I got some disappointing news about a friend of mine earlier this week. Actually, he was the one who delivered the news, but it was disappointing nonetheless.

This is someone I have known a long time. Coached with him. Played golf with him. Watched him lose the family vacation fund on a bad acey-duecy card game hand that defied all odds.

Sure, he’s a little older than I am, but I still wasn’t expecting it. You never expect to hear news like this.

My friend is a mall walker.

(Having now put that in print, I’m going to need a few moments to gather my thoughts.)

Yep, the other day he let it slip that he had seen somebody else we know and was making a Seinfeld character comparison. He saw this guy while walking. In the mall. (There … I said it.)

Are climate-controlled conditions are crucial to these people? I mean, you have to walk to your car so you can drive to the mall; why not just keep walking? If it’s cold, put on a jacket! And the thing is, this guy will play golf in sub-Arctic conditions. But it’s got to be 72 degrees and dry to go walk? Doesn’t compute.

What happens when they walk by Aeropostale or Banana Republic and they’ve got some hellacious sale going on? Can you duck in for a quick fitting or is that a breach of mall walker etiquette? Do you pass on the left or do the normal rules of transportation apply? At what point does mall walking end and out-and-out loitering begin?

I don’t know the rules and don’t want to know the rules. I know I should applaud these people for wanting to stay fit. But let’s admit it; it’s more just a little bit cheap, wouldn’t you say? These days, you can join a health club for $10 month and walk on a treadmill at all hours of the day or night.

But then, how would anyone know how many steps it takes for a complete lap, starting at Auntie Anne’s Pretzel Shop?

Eight years ago in May — maybe it was nine — from our hotel room high in St. Louis, we could see fans by the thousands cruising into the downtown Scottrade Center arena for the Lady Gaga Monster Ball Tour last Saturday night.

The joint holds about 20,000. They tell me every seat was occupied for a high-dollar performance from what was the world’s hottest female entertainer and, as of this weekend, an Oscar Winner for Best Song in this year’s A Star Is Born. From the outside looking in, I can report that I’d never seen so many women in short black dresses, painted faces and high heels.

I’d never seen so many men in short black dresses, painted faces and high heels either.

The whole block screamed fishnet.

But Lady Gaga was not the reason for the trip. Nothing against Lady Gaga. I just didn’t want to hand over $175 for a ticket. I wouldn’t pay $175 to see Merle Haggard and the Strangers, and it was in my contract at the time that if Merle Haggard ever died, I’d get a free week off. (It was in my contract, but I still didn’t get the week off. I did, however, get two days.)

For the great unwashed, I can also report that there is no disputing that Lady Gaga can sing, play the piano and entertain. Not all singing stars can sing, you know. She can. And my sources tell me — we sent the kids and stayed back in the safety of the hotel — she had the crowd near tears with pleas to “get along” and “love each other” and whatnot. Well said. True, cameras caught her flipping off photographers a couple of weeks before that night at a New York Mets baseball game, so maybe she just wants us to get along in American League ballparks. Or maybe she didn’t want the bikini top she’d worn photographed. Or maybe – and this is probably right – maybe flashing what’s usually an obscene finger to press row was her way of saying “We’re No. 1.” But maybe not, since the Mets were six-and-a-half games out of first in the National League East.

She won her Oscar. Now let’s see what the 2019 Mets can do.

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