It’s not just the Parade itself, it’s being there in person that makes it real.

I should know. Several times.

The TV can zoom close up, but live, you’re right there. All those people, the vitality of crowd, the smell of horse, the overloaded senses, the chill of morning air, the stamping feet to generate warmth, the people camped overnight for days with sleeping bags and a charcoal brazier for heat and maybe food the smell of which drives everyone crazy and willing to pay a bundle for a bite, this year’s Grand Marshall waving from the convertible, the calling of voices, the synchronized marching bands where music majors get a chance to claim a few seconds as they pass by, the floats trying every year for something new, the communal effort for days of hours pasting flowers, the tourist money for Pasadena coffers which support causes and education and crowd control, the commercialism that reaches the world, the yearly miracle of no rain.

The chance to wallow in being middle America.

Seeing friends in the crowd you haven’t seen for far too long. That time when we mingled with relatives who lived just a block away from the parade route but never invited us over once.

The time when friends gave us tickets they couldn’t use, and we passed security checkpoints with a driver’s license a passport fingerprints a retinal scan and a body search, finally admitted to where the friends’ relatives were we’d never met who kept it that way, and we were directed to our assigned place to sit on the ground.

There are bleachers, but that costs money, like the people who make a bundle renting out their front yard for parking.

There are people who go every year.

It’s really a good idea to start every New Year with a celebration.
But Oh, Doo Dah Doo Dah, you unconventional parade, we need you now, more than ever.