Okay, so this was going to be just a gallery post, but that was before I met up with Jason and Kazuki to go to the Pasadena Doo Dah Parade today. The mayhem began when I first stepped into the elevator in my building, and chatted with a cute neighbor who looks roughly about my age (29+1).
"Hey," I said, "are you going to the Doo Dah Parade today?"
He looked at me, surprised. "The what?" he asked.
"Doo Dah Parade," I said. "I don't know anything more about it, but apparently it's some sort of Pasadena tradition, and I can't believe this will be the first time I'm going, after having lived here in Pasadena for a few years now."
The guy looked thoughtful. "I once had a client named Doo Dah," he said. "The poor guy was convicted, and he eventually got out of jail, thank goodness, but not before getting teased by everyone in prison for being named Doo Dah."
So my neighbor is a lawyer, a drug dealer, or possibly both. Very interesting.
He then raised the question of whether this was a "ye olde medieval Pasadena thing" as the elevator doors opened and I walked out into the lobby. A bespectacled guy was waiting for the elevator with an empty laundry basket, looking sleep-deprived.
"Sort of," I smiled as I struggled to keep the doors from closing, "except that Pasadena isn't that old -- founded in eighteen-something--" And that's when I started losing my battle with holding the elevator doors open. Neither Drug Lawyer Guy nor Laundry Guy were helping at all, the jerkos.
"Well, yeah," Drug Lawyer Guy said, "I know we're not nearly as old as, say, England--"
And the implacable elevator doors slammed shut.
Laundry Guy regarded me with a bemused expression.
"Hey," I nodded at him. "What's shakin'?"
Inwardly sighing at being Desperate Girl Holding Elevator Doors Open Because Slacker Men Won't Help Out, I spun on my heel and strode off purposefully to the train station to meet Jason. The parade itself was a hoot and a half, and by the time Kazuki joined us, the weirdness was in full swing. If San Francisco, Greenwich Village, and West Hollywood banded together to do a joint parade, the result would be not unlike the Doo Dah Parade. With tongues firmly planted in cheeks (NO, not those cheeks, ew), it was a very grassroots, anti-corporate, anti-war, pro-liberal, pro-saucy absurdity on wheels. Pennyfarthing bicycle wheels, in some cases, quite literally so. There was a group which was promoting a baby for president, and the baby was in a little three-piece suit and waving an American flag. There were zombies, roller derby gals, Obama and Kucinich folks, old people driving fabulously vintage cars, transvestites galore, and even a Raelian float followed immediately by a CFI float. AWESOME. One of the CFI people was holding a sign saying "When the Rapture comes, can I have your car?", which I must have on a T-shirt, or else I may cry.
Jason, Kazuki, a whole batch of other fun-loving madpeople and I will be getting together later this evening for our monthly 'family' potluck dinner, but in the meantime Jason and Kazuki went off to cook and clean and I figured I might as well do some much-needed blogging before picking up a rotisserie chicken. Let's do some sightseeing!
I love this shade of blue, I love the moped, I love metallics, and I love how faux-startled-yet-bored this chick looks. So stylin'!
I love how futuristic this looks. Why can't stereos look this cool today?
LOVE THIS WALLPAPER. OH BOY OH BOY. And Langston Hughes is no slouch, either.
Also: I have the exact same bed (from IKEA, amazingly). Which is part of the Astrid Triumph of this past week; when I had moved, back in August, the moving guys lost all the bolts to my bed, so I couldn't put it back together, and I was stuck sleeping on unframed mattresses, which wasn't ghetto-looking in the slightest, but then I found out the IKEA in Covina (about an hour away from me) potentially had the bolts I needed, and SURE ENOUGH, they did! And it only took five months to get an IKEA store to help me! WHOO.
Incidentally, if you're ever in the IKEA in Covina, and you see a gal named Martha in the Returns/Exchanges department, give her a big ol' bear hug and tell her what a fantastic human being she is. She'll have no recollection of helping me with bolts for my bed, I'm sure, but she deserves to know how splendid she is anyway. We love you, Martha.
And you know what? I love my bed, I really do. It's handy for holding up my mattresses, for example. And I can stare up at the ceiling wistfully like this poor guy above. And then I can pretend I'm like those kids in Bedknobs and Broomsticks and pretend I'm hanging out on the ocean floor with Angela Lansbury. And I can unscrew the tops of the bedposts and put candles there for mood-setting purposes. And I can drape random crap on said posts, just because I can. And, you know, tie things to those posts, not that I'm suggesting anything beyond a PG-13, heaven forfend. Ha ha! Hi, Mom and Dad, I know you read this blog every so often, how's it going?
Ahem, moving right along....
Bardot really has a way with those legs, doesn't she? What I want to know is, how does she get her hair to defy gravity like that? Crazy.
Scary. And adorable. And scary.
This was taken by Javier, who's been kind enough to leave lovely comments here on what a fab human being I am. Poor, deluded Javier. Anyway, he is also a mind-blowing photographer who has traveled to amazing spots such as the one above. Thank you, Javier, for sharing your experiences and talent with us. You rock.
I first spotted this at IKEA on my Covina pilgrimage. Am I alone in this, or does muesli have no business being this sexy? This tawny-eyed beauty belongs in a hair-metal music video, or at least hanging out in a place where I don't have to see her and get all jealous and put a brown paper bag over my head. Just sayin'.
I love this man.
You'd think they could put a clear strip around the center of the tire for visibility. Huh.
WRONG. So, so wrong.
I wish I could do ballet in the street. Très neato.
If I were ever to fall in love with a woman (not likely, sorry ladies), then that woman would have to be Katie Beaton. She's an ingenious artist with a wickedly loopy sense of humor, and she gives me hope for humanity. Huzzah, Katie!
And here's one last thing: I am now, finally, after several years of serious hunting, the very proud owner of a
CLOCHE HAT. Je t'aime, mon petit chapeau.
It's beautiful, matches nearly everything I own, cost less than $20, and makes scary-looking Teamsters holler at me from their trucks "Hey! Nice outfit!" It's fascinating, really, how the bigger/scarier/gruffer/more seriously-mustachioed the man, the more he's prone to telling me how much he likes this hat. Power of the cloche, kids, lemme tell ya.