"It was very nice, but in Sydney there would have been a lot more dancing." This female Australian team member wasn't the only one left a bit deflated by Saturday's opening ceremonies for the Gay Games at Soldier Field.

The sun had gone down, a nice breeze was coming off the lake, and people were ready to party. Then came the speeches. It started with a protracted announcement of all the sponsors, but this was forgotten by the rush of 12,000 athletes from around the world, pouring onto the field. The biggest groups were from Western Europe, Australia, and North America, but the biggest ovations were saved for those smallest groups, like Botswana, and the one lone representative from Uganda.

The spectators cheered, the athletes cheered, the different cheerleading teams cheered; then there was a deadly oath; a strong ovation for Megan Mullally and then an okay speech; a welcome from Mayor Daley who said all the right things, but numbed rear ends.

When the entertainment section finally began, nearly two hours after the 8:00 start time, the crowd was suitably restrained in its enthusiasm. I mean, really, can't gay men do better than ill-fitting sequined shawls and overly literal choreographic interpretations of the fours sections of the ill-conceived program: Exclusion, Oppression, Expression, Ignition.

Now, tens of thousands of people will have prized photos of the Opening Ceremony, with giant lit up OPPRESSION signs in the background. Great way to throw a party.

The general consensus from those not actually asleep in their seats (yes, really) was that the music need to be faster, the speeches needed to be shorter, and the schmalty and fiery personal essays needed to be presented someplace else.

Luckilly, Andy Bell from Erasure made several appearances, singing one past hit at a time, so that the audience had a chance to struggle out of their comas, before relaxing back into a vegetative state. Margaret Cho was well received but on for only a couple of minutes. Avenue Q should have been a highlight, but you couldn't hear the lyrics. It wasn't until around midnight, that the fans began a series of waves, to rouse themselves during a muddy sounding band number, and then stamped their feet in appreciation of Chicago's own ROTC (Righteously Outrageous Twirling Corps), who were given the field for only a few brief minutes.

"In Amsterdam, it was all so colorful," remembered one local man.

Well, in Chicago, it was hot, but in all the wrong ways.