there's a secret handshake too

spent the 4th in (what i consider) true american style: on the sofa. was halfway through a james patterson novel and would have finished it if not for a call from the GAD's Ex spinning toward a nineteenth nervous breakdown. he talked me into brunch at loie's, and over eggs benedict and bottomless mimosas we delineated the virtues and drawbacks of men, monogamy and shaving. we had a number of eureka moments and if not for the whole bottomless aspect i could share some of them with you right now.

with distended bellies and foggy noggins we toddled forth toward rittenhouse square when striding toward us came a tall, handsome black man wearing a 2002 Indoor Track & Field Invitational t-shirt. he gave me and my Delaware XC Championships tee the once-over and we exchanged collusive grins. hey – i said as we passed; hey – he responded.

the Ex, whose tastes have been known to run toward the Nubian, was flummoxed. outside of men's figure skating and swimming, he is sport-blind.
- what was THAT?
- that was a smokin' hot man, Ex.
- yeah, but do you know him? what was that little exchange about?
- oh it's like a freemason thing. can't let outsiders in; you know the deal.

the Ex suspects i am shitting him but is too sleepy-full to pursue the subject.

luddites have faith, for even in these times of solipsist, earphoned experience you can still find community.