Veni Vidi Doodahi

Posted on January 19, 2009 in Festivals

Boston Buddies @ the Doodah parade on 12seconds.tv

We drove up to Pasadena to join the Boston Buddies in the Doo Dah Parade ((The Doo Dah Parade, you should understand, is a reaction to the Rose Parade which is hideously expensive to participate in and bans anything controversial. The Doo Dah Parade slopes dramatically in the other direction: it costs only $10 per person to march in and the organizers allow anything as long as it is not downright pornographic or calling for violent revolution.)) . I think I have earned the right after all this to enjoy a stupor.

The first, most noticeable things after we stepped onto the parade route from the endless waiting in the staging area were the tortillas. Thousands of six inch wide tortillas littered the way from Holly and Raymond to the march’s end just shy of the [[Norton Simon Museum]]. Tortillas and marshmallows that we learned people threw at the marchers for no good reason except harmless wantoness.

The Boston Terriers ((Drake was none too happy that Lynn had agreed to walk a sweet-natured — but also very sexy in his eyes — pug named Maggie. He kept turning his head to my wife, his eyes begging for her customary affections, but she minded her charge. I think this may have sullened his mood: he hung his head, sniffing the ground disinterestedly until the parade began.)) who we marched with thought this one long banquet line, peppered with biscuits handed out by the Basset Hound owners who stomped through ahead of us. Drake stopped frequently to tear a hunk off a Mexican flatbreads. He’d turn his head to the side, lay it flat on the pavement, and then wrench his treat off with the aid of a paw. One of the other owners got so frustrated that she picked her dog up and carried him for the remainder of the march. My doggy felt quite full as we rounded the last turn. The fish and sweet potato biscuits that usually interested him received all of the notice of the Mardi Gras beads that people threw from a balcony ((Once, in front of a television cameraman, he blew his cue to catch one. When I gave him a second chance, he bobbled it. The cameraman turned away. So went his chance for fame.)) .

The perpetrators of the littering arrayed themselves in tiers, beginning with kids on the curb, grandparents in lawn chairs, and a miscellany of adults standing behind these. Plenty of people tried to lure the dogs to them with whistles, outstretched hands, candy, or pieces of the cornmeal frisbees that littered the street. I did not find these annoying: I brought Drake over for a little love and then moved on. What bothered me were the unauthorized performers who walked against the tide of the main attraction, almost tripping us or running into us. (Uncle Fester, I mean you, you bald, silver-headed — and I mean silver as in the metal, not white — lightbulb of a man!) There were also the photographers and the kids who thought by standing out about ten feet into the street they could get a privileged view. You couldn’t, of course, count on anyone to remain quiet in the presence of the dogs. As I attempted to put Drake through his routine, it was common for a bystander to whistle, call, or make clicking noises to attract either his or the attention of another dog.

We spent more time in hurry up and wait mode than we did actually treading Colorado Boulevard. As we humans stalled, our mouths semi-agape, our dogs puttered around our feet, longed for the cool alley where they had waited before the promenade, occasionally got in fights or engaged in the frenzied, athletic mating rituals which did no harm other than embarassment because everyone present was fixed. Ahead of us, other groups slowed things by doing their necessary routines. Roman gladiators led by Caeser slaughtered one another, a gigantic cat caught mice, drill teams went through their routines, bagpipers fingered fake bagpipes while a stereo blasted real bagpipe music, a man dressed as the Pope (with a white cross-emblazoned umbrella) waved from a tiny, white convertible, the statuesque female transvestite Erica Valentine (what great legs “she” has!) rode in a white school bus, invisible babies performed on a trapeze assembly built of plastic pipe, Frenchmen smoked, and a group of adamant cigar lovers sat in lounge chairs on the back of a flatbed truck the odor of their stogies lingering in the air for blocks.

The organizers, who originally placed us between a firetruck and the Frenchmen, sent us out behind a group of anti-scientologists and ahead of another group of dog owners supporting marrow transports who were constantly dashing from beneath the shadow of a large, gray flying saucer owned by the Raelians. The anti-Scientologists marched with Xenu, signs that proclaimed the names of victims of Scientology, and a wagon-borne volcano whose meaning I did not fathom. Rael’s flying saucer was accompanied by a coterie of aliens from various science-fiction movies and imaginations ((There is some splendid footage in one of the Doo Dah videos on You Tube showing them nearly losing control of it one year.)) .

At the end, the parade made a sharp right and concluded with no direction as to where to go for its participants. We sneaked out through an alley where the anti-Scientologists gathered with their volcano and Xenu for a group shot. Lynn handed Maggie the Honorary Boston Terrier to a volunteer and we waddled back to the parking garage where it took about twenty minutes to get out. Drake collapsed in the back seat and slept all the way, along the crests of the foothills and through a traffic jam in Santa Ana with more starts and stops than our march. Once home, he drank from his water dispenser for several glugs and fell onto his bed. I slept for three solid hours, from the late afternoon sun into the restful beginnings of the night.