Fete de la Musique et Le gaypride

So the weekend before last was the gay pride parade, and even before then was the Fete de la Musique. These are some of the biggest summer "parties" you could say, where people wallk all over the streets everywhere and make noise and drink. Often bands perform in the streets and it is great (if they are African drummers), or crap (if they are French hard rock, metal, hip hop, or basically, anything copying music that is not a guy singing with an accordian. The French can still do that. They cannot, however, copy anything from America or even Britain correctly. Unless, of course, this French person is also black, another story).

And so, I stuck around some fantastic african drummers with a friend. And then we walked the streets for a long time, and then I go goaded into going into a club, which, although it was pretty, was filled with stupid people and sweaty men who liked to give hugs, but not that good kind of sweaty men---the chubby kind that don't give a shit about you, but want to hook up with your pretty chick friends. Every time I go to one of these places, I allow myself to have fun until I think thoughts like, ehhh i really don't like the crowd, which escalates to, I AM BETTER THAN EVERY SINGLE PERSON HERE. That thought is originally inspired by a middle-school friend, but it's also every French person's goal in life.

It's really tough to do that in a dance club for un français, because they have NO RHYTHM and cannot dance. Even more so than Jewish people I feel--at least we can go around in a circle on time. And if you're not over 75, we can even jump at the same time and feel the centripital force. Genious, I feel. Anyway so, watching these idiots try to dance to hip hop, ohhh man. I can't even really talk about it.


Next big event was the gay pride parade.

So I went and didn't exactly march, I was on a "char" (a float, en français--does it come from chariot?) with my friend and about 50 other gays from different youth organizations. The char was just a big 18 wheeler with the sides open, and a DJ with a massive sound system that left my ears ringing. On either side of the truck there was a big sign that said "Baiser Chic, Baiser Safe."


"Un baiser," btw, if it is a noun means "a kiss," but as a verb it means "to fuck". How really schizophrenic of them to have a word like that.

Bon, the theme for this year on this char was "SIDA", which if you are good at anagrams means AIDS. I got there very late and I was wearing a green tank top--however the colors to go along with their very depressing theme was black and red (why are black and red associated with AIDS? Nobody could actually tell me this but any time you argue with homosexuals about why something is a certain way involving their cause, they get VERY bitchy and turn into demons and try to steal your children. And the ironic part is the firey look in their eyes where you know they want to accuse you of being a homophobe, but they also know how dumb that will sound to someone wearing ass-tight pants and a tanktop at a gay pride parade. And they're probably excited a little by the abuse as well--ahem). Anyway, their very diplomatic solution to my predicament was so indicative of a very ill and backwards culture:

If you take your shirt off, you can get on the float!

it went something like this:


"Pardon, mais tu peux pas monter sur le char puisque tu portes un t-shirt vert."

"Mais je connais personne ici, que mon ami qui est déjà sur ton putain de char ou il se trouve 50 gens avec tous les couleurs du arc-en-ciel"

whisperwhisper "Tu sais, si tu enleve ton shirt tu peux monter"



Fine, well I am not exactly modest so I got on their "fucking char" as underlined (learn French curses!)

We danced on the truck for about 3 hours, as it wound up the left bank, starting in Montparnasse, up through the Latin Quarter, and across the bridge to the Marais a bit, and ended up in Bastille. I wanted to bring my camera, and even though I wasn't really in the huge, massive, and sprawling crowd of gays that surged through the center of Paris that day, to have a big camera with all the movement and commotion and ridiculousness would really have been somewhat of a burden.

I did miss out on some great photos ops, mostly crowds and crowds of people under famous Parisian street signs (I can see in my mind's eye, Blvd St Germain and ten million screaming homos), drag queens, men in their underwear dancing on telephone booths, and 100 shirtless youth dancing on the column in Bastille at the end.

I will keep the memories so it's not too much of a shame that I don't have the photos-It's okay because there are plenty online, i will add the links eventually!

After dancing for 3 hours I wanted to go to sleep on the pavement, but wouldn't you know it that EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM had plans to go out that night---

"Comment tu sors pas ce soir?? c'est le gaypride!!!! Il faut SORTIR!"

(How can you not go out tonight, it's gay pride! YOU HAVE TO GO OUT!)

so i went home and slept for a long time and eventually did go out again (how, I do not know)


Brilliantly, I woke up the next morning at 8am to go to a crazy allergist, who has sort of cured me. But I also went to the Barbes Rochechoart market (it only happens twice a week!) to buy bulk rates of fruit and olives, and fresh herbs because they have so much of it and it's extremely cheap (because every single person there is Algerian and so they just import the prices right over the Mediterranian!)

One little beur, who will be cute in 3 years if he eats something was flirting with a 45 year old African woman; "madame vous faites une bonne choix," he says, smelling the melon she picked out, "vous avez choisi le plus beau melon du jour!" Put it away pipsqueak. And why didn't you compliment my melon?

Anyway photos to come. And try to get up to date here Yoseph!