ΟΠΑ!
 TAARG, ACI, myself, and our friend CK1 attended the Valley Greek Festival in Northridge this weekend.
In such a spread-out, narcissistic place, it is often hard to find large groups of people gathered outside of a riot or a movie premiere, so it was fun to wade through a crowd to get at the ouzo and souvlaki.
The bands were great and the grounds of St. Nicholas' Church created a distinctly east coast atmosphere that didn't make me homesick as much as it reassured me.
It's difficult to feel a part of a community, and I was at a loss at the Greek Festival for ways to contribute. I gave birth to a god from my forehead. Such was the richness of the culture that no one was impressed.
Costco 1975
 Tonight at 6 p.m. I went to Costco to buy last minute Memorial Day supplies.
There were a couple of cops as well as a big crowd at the door. Selected individuals were allowed in while families were kept out. I didn't know why the cops were there. I assumed there had been a shooting.
It wasn't until I got in that I realized they were closing early and for some reason I had been selected to enter. I told my neighbor, Ian, to make himself useful for a change and get onions and mushrooms.
As we made our way around the store, various departments started closing down and we were hounded to the registers, often being kept away from important purchases. I managed to get the steak and the Scotch, because I am strong and fleet. Ian was turned away from the onion aisle and returned with nothing.
"This is like Saigon 1975," I said.
"This is like Havana 1959 in Godfather II," Ian suggested.
"At least Fredo didn't have to go to Ralph's to get the goddamn onions," I said.
At her Lusitanic Majesty's Request
 For as long as I can remember (if you'll believe, for the purposes of this entry, that I can only remember as far back as yesterday), I have wondered if Brazilians qualified as Latinos.
It turns out they don't, strictly speaking, but do, in a close enough for government work kind of way.
They, and other Portuguese-speaking people like Cape Verdeans and the staff of Fajitas 'n' 'Ritas, are Lusitanic, from the Lusitani tribe of the western coast of Iberia, where now sits Portugal.
From Wikipedia:
Lusitanic is a term used to categorize persons who share the linguistic and cultural traditions of the Portuguese-speaking nations of Portugal, Brazil, Macau, East Timor, Angola, Mozambique, Cape Verde, São Tomé and Príncipe, Guinea Bissau and others. The term can be easily compared to Hispanic - as this term describes those who speak the Spanish language, have ancestry from a Spanish speaking nation or otherwise have cultural ties to Spanish speaking nations. Neither of the terms are based specifically on race or ethnicity, but rather on a shared cultural or linguistic heritage. The term Anglo, however, when used to describe English speaking nations is less comparable.
The Latino question crossed my mind when I bumped into a Latina, but that is a different story.
I always give you my money
 The impending divorce of Sir Paul McCartney and his wife of four years, Heather Mills, is sad enough without clever headline writers trotting out obvious lines from the Beatles catalogue, like "We Can Work it Out" or "Will You Still Need Me...When I'm 64?"
As I, too, was once married to an amputee and landmine enthusiast, I think the situation merits greater respect and deeper cuts from the McCartney canon:
- McCartney, Wife to No Longer Do It in Road, Anywhere
- Beatle Net Worth After Alimony: "I'm Coming down Fast but I'm Miles Above You"
- Mills: "Macca, Boy, This Is a Showdown."
- McCartney: "Who Knows How Much I Love You?" Mills: "About $200 Million"
- McCartney: "What Would You Say If I Sang Out Of Tune?" Mills: "Um, 'I Want A Divorce?'"
- Now It Looks As though Former Beatle Is Here To Pay
- Some More Lonely Nights for McCartney
- Sir Paul To Heather: Don't Make It Bad
- Mills to Hop Away from a Fool with His Money
- McCartney: "Maybe I'm Amazed At the Way I Leave You (with A Quarter of My Estate)"
Tearful goddamn reunion
 Minutes after the last post, when America was coming to terms with the possibility that Roswell may have gone across the Rainbow Bridge, there was a sighting.
Thanks a lot, Ian.
Roswell was perched in the entryway to a neighbor's crawlspace. It would be a sin to know but not do anything, so TAARG went over with some cat food.
I'll let her take it from here.
 "Look at her expression. It doesn't change. Still mean and stupid between sitting on the perch, homeless, and being rescued. If it had been any of the other cats they would have been happy to see me. But not her."
When she returned to the house she dropped Roswell off, saying, "Next time run away farther."
Naturally, Roswell is covered in fleas which she promptly spread to the other cats. Score!
