A Quiet Sort of Pride

Or: How not to make a Quentin Crisp

Old bag, new fruit

I have always been terrible at celebrating Pride the traditional, public way. I’m nervous in crowds— especially drunken ones— because I can never get the idea of being shot at by a crazed gunman or trampled to death by the resulting, panicky horde out my head. My fashion palette is decidedly Autumn, so I look terrible in rainbow hues. …