My red-skinned, Burbank-y, head-bangin' self

I have so many things to tell you that I do not even know where to begin. Yes I do. My skin. It is red. I look ridiculous. I am sunburned. Yes, I know I should wear sunscreen. Sunscreen makes my eyes water, though. I spend the whole time I wear sunscreen looking like a miraculous Virgin Mary statue.

However, weepy miraculous eyes would be a lot more comfortable, and less cancer-causing, than this sunburned skin.

I went to Burbank on Parade today, which was free. It is the 113th Burbank on Parade! And no, I do not think they have any special reason to celebrate Burbank with a parade. They just do.

Anyway, it was quite the high-falutin' event. I took pictures, but with the real camera, which is so annoying because it is not instant. Instant gratification takes too long, as Carrie Fisher says. I actually have to go somewhere and develop film, which technically is spending, so I do not think I should do so. Anyway, I will just say there were tractors. And fire trucks. And marching bands, all of whom seemed to play Louie, Louie. Also, inexplicably, there was a woman standing, yes standing, on a horse. That rocked.

There was also sun, and few trees. I KNEW I was getting sunburned, but who was having a good time getting hard candy and flags from the paraders? Who did not care about the deadly UV rays coming her way? Was it Roxanne, currently putting out her red light, over here? Oh, my skin hurts.

As I left Burbank on Parade, with my smart I-wore-sunscreen-and-feel-just-fine friend, I said, "I love freakin' Burbank! It IS like Mayberry! Burbank is the best!"

Then I went home and found out that we got picked for an apartment in Hancock Park.

How long have I been looking for an apartment closer to work? SEVEN MONTHS, that's how long. Every weekend, going to crack houses that rent for $2500 a month, or finding cute places that hate us cause we have 72 cats. SEVEN MONTHS of driving thru my suddenly beloved Burbank, through Hollywood, past Melrose, and into neighborhood after overpriced neighborhood.

Last weekend, Marvin Gardens was on craigslist (what did we do before Google, craigslist and hair gel?), and he said, "How about this place?" It was built in 1938, had only four units, and you enter through a white picket fence and a cute, flower-filled yard to get to our door. Hardwood floors, a fireplace, formal dining room, original tile, and the neighborhood? Get out. Hancock Park has tons of old, GIANT mansions that rich people live in. It is a beautiful part of town. I did not even know there WERE apartments in Hancock Park.

We took a walk around last week when we looked at the place, and at the end of our street it sort of dead ends into a park. The name of the street is Francis Street.

I said to Marvin G. (who, by the way, has come up with legitimate places he spent his $300), "This is a sign!"

I am forever coming up with signs. But really. Do you know who St. Francis of Assisi is? He was a saint. He lived in Assisi. Well, anyway, I am not even Catholic, but he is my personal saint. He is my man. I will tell you about it if you want to hear, but for now, trust me, that St. Francis is watching my arse. I even named our insane CAT Francis, and still, that Francis of Assisi likes me. Cause he's a saint. He doesn't hold grudges.

Well, anyway, sign or not, we got the place. And now I DON'T WANT TO MOVE! I like our house. Our cat Winston has his own pet squirrel he plays with out the window. We have a patio. It is quiet here. Couldn't you just bitch slap me? WHY AM I DOING THIS TO MYSELF?

I will keep you posted.

Finally, I did want to tell you that once again, Marvin and I went to Paladinos in Tarzana, which is where we saw the Boston tribute band a few weeks back. We are turning into regulars there. Last night, one of my coworkers played there, with his band, so he got tickets for a bunch of us from work. Oh, we had us some fun. We banged our heads. We lit our lighters. We shook our money makers. I could go to Paladinos every night of my life and never get bored. I am a sad, sad person.