NO, I DON"T COME HERE OFTEN

The title of this post is actually a falsehood. The place in question has seen a fair amount of me over the past several months. Largely that is because it has by necessity replaced the cafés which I previously frequented to read and smoke.
The tobacco Nazis have probably contributed more to the Starbucksification of the universe than any other group, by chasing the smokers out.
We have, perforce, found different places to fume.
Dungheaps. School playgrounds. Hospital delivery rooms.
All places where your precious little tots might be exposed to us.


And, in San Francisco, a cigar bar.
Where pipe-smokers are appreciated.
And welcomed as a respectable minority.


The one great problem with drinking establishments is that they do not allow toddlers, infants, and rambunctious teenagers on the premises. And as everybody knows by now, tobacco addicts like nothing better than ruining the lungs of juveniles, asthmatics, cripples, and all those neurotic people who claim every imagined allergy in the book.
When we're not threatening your breathing apparatus, we're probably trying to get into your panties, or arrogantly waving a large juicy barely cooked beefsteak about.
But only if we're not abusing stray pets, or roasting their flayed little carcasses over a bonfire made of children's books.

Years ago a friend joined me at the cigar bar. The next day his wife sent me an e-mail asserting that she had dropped him off washed and starched, and I returned him to her smelling like the men's room at Grand Central Station. And very much the worse for wear!

Well, yes. Sorry. But I feel good about that.

Unfortunately, cigar bars cater mostly to men.
Women are NOT discouraged in the slightest, and I do know a few who smoke cheroots. But most women shy away, oddly preferring the company of people into sustainable tofu-based technology. Gentle, fully realized and grounded individuals, who are involved in fair-trade, world-improvement, the nurturing of indigenous peoples, and liberating the lab animals from sex-slavery or whatever it is that mean bad chemical companies use the creatures for.
In other words, the drips and nitwits who hang out at Starbucks. And the cafés of North Beach, now that smokers are no longer welcome.

Perhaps the company of a multitude of tobacco fiends is too much to bear?

Fear not, fair damsels! We are not just a pack, we are splendid company one on one.
We have, long ago, learned how to make small talk. Might be a bit rusty at present, but if you persuaded us to leave our sanctuary for something to nibble on somewhere, we would be more than happy to accompany you, and practise the art of conversation.
We might stink a bit, but we have hearts of gold.

And, unlike those latte swilling wussies at Starbucks, we know where you can get a good meal.
Later we'll take you somewhere to taunt the tourists and suburbanites.


AFTERWORD

Please consider this a proposition.  Do you like meat?  Do you like men? 
Do you like meat AND men? 
If so, perhaps we should meet sometime.  Sometime quite soon.
I clean up nicely, and I know how to behave in public.
And I'm really keen to re-learn "small talk".


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