the speakers preached so much peace and love, I wondered if a time warp had dropped me into Woodstock.

Weary of all this Kumbaya, I ventured around the square seeking evidence of debauchery. All I found were families seated in circles, children getting their faces painted, and food trucks distributing snow cones. The afternoon’s ambiance had all the trappings of a church picnic, and with so many parishioners in attendance, it was hardly surprising.

Defeated, I finally quit this proud ensemble after three hours. On the way to my car, I ran into a trio of dissenters sporting disparaging signs and proclaiming anything but acceptance for the happy folks I just left. I briefly explained my frustration and asked the tall guy if he had any information that might assist me. By his dumbfounded expression, it was clear that he was completely without meaningful intelligence. I proceeded to my car.

Although this investigation proved wanting, I encourage my readers to persevere in alerting me to debauchery wherever it may be lurking. This correspondent will seek out profligacy with determined effort and expose it with relish—as long as I don’t have to pay for parking.