I lost my wallet last Friday night.* I lost it in the parking lot of a Taco Cabana because my pockets were too shallow. I lost the first normal wallet I ever owned.
*Is that one of the Friday foibles Katy Perry discusses in her TGIF song?
Long before last Friday, probably during senior year of high school, someone pointed out to me that I was, unbeknownst to me at this point, actually George Costanza. I didn’t work for the Yankees. I didn’t carve a secret compartment underneath my desk so I could take naps. And I didn’t go on a date with Marissa Tomei that ended with a slap and tell my fiancé that I was actually meeting with a friend’s boyfriend named Art, who exported chips, in an attempt to cover up the mishap.
It was because of the wallet. Continue reading
The Brew House 