Best Prince of Burbank, Duke of San Fernando

You were probably wondering if I saw Collin while I was in California.  Of course I did.  Went out and met up with him in his new valley home soon after he rolled into town from Utah.

He shared things that were special to him with me, things like Yakki's and El Pollo Loco churros.  With so many choices, I let my guide be my guide.

We split a Bull Dog (that would be a hotdog with cheese sauce deepfried inside a wonton) and a spectacular Pastrami Burger.

Additional clientele.

At the same corner as Yakki's there is a super high cross walk button.  For centaurs.  Or humans mounted upon their steeds.

Waiting for a churro.  And a taquito.  And whatever else might come along.

Then we returned to Collin's lair to see some of his Hollywood belongings.





There's me.  Again.

Now, this post's trip to Burbank occurred on the evening of the 1st, the night before the Rose Parade would make its five mile way down Colorado Boulevard, just a few blocks north of my Grandma's house.  What I saw crossing Colorado, going to and from the freeway, made an impression.  Families, survivalists, outfitted and prepared for a night of waiting.  I caught glimpses of small barbecues spewing flame, flaming heaters near inflatable mattresses, little pigtailed Latino girls hopping on inflatable mattresses.  Elderly folk hunkered down in folding chairs, teenage whitegirls hunkered down in folding chairs, rows and rows of lawn chairs, vans parked serving as command centers for some of these encampments parked half a block from the nearest lawn chair.  Bleachers where bleachers would fit, vendors pulling carts heavy with glowing wands, glowing necklaces, shimmering scepters.  

Coming back to Pasadena from Burbank I thought I’d like a closer look, a good long cruise of Colorado—but in a Ralph’s parking lot I saw a Saturn caked with shaving cream, deeps swirls of cream on the windows where it had been rubbed around by hasty, heavy hands, supplemental swirls of silly string accenting the crusting foamy whiteness— and I thought perhaps not, that’s not how anyone wants this car coming home.  Arriving at Colorado from the Ralph’s, I saw turning onto that thoroughfare wasn’t even an option.  The hired help of APEX security wouldn’t have it.  Waiting for my light, three or four more creamed cars drove past.  I made out some flatscreens on the curb, hooked up below the sort of tall heaters you see in the outdoor dining section of restaurants in suburban parking lots.  Down the block, a few collegiates in Wisconsin sweatshirts.  Good, someone was here for the game.  The other game, I mean.  The game that wasn’t waiting for the parade, watching the parade, walking home from the parade.  My glimpse of Colorado, curbside, it already looked like a parade had been by.  I wondered if, with the 1^st falling on a Sunday and the parade and game being moved to Monday, if that took any of the edge off?  If this were the 31^st would the avenue boil with more energy, the new year countdown anticipation, the explosion of midnight celebration?  Or were dates and occasions no reason to slow down the Rose Parade encampments?  Was it business as usual along these lanes anyway?

Somewhere along here a friend of my Grandma was saving us ten seats.  An impossibly generous favor.