The Flautist Jazzy Stoop

I have finally started talking to the jazzy-looking guy who sits on my stoop. I think his name is Tom, but I can't really remember--so for now, I will christen him Jazzy Stoop. You may recall from a previous post; he's an ample guy with a sartorial sense all his own. I described him as a pre-stapled John Popper in a shiny suit. Now that I have seen him a bit more, I'll amend it -- he looks like Jackie Gleason and dresses like a retired pimp. He's got stoop-style.

We've had short conversations so far; nothing too involved, since we're still getting know each other. I have tried to glean wisdom from him, without seeming too eager for such.

On New York:
"This is the best city in the summer. Better than Paris or Rome. Best for music and musicians, especially."

On His Music:

"I play the flute."

On My Listening to His Music:

"You've heard me."

I haven't heard him, but I said I had. I guess he assumed I lived at the front of the building, and pressed my ear to the window nightly on the off-chance that I might catch the upward sail of enchanting woodwind music.

In any event, I'm hoping to get more wise-nuggets from the flautist Jazzy Stoop. If anyone has any suggestions on what to ask him about, let me know. It should be something that can easily be worked into conversation, though. I don’t think I could handle a Jazzy awkward pause.