BAD LUCK WITH WINE AND WOMEN

When I worked at the Indian restaurant, at the end of the evening I would pay the under-the-table employees in cash, imparting words of wisdom as I handed over the money: "don't blow it on wine, women, or horses, and don't spend it all in one place".
I like to believe that made a difference.
Moral improvement, graciously given.

At least putting ideas into their heads.

Part of their education as college students. That's why they came to this country.
Inspiration, followed by experiences.
Pursue knowledge, gentlemen.
Learn something!

On Saturday I breezed into the only bar in San Francisco where one can smoke, emitting a bright cheery "good evening", because several people at the bar whom I knew had turned around to see who came in.
Without a word they turned back.

Not the salutation I had expected.

Is it my smell?

No, can't be that....... it's a cigar bar. Everyone here will end up smelling idiosyncratic by the end of the evening.

Something I said?

In what horrid universe is "good evening" an unpalatable phrase?

I didn't stay very long. Sat at the far end with my pipe.
Paid up partway through my second drink and left.
Yeah, I know it's grievous to waste good liquor.
I just wasn't in the mood anymore.
A funk had festered.
Much so.


I'M FIFTY TWO YEARS OLD

On October 12 last year, the day before my birthday, I was at a bar on California street when I finally realized that as a representative of the older generation, several of the regulars could not relate to me in any way at all. Worse, they considered me the "amusing" old pervert in the corner.
Without intending to, they very kindly and thoroughly reminded me that I am a super-annuated old fossil who should not be out chatting with vibrant young people.
Zombies and antiques should be home in bed by seven o'clock, sipping their nice warm milk.

Thanks, guys.

I haven't been back.

Several weeks ago at a place up the street from the apartment, after having gotten roped into a pointless conversation that had an 'oh lord ain't the Irish grand!' theme, one of the people who had earlier asked the rhetorical question that got me involved in his hibernian pride orgy remarked that he hadn't a clue what I was on about (Brendan Behan, JP Donleavy, Roddy Doyle, et autres of that ilk).
This was the opportunity for some of the regulars to happily agree that absolutely no one did, it was a common problem, why heavens everyone there considered me a rather odd fish.
And really, all of them now agreed, it was pointless talking to me.
They had just been waiting to mention it.
Glad others thought so too.

I no longer go there either.

The cigar bar will still get my business, because all five of the owners have shown that they like me, as have one or two of the weekday crowd.
Besides, it's the only place in San Francisco where I can light up quietly in my corner and spend a few hours smoking a pipe indoors.
Without being considered either the elderly pervert who shouldn't be among the beautiful young pigeons, OR the baffling problem case who uses words of more than one syllable.

I should mention that women were involved in both situations that have made me avoid the other two places. And women were among the crowd that did not respond to "good evening".
I like women. As an intellectual concept.
But given that clearly I don't 'play well with others', the question is why.

By and large I've entirely given up on bars (and coffee shops) as social environments.
Not fond of drunks, nor of the men chatting up the giddy young damsels flattered by their status as goddesses in such places.
Nor even the giddy goddesses themselves.
Heck, don't like most drinkers, period.

Pity that there isn't a race track nearby where a man can smoke indoors.
Especially one that bans liquor, fruity drinks particularly.
As well as tattoos and eye-shadow.

On second thought, I wouldn't have a good conversation with the horses.
They don't understand words of more than one syllable either.


'Good evening' has three syllables, btw.
Though written with four.


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