Real Time Exposition.
I am in a Greek restaurant on Freret Street. It is called Acropolis on Freret. It is not the most original name, but, with a name like that, you know what to expect AND you know where it is located. It makes sense. Another sound business decision in the business of life. Everybody has to make a living.
There are a surprising number of regulars at Acropolis. I am here to meet someone. You do not need to know who it is. It is somebody who is not a figment of my imagination. You now know enough.
Greek club music is on the radio. It is a volume and tempo I would usually find annoying, but, it is in Greek. I do not understand a word. It is easy to tune out. Grayson and I both agree that it is a pleasant soundtrack to the day. It keeps him moving. I barely notice it. Perfect.
I am not here to see Grayson but it is always nice to see him. He is slightly younger than your humble narrator. We have the opportunity to complain about young people, a pastime that never grows old after a person reaches a certain age and level of responsibility.
I hate to tell you, kids, but nobody cares about your feelings and sex was invented a long time before you discovered it. Believe me. I know. I used to be like you. I was a dope. Then, I grew up. You will, too.
Grayson thinks his job is to set a good example for these young whippersnappers. I prefer to let nature take its course, while doing whatever it is that I do.
It is nice to see you.
I am itching to talk about something but I don’t now how to manage it. Let me read a little bit more of the Wall Street Journal. I am reading about cultural rehabilitation centers in Kenya and Somalia. It is very interesting. First generation Somali parents send their westernized children to these private prisons to get the western-ness tortured out of them.
I am not here to gossip about my neighbors but, I have got to tell somebody what is going on.
