You can find me in the club, bottle full of bub'

 Woke up from my nap and walked out to a popup Boomer-rama with ex-residents Minnie and Reggie added to the mix. The results were pleasantly surprising:

Minnie and Reggie used to live in #8 but moved away, for whatever reason. Reggie brought a very ornate boombox fashioned from an old cardboard suitcase that mostly purred with soft jazz from the 70s and 80s. While Minnie stressed her Puerto Rican heritage more than a few times, Reggie ran a running patter about the soft-jazz players on whatever song was playing. Then told me a story or two about where he’s living now, two lesbians in the apartment below, a Muslim next door to them, Jehovah’s Witnesses next door him. “I play my church station when I’m gone, don’t want those devils in my place.”

Then he told me about his Muslim neighbor, “Rakeem, I can’t remember his last name, his daddy got into that Islam stuff back in the twenties and he grew up in that. He was a Chicago cop all his life and still had his old service revolver. Never had a problem with him until some MAGA neighbor started harassing them lesbians. Then that 79-year-old Muslim dude showed up at that assholes door and told him the next time he messed with them girls, his gun would get fired. MAGA dude left em alone after that.”

Stories are the best part of a Boomer-rama, there’s plenty to hear when everyone’s humming with the electrification of weed and/or whatever this is:

 

My PI is paying my way into the Boomer-rama Extravaganza next Friday (he lost a bet), a party PB and other Boomers are hosting for Halloween. Minnie and Reggie say they’ll be there, in costume. I’m thinking of going as Richard Dawkins and offending everyone at the party as often as I can.