Jottings on the fly

Thanks to a timely donation, I could hit Friendly today, first time in a couple of weeks.

The point of drinking is not to drink but to listen, especially if you're a writer.

The economy is torpedoed. For more than an hour, I was the only customer in Friendly.

Steve the mailman came in. Forty-nine-years-old, Steve has been delivering mail for 23 years. If you put in 30 years and are at least 55, you can collect a pension. To get a bigger pension, Steve wants to work until he's 62. His wife is a dentist.

Felix hobbled in. "I feel old!"

"Tell us something we don't know," Don, the bar owner, said.

"You look old!" I added.

Felix talked about the last time he had sex, a dozen years ago. "It felt like sand paper." She was sixty.

Straggling in, four strangers ordered High Life and Jameson. They're spackling a wall a block away. With the heat outside, they had already gone through a case of water. Six bottles per dude.

For lunch, they had been eating at Lorenzo. Don and I suggested they should also try the roast pork at George's, next door.

Don told the spackling crew they should start earlier, like 6 O'clock, when it's cooler. He also suggested yoga.

“You should join a yoga class. It’s all pussy.”

“Girls farting?” a man in his 40's jumped in.

“You’ll be farting, too. You should always do yoga on an empty stomach.”




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