Matthew Lickona 2:43 p.m., June 19
Mojitos. What are they made of again. I had two, they were good, and 4 cheese enchiladas at happy hour with a bunch of state workers and an old acquaintance from high school who is an artist, and apparently quite successful because he’s driving a jag. He looks the same, only a little bigger than I remember. I like his art, it’s thoughtful and edgey. He calls one of the artists on a current project he is overseeing Diego because of his entourage of young girls that sit adoringly at his feet, in his car, in his bed. My friend enjoys calling time out and busting the guy for letting his fans up on the scaffolding to watch him work adoringly. We don’t have insurance for that, he says, and the workers around me nod their head in agreement. A young gay man, a dancer, sits down behind me and I chat with him while he finishes up his happy hour food. He leaves after finishing off his nachos and a big old strapping 30 year old state worker sits down, civil engineer, concerned about the environment. I tell him I’ve written a story pondering the new highway sign/light poles and he said they are mostly empty but are “break away” which means they break into pieces if they are hit, for safety reasons. There is some sort of concrete weighted base nearer the ground.