I will survive. That became my mantra about two hours into Los Angeles' Gay Pride celebration yesterday. Seven hours of standing and walking in the hot sun amidst melting drag queens and beefy men will do that to a girl. I was surprised by the timidity of L.A.'s Pride, especially after cutting my teeth in Seattle and New York, where Gay Pride feels more like a city-wide celebration than a reason to party on one street by the people who live in the surrounding neighborhood. The parade: I watched it. I liked the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence, who are always the most interesting to look at. There were a ton of anti-Prop 8 and pro-marriage groups that marched, but they might have had a greater impact if they had they joined together in solidarity.

I was surprised that San Francisco's mayor Gavin Newsom got less of a rip-roaring reception than he deserved, since he's the reason we're essentially having this marriage debate in the first place. Perhaps they didn't recognize him, I reasoned, though that seemed improbable considering that he is the hottest politician ever to serve our country. (Yes, even hotter than Obama.)

I felt pity for the eensy weensy collection of bisexuals. "Don't forget the 'B' in LGBT," their placards read. The poor bisexuals are the Rodney Dangerfields of Gay Pride; they don't get no respect.

People forget that Gay Pride isn't just about looking fabulous -- it's about showing off the different sides of gay culture, from the Sober Sizzles (a group that helps promote sobriety in an often drug-addled community) to the mom who held up a sign that read, "I love my gay son," to the leather daddies and bears. They were all in full force and equally represented.

After about two hours of drag queens melting in the sun, I decided I needed fortification and ate a burger before heading into the Christopher Street West street party. The party was essentially a collection of vendor booths, a few stages featuring different kinds of music (the main stage, a Latin tent, and -- shudder -- a Circuit party tent) and people milling about and getting wasted. There was a tent inside the tent called "Erotic City" that featured the S&M and porn booths, and was, predictably, crammed.

The biggest problem with this entire event was that the music and performances were culled from 1988 (headliners included Terri Nunn of Berlin and Expose -- yes, really) making Saturday's headliners Fantasia and Deborah Cox modern and cutting-edge by comparison. Remember when you looked to gay culture for cues on what we were going to be doing in five years? This seems to be over. Apparently this is due to the process of booking the performers -- whoever applies to perform as a volunteer gets considered. Next year, I nominate Lady Gaga to perform as a volunteer, since her music dominated the floats.

The second biggest problem with Los Angeles' Pride: there was nothing but men. Big, sweaty, muscled men, as far as the eye could see. The booths inside the official event mostly catered to them; there were mostly men inside, and on the street there were so few women, gay or straight, that I started counting. After about two hours, I finally reached 40 and gave up. As anyone will tell you, a totally male gay party lacks energy. The best parties are a mix of gay and straight, with lesbians, and at the Prides in Seattle and New York, everyone gets into it, not just people who live in the neighborhood. I wondered if the lack of ladies stemmed from the fact that they had split factions; instead of one Dyke March on Friday with the Weho ladies, the Silverlake dykes decided to have their own thing on Saturday and likely stayed home Sunday.

Indeed, one of the most exciting parts of the day turned out to be sightings of Spider-Man perched on structures up and down Santa Monica Boulevard, a church group apologizing for churches across the world's mistreatment of gays and offering hugs (we took one), and the discovery of a giant plume of smoke coming from an apartment on fire just up the hill. After walking up to get a closer look (stupid? probably), we ventured back down and considered going to famed mecca of gayness, The Abbey. After yet another muscled arm elbowed me in the head, I thought better of it, packed up the camera, and went home. I had indeed survived.

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