My Hairy Greek Weekend

This past weekend was supposed to be the weekend of Greek. My hometown is pretty diverse and has a sizeable Greek population, something I was unaware of until law school, when a girl from Chicago told me so. Being that my hometown isn’t the biggest place in the world, I asked how she knew it had lots of Greeks.

“Because I’m Greek and we talk,” she told me.

She also claimed she had Greek “connections” but, to be honest, I’ve never heard of a Greek mafia. I grew up in a college town and the closest things we had to a Greek mafia was scantily clad sorority girls harassing all the local bars, though I sincerely doubt they were hitting up places for protection (meaning they don’t use condoms, though I should note there’s a condom vending machine in my alma mater’s library bathroom).

But this weekend was supposed to be full of Greek culture. The summer is officially kicked off every year with our festival site downtown hosting a number of events, with the opening one this summer being Greek Fest. I took my girlfriend, Amanda, to the festivities and we roamed around the place, noting the Greek music, the belly dancers, the Greek restaurants and, of course, the Greekest thing of all: trucks of Budweiser. Neither one of us had ever had Greek food, so we decided to share a combination plate of all their specialties. What we quickly discovered was their specialties didn’t involve food. I’m glad for having tried it, but I can’t say I’d ever have an urge for Greek food again. Unless it was Loukoumades.



Loukoumades are Greek doughnuts, or “Golden Retriever balls,” as I called them while I dipped them into my mouth from above my head. Amanda seemed to wince whenever I called them that while simultaneously taking a glorious bite, but truthfully I think she was just jealous she opted for the cheesecake instead. Golden Retriever balls are “drizzled with an aromatic honey syrup and then soaked with a dusting of cinnamon,” and are quite popular in Greece, so the Greek restaurant owner told me. If you ever get the chance, ask your local baker if he or she makes them, or check to see if you have a Greek restaurant in your hometown. They’re seriously fantastic.

After we ate our food we wondered over to the palm reader booth. I’ve never had my palm read, my Tarot cards read, or visited a psychic. I don’t believe in the stuff, though I’m cautious enough to not investigate, if that makes sense. I strongly believe I’m the maker of my own fate, yet there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to know how things play out either, even if I don’t believe what I’m being told. Amanda, on the other hand, seemed to have no qualms about knowing when her time is up.

“It would take away some of the mystery of life but it would also give me a solid timeline as to when I need to get done what I want to do.”

Unfortunately, the palm reader was on a one hour lunch break, so “no hand jobs for us,” I proudly stated.

The rain clouds began to gather in the west and we found it was time ship out and complete our second phase of becoming engaged in Greek culture: going to see “Get Him to The Greek” staring Jonah Hill and Russell Brand. We were joined by my old pal Timmy, a Hispanic kid that originally hails from Los Angeles, yet, for whatever reason, is racist against Hispanics, and his girlfriend. The movie was going rather well until Amanda received a text message from my mom that a tornado watch was out for the surrounding area. Now, when I was a little kid my family was stuck on the highway during a tornado, an ordeal that frightened me terribly. Though I’ve since gotten over my fear of tornados, it only goes so far. I’m the kind of person who functions on percentages and contingences, and if I’m in a location that is vulnerable to a tornado, I become rather uneasy. The movie continued, though I was slightly distracted by a college girl leaving the theater at one point while staring at her cell phone.

“What could it mean? It’s possible she got a random phone call or text, but the odds are favorable toward a tornado warning,” I thought. I shook the thoughts out of my head until I heard Timmy’s cell phone vibrate next to me, and then I knew for sure. The look on Tim’s face when he read the message said it all: tornado warning.

Tim and I excused ourselves and went into the hallway where a teenaged movie theater employee confirmed there was a warning, and he looked rather shaken himself. I was more surprised the movie wasn’t interrupted and an official announcement made but, as the rattled teenager said, “I didn’t want to say anything yet because I don’t know where in the city the tornado is. Once I found that out, then I was going to tell people.” Great.

At this point I grabbed Amanda and was planning on bolting to the homes of a few friends that lived nearby and had basements, though it became rather apparent from the looks of the storm that venturing outside would be more dangerous than staying in the theater. So that’s exactly what we did = everyone stood in the lobby and tried to tune out squawking air raid sirens and the pelting rain on the roof by making nervous chit-chat. Fortunately the tornado passed without any injuries, though the city was flooded and there was plenty of wind damage. Unfortunately, the storm system moved to the east side of the state where a tornado developed in the wee hours of the morning, killing seven people.

So, the weekend of Greek culture was definitely a learning experience. Bad food, great dog testicles, no hand job and a tornado that interrupts movies without a refund.

(Does the title make sense now? Because my weekend was a hairy one, but Greeks are hairy, too. Awesome.)