WE LOVE YOUR LITTLE HAMMERS

Whenever there's a convention or conference in town, the cigar bar becomes unlivable. Rational people prefer a quiet place, with plenty of seats to choose from, and a noise level far below the volume of screaming pain.
Out-of-towners however seem to like a massive flustercrump.
They find San Francisco to be traumatizing.
And seek loud sanctuary.


We're going through a bit of a warm spell, so it would have been much more enjoyable to simply wander through the streets and alleyways of Nob Hill with my pipe; I did not need to find an indoor place to smoke.
And while I liked conversing with IT guys from Boston, Philadelphia, and Chicago, the two beefcakes from the fascist state of Arizona harshed everyone's mellow with their coarse antics.


Years ago, when the geologists held their yearly meeting in the city, things got out of hand in a different way. Men who had spent the last twelve months out in the desserts and wastelands with little hammers, surrounded by nothing but scorpions and lizards, with no one to talk to, would experience synaptic overload. And, having not had meaningful conversations for so long, found themselves regressed on the autism spectrum to the point of stumbling goobertude.
Just add whiskey; the results are stellar.
Total verbal mayhem.

Perkily cheerful chatter about rocks. And