First, let’s getting the setting in focus; when the DooDah Parade was being birthed Old Town Pasadena was Crack Ho Town. It was mostly rundown or failed businesses anchored by the porn shop and Crown pawnshop. Ernie Jr.’s was the only destination humans regularly attended and the skid row population was well evidenced in the only ventures that thrived… the many bars. Regularly appearing on the police blotter were the Bag O Nails, Hazels, Vitales, a British & a “Scottish” pub, the 35’er, and Chromo’s. All these bars were on or adjacent to the main drag Colorado Boulevard down which every year the streets were momentarily cleansed of its regular inhabitants and liberally dosed with family types from Big 10 schools out to see their teams play the big New Year’s game in the Rose Bowl. Chromo’s was the wild card of the bars, catering to a mostly younger and artsy-fartsy beer crowd and was where the parade supposedly originated. I can’t speak to that. But instantly the entire “counter” community sprang into action when the call was specifically issued to mount a parade representing the town as it really was as opposed to the yearly siege of the floral extravaganza where outsiders elbow the locals aside and law enforcement is always from out of town.

   AND so it was… the first two parades absolutely screamed anarchy. The first parade the Brooks Brothers sat in a rusted out car atop a truck accompanied by KROQ deejays (Bob Sala was one) and members of the Runaways. The parade was an unqualified success and most of the merchants in the area benefitted from the entirely unexpected crowds that showed up particularly the bars and eateries. Well, maybe the guy who ran the vacuum cleaner place complained. From the second parade on the Hankies always marched as they played at the front of the parade thank you. Initially the amps were hauled or wheeled or carted or carried and because there was always more than one Hanky drummer available (Lord they were legion) the drum corps could always be heard well in advance of the shrieking, sputtering amps and often loudly droning or cutting in and out gas generators.

   Parade day for a Hanky was a lot like the Running of the Bulls. Beginning with the march down the boulevards never through the same route twice and by the fifth year much longer and quite a decent trek. There were certain universal idiot rock tunes that so perfectly fit the occasion and sobriety of the participants that they worked as good as any Souza anthem – particularly of course, “Louie Louie” (which came up about every fourth tune) but hats off  to “Dirty Water”, “96 Tears”, “California Sun” and “I Fought the Law (and the Law Won)” for qualities never before revealed (Well, the SC band does Louie Louie now that I think about it)  As always with the Hankies the music came second to the show and most of the Hankies spent the route throwing themselves on the ground, smashing guitars, violins and the like while they imbibed beer from a cooler and smoked enormous “comic” reefers that sure didn’t smell like they were “comic” They weren’t. For a few hours each year the people in Pasadena who didn’t matter stuck their finger squarely into the town’s square eyes. By the way, we learned to always wear gloves before smashing guitars into each other full tilt samurai style.

  There wasn’t a single disreputable who wasn’t somehow represented. I believe year 3 unleashed the finest and final ingredient… the flying tortillas. As the Hankies rounded the corner to proceed east on Green Street they were greeted by Ron Ota (of Ota Burgers) with a barrage of stale bread and buns. The band stopped to return fire and more than a few innocent bystanders were hit. Then suddenly the skies were full of flying saucer whirling tortillas… mostly flour. They were lost in barrage of breadstuffs but their point had been made. A far superior launchable lunchable. The parade broke down again as the next entry was Jeyr Zorthian’s phony dog sled team and they all halted to sample the thrown food. Needless to say the tortillas became the parade’s trademark (and woe on the civil servant who got them banned). Another Hanky parade tradition was to mark ceremonially all of the bars they played regularly which were either closed or still doing business on the route, The Loch Ness, Vitales, Hazels and Chromo’s all received the band’s “Dick Van Dyke” tribute by briefly playing the theme and collapsing in a spectacular (and on the pavement) painful heap, often busting more instruments to smithereens. That was the first half of the day.       

   The afternoons were always spent performing on a stage, the most frequent being the Loch Ness. But for instance the year it was Vitales (early on) someone rode a horse in unannounced and uninvited. The nearby park bandshell, and once (for my band Los Chumps) Dennis the Dentists cavernous empty building two blocks up…. the point being that the party had just begun and usually just began to die out after sunset. If the band was ruined at the beginning of the day the end of it was numbing enough to usually result in a three day hangover during which time you could see where the bruises would be developing. It really didn’t pay much for the inhuman effort it required but the fun factor was rudely high. There was always, particularly in the earliest days an electric sense of freedom to do anything mixed with hair-raising dread that anything was going to be done. It was the Funhouse in the streets and the last year before the infamous FENCED OFF year was a joyful and mind-bending torrent of tortillas flying floppily everywhere. Dodge those corn ones, they could sting a little but the flour babies were a delight to launch right back at the schmozos throwing them.

   I remember thinking during this last one, this is the best party for six year olds I’ve ever been to. While I’m sure most of the performances following the parade were sub-standard it was hard to maintain that view while mobs of partying people danced, waved their drinks continuously, screamed throughout and laughed their asses off. Those early stumbles through the neighborhood where we’re no longer wanted (of course) were a real hoot.