I’m in Nori’s, about to meet up with my pal, Gary “The Griper” Piper.

The Griper got his nickname because in the course of any conversation, regardless or time, place or subject, he will inevitably complain about something. Say you mention the Olympics, in any context, and he’ll go on an extended rant about something, like how once they went modern and added all the new events, they lost all their meaning and importance.

“Synchronized swimming? Badminton? Ping pong? Those demonstrate Olympic ideals?” he says. “And don’t even get me started on break dancing.”

Then he’d not only get started, but will be off and running. And once he’s on a tear, he can’t be reined in. Instead he’ll redline his way to apoplexy about Olympic this and Olympic that, even if his knowledge of the ancient games is spotty, at best.

F’rinstance, if he wants all our Olympics to be “authentic,” does he know the only peeps allowed to watch the games would have to be male American citizens? Or that the only athletes allowed to compete would also be male American citizens? Or that all the athletes would compete butt nekkid (which I think would look less like the Olympics than Spring Break Daytona).

And in further pursuit of authenticity, the only sports we could have would be running, pentathlon, wrestling, boxing, equestrian, long jump, shot put and a race in armor. And to round off The Good Ole Days of Olympic Glory, something called Pankration, which was a crowd-pleasing combination of boxing and wrestling, with crotch-kicking, ear-chomping and eye-gouging thrown in for good measure.

Don’t get me wrong. The Griper is a loyal friend and good company, with a fine sense of humor. And ultimately his grousing wouldn’t be such a hassle if he ever admitted he was wrong. But he won’t. Point out a mistake he’s made and he’ll turn a deaf ear to you. Actually, he’ll turn two deaf ears, cuz he has severe hearing loss and, for reasons known only to him, refuses to wear his hearing aids. This of course allows him to complain about how you — and everyone else on God’s green earth — never speaks clearly.

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All guts and no glory

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When he came into Nori’s, he snagged his coffee and came over to the table. After exchanging the usual greetings and lies about our health, we talked about that old standby, the weather. Then we talked about our plans for the future (in our cases, the future extending as far as the weekend … maybe).

He’s a sports fan, which I am not, so while I asked him how his teams were doing and he gave me an ind-depth report, I had no idea what or who he was talking about. But that never matters to diehard sports fans, because they don’t care if you reply, only that they get to vent their triumphs and defeats and not have to bear their successes or burdens in silence.

Anyhow, after he talked about what a great job the Dodgers did, as opposed to the crappy one the Yankees did (as if I know anything about soccer), he paused and frowned.

“Lemme ask you something,” he said.

“What’s that?” I said.

“What kind of belt do you wear?”

One of his skills is acting serious when setting up a joke of some sort, and not wanting to get sucked in, I said, “Are you looking to whip some punch line on me?”

“No,” he said, “I’m serious.”

“OK,” I said. “But why are you asking me that?”

“Because none of my belts work anymore,” he said.

Let’s face it: I’ve been around. Whatever it is, I’ve either done it myself, seen it done, heard about it being done, or read about it being done. So I’m rarely taken aback and find myself speechless. But after his comment, I was both.

Finally, I was able to speak.

“How can a belt not work?” I asked. Then I added, “Let alone all your belts.”

“Because they don’t hold up my pants anymore,” he said.

Of course, as I suspected the problem wasn’t with the belts, but with him, himself.

“Don’t blame your belts, Dawg,” I said. “You’ve got DDS.”

“What do dentists have to do with this?” he snapped. “Are you outta your frappin’ mind?”

“DDS, in this case is not Doctor of Dental Science,” I said.

“Then what IS it?” he said.

“It’s Drooping Drawers Syndrome.”

Before he had a chance to say anything else, I charged ahead and explained this most mystifying phenomenon. When you’re a young man, you don’t need a belt. Instead, because your waist is small and your pants rest on your hips, as they’re supposed to. But when you hit whatever age it is that your stomach is bigger than your hips, your pants ain’t gonna be resting nowhere but on the floor — with a belt or not.

The sad reality is this: A belt, no matter how tightly cinched around blubber, will not hold up your pants . Instead, the belt — and your drawers along with it — will squish out and — obeying not your will, but Newton’s Law of Universal Gravitation — will slide toward the center of the earth. Ipso facto.

After I explained all this, he said, “So what can I do?”

“Only one thing,” I said.

“What’s that?”

“Get a pair of suspenders,” I said.

Since I was entirely sincere about that being the only thing that works, I wasn’t ready for his outraged reply.

“Wear suspenders?” he barked. “Suspenders?”

“Yes,” I said. “Suspenders.”

He said nothing, but just sat there, shaking his head, somehow angry at my suggestion.

Finally he spoke.

“You want me to look like Dean?” he said.

Dean is one of our pals who always wears suspenders, which obviously The Griper thinks looks terrible or ridiculous or some other thing not compatible with his self-image.

“No,” I said. “I mean, why would I want you to walk around with your pants in place? You could forgo that outrage and opt for the Rockin’ Rudy Guliani Look, with your belt about three inches under you armpits … water-soluble hair dye optional.”

“That’s it!” he said. “I’ve had it with you!”

He got up, and turned to leave.

I didn’t know if he was madder at my telling him to wear suspenders or by my defaming one of his heroes, but it didn’t matter: Our convo was clearly over.

I watched him walk briskly to the exit, a tall, grey-haired man, one hand firmly grasping the head of his walking stick, and the other grasping — even more firmly — his belt.