Happy Pasadena Clap-a-long

Just past nine o'clock in the evening, with the sky fully dark, I finally schlep out of my room at the Vagabond Inn on Colorado Boulevard and walk along the empty wide sidewalk a couple blocks to the well-lit Jack in the Box at the corner of Hill.

It's the third night in a row I've find myself grabbing a late cheap meal like this, and the second time at the Jack in the Box. I keep telling myself I'll go out early for a proper dinner, but the Vagabond Inn---a fairly nice but well-worn motor hotel just east of downtown Pasadena, has Turner Classic Movies on its cable system. For three nights in a row the selections have kept me indoors until I was too hungry to wait any longer.

Tonight the movie that kept me inside until after dark was A Man Called Adam (1966), an amazing forgotten black and white gem starring Sammy Davis Jr. as a highly troubled jazz trumpeter.  It was the first time they had shown it on TCM. The cast is incredible---includes Louis Armstrong and Mel Tormé, among others.

My favorite line is one by Louis Armstrong---"I'm Mister Get-the-Hell-Outtta-Here!"

Having been to Pasadena several times before, I usually considered it a "nice" city, and certainly there are parts like that, but this stretch of Colorado between downtown and Pasadena City College is not among them. The biggest building between here and the Jack in the Box is an ancient shuttered car dealership with broken windows.

The Jack in the Box, which is open all night, is a collection of the local "interesting people" including the homeless man with the metal cart, who tonight was in exactly the same spot as my first visit, next to the napkin dispensary by the self-serve soda machine. Two nights ago he answered a cell-phone call while I was there waiting for order. Tonight I knew beforehand to hold my breath while I reached for the napkins lest I gag from his body odor.

California is like that---heaven and hell. There is the "nice" California and the "crappy" California. In some places, like San Francisco, they seem to overlap in the same block. But mostly it is neighborhood-by-neighborhood, city-by-city.

This part of Pasadena, to my surprise, was not among the nice parts of the state. Instead, like much of Fresno, it is among the places of the state that are evocative of a complete breakdown of society in progress. In such areas the management of fast food places usually doesn't even bother to try to evict the homeless who sometimes even panhandle right inside the restaurant.

Two nights ago, walking back form the restaurant, I saw a different homeless man screaming at a Pasadena city cop. The roles seemed reversed from the stereotype. The tall homeless man was yelling in a loud authoritarian tone, "Sir, are you asking for my ID? SIR, ARE YOU ASKING FOR MY ID!!?".

Meanwhile the cop was backing away and repeating meekly "Please don't touch me."

As I ate my cheeseburger this evening inside the restaurant (well away from the soda dispenser), I indulged in the usual people-watching out of the corner of my eye while the music played on the ceiling speakers. A couple young men next to me, perhaps City College Students, horsed around with their smartphones while commenting on tweets from friends.

"Can you believe she spent all her food stamp money already?" one exclaims. "She's only got eighteen bucks left!"

They both laugh about it, as if it's typical of their friend (the Jack in the Box takes EBT, of course---most fast food places in California do).

At that point the speakers in the restaurant begin playing what is surely the Song of 2014. It's a favorite of Red's---she likes to dance to it in the warming to warm up.

One of the young men starts singing along with the lyrics. It's a catchy tune, after all.

The song even resonates in my head as I walk back to the Vagabond Inn.

Yup. The song of the year.

Edit: Just after posting this, I looked out my third floor motel window down into the beautiful angular LA-type swimming pool and the parking lot. A man wearing an enormous decorated Mexico sombrero was limping through the parking lot, with a trumpet around his neck on a string like a necklace. Of course...