December 4 - Eggs

My old pal Bill read today at The Paper Machete.
I loved his piece.
It was a tribute to a guy who died this week.
A guy he knew from hanging out at a 24 hour diner.
In the wake of pearly tributes to Ron Santo and Leslie Nielsen, Bill's homage to his diner buddy was poignant, rambling, and incredibly funny.
The totebaggers didn't know what to do with it.
It seemed so...unpolished.
I laughed sympathetically and appreciated the man for whom Bill was paying his respects.

I hadn't seen Bill in a long while.
He used to work as an apartment hunter.
Three years ago he showed my girlfriend and I a unit in a complex.
In the elevator he lowered his voice to a secretive level.
"Just you know, there are a lot of saxophonists in this place."
My girlfriend nodded, the gravity of the statement weighing heavily.
I didn't understand why saxophonists were such a nuisance.
Yeah, I guess hearing them practice scales would get annoying after a while.
Especially if they're just going to use them to play David Sanborn smooth jizz.
I asked Bill why saxophonists were such a problem in the building.
He seemed confused.
But then he figured it out.
He didn't say "saxophonists".
He said "sex offenders".
Slight difference there.
Yeah, but..
I wonder how many sexual offenses have been committed to the music of David Sanborn.
I say about 1,300.

After his piece, we caught up a bit.
We decided that being in our mid-30's is funny.
It's better than being in our mid-20's, because things are now worse.
And that is funny.

I said we should hang out at the 24 hour diner sometime.
I meant it.
I looked into a snowglobe of the future and saw Bill and I hovered over our greasy plates like a couple of stationary hobos, still trying to figure it out between drinks.

Sometimes I believe in the romance of Nelson Algren.
But then I see Nighthawks on some dumb wall.
And I wonder if I just like eggs.

Verdict: Win