Reflecting on the below post, where I took you on a virtual tour of the various places I've lived, I can say without hesitation that Los Angeles is the strangest and most wondrous of them all.

Yes, even more wondrous than Milwaukee, where I'd smell the refuse wafting from the slaughteryards each and every hot summer day. Or Nashville, where I worked in a FotoMat booth that had been converted into a coffee station. In the summer. In the south. In a suburban area where no one drank coffee.

Last night, while picking up groceries and sundries at the virtually empty local supermarket, a cashier snagged the intercom and announced that it was the security guard's birthday. In his broken English, he counted to 3 and led the 8 people meandering the aisles along with me to sing a rousing rendition of "Happy Birthday" to "John".

I loudly sang along as I selected from the various cans of Wolfgang Puck's soups (tomato basil is on my current favs playlist), pausing only to note that the cashier - who started this raucous celebration to commemorate the birthdate of his coworker - had forgotten the guard's name by the song's end.

"Happy birthday, dear....nanuhhhh...happy birthday to you!"