Jonah eats vomit while Rome burns
 Just days before the tenth birthdays of Frampton and Roswell, two cats I rescued from a Chelsea dumpster, Roswell has gone missing.
The cats, sisters, were never alike. Frampton has always been good and Roswell has always been a nervous, skittish, malignant little thing, like cancer with fur on it. But she alone would appear when guests came over, as if to say to each one, "take me with you; they don't understand me here."
I'll admit that my sadness about her ungratefulness changed gradually to a healthy dislike, though I would daily make overtures to her that she would haughtily rebuff.
"You're a good cat, Roswell," I'd say.
"You don't believe that," she'd reply, "and neither do I."
The last time I saw her she was sitting on the balcony with Frampton and Jonah. The next morning she could not be found.
We've combed the house and half-heartedly searched the neighborhood. There are no bloated cat carcasses. There are no signs of struggle. She didn't leave a note. She can't have been kidnapped by Unreconstructed Solo, because word from my friends on the force is that he just got two years.
She's disappeared before and has always come back. The possibility of this fills me with no joy. I'm going to paint her room and change the lock.
Meanwhile, Frampton just threw up on the floor and Jonah ran over and ate it all up (saying "ate it all up" for some reason better conveys my disgust). He is often a vile animal. But the torch of fealty has been passed.
Reelin' in the Years
 I spoke with Motley Crue frontman Vince Neil at his charity golf tournament in the Simi Valley.
"Vince, remember when I bought Shout at the Devil in 1983?"
"Sure," he said.
"Been a lot of changes since then, man. A lot of changes."
"Yeah," he said.
"Remember how I was in Motley Crue with you, my buddy (Nikki) Sixx, Mick (Mars), and Tom (Lee)?" I asked.
"You weren't in Motley Crue," he said.
"That's true," I said.
There was a thoughtful pause.
"So now we're golfing," I said.
Pheromones
 I have never trusted musky people, yet a recent inventory of personal care products I use every day reveals that I have become one of them.
It started when I occasioned to wear bowling shirts to various events, then started wearing a wifebeater under them. You know what I'm talking about. Why didn't I buy a silver chain, or get a Chinese character or barbed wire tattoo? Why didn't I get a crewcut, get my lenses tinted, buy a Hummer? Laziness, probably.
Then came the musky shaving cream (on sale), musky aftershave, musky shampoo, and even Irish Spring's musky product, "Icy Blast". Would my father have applied something to his skin called "Icy Blast"? I can assure you not.
It might be the neighborhood. The majority of gentlemen around here bathe in something that I think is called Hundred-Year Grudge. It coats the lawns and telephone poles and is spread on the cigarette butts they flick into the street. It hangs in little clouds over the barbershop and one can't get into the coffeeshop without a scythe. It takes a lot of competing male grooming product to keep up.
The only thing that isn't musky is my toothpaste. Once I buy that, I'm going to apply for a job at the car dealership.
Insurance
 I bought this delightful new Honda CRV (Conflict Resolution Vehicle - I'm writing this off by fighting crimes with it) last month, and in 30 days I have increased the odometer reading from 35 miles to 1840 miles. It is now filthy and today I will wash it.
If you want a sterling example of how market forces conspire to keep the nation polluted and at war for oil, consider the conversation I had with AAA about my car insurance.
Me: Here are the stats on the new car blah blah blah I need a quote blah blah blah.
AAA lady: How many miles a year do you expect to drive it?
Me: Oh, under 12,000 miles (suppress laugh).
AAA lady: That will be $2700.
Me: Oh, and I want to take my junky Saturn off my insurance and donate it to some charity, like Spay the Whales.
AAA lady: If you take the Saturn off, the insurance for the Honda alone will be $3900 (suppress laugh).
Me: So it will cost me $1200 less to have two cars, one of which will not leave the garage?
AAA lady: Yes.
Apparently there is a considerable discount when one would also be buying twice as much gas.
The purpose of buying a new car was to not continually be throwing money at the Saturn for repairs. Having a new additional car is obviously a huge convenience, but we don't need it and never did.
It is a slippery slope, at the end of which is my inauguration as President of the United States.
Now we will use these two cars rather than one, because we can. We will buy gas for two cars rather than one, polluting twice as much, driving drunk twice as much, using two cars for drive-by shootings, mowing down twice as many enemies. One follows the other and you can't stop it. I guess I need to accept my destiny.
Get out of my way.
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