God likes the Gay Pride better than the Fête de la musique.

A Gay Pride in Paris is like Valentine’s Day in a bathhouse: you’ve never felt so alone, and old, and alone, and ugly, and alone, and dirty, but you can’t not go.

Okay, next year I’ll be muscular enough to walk with Pride and a bare chest. Yeah, yeah, better believe it. I can’t wait until I’m 45 to do that.

I’m afraid I might be sorry for my very first exposure to afternoon sun this year.

I saw surprisingly few people I know — I even didn’t run into many faces seen on the internet at all. Did everyone I ever knew die, and people roaming internet chatrooms stay at home rather than parade? (And, in that case, where is it again you can meet all the cute guys — and, no doubt, absolutely uninteresting and stupid and not to dwell over — you can see marching?)

Judging by the amount of people connected to gay sites this late afternoon, yeah, it must be a totally distinct crowd. I have to spend more time in the Marais. And in a gym. But how can one start going to the gym while living in the third arrondissement? I can’t, it’ll be shameful!

It’s almost hard to imagine there was a time when I has lots of friends… well, pals… actually, tolerable people, that I could march with and have drinks with afterwards and all that. I wonder what’s more improbable: having muscles of my own to display next year, or a crowd to be with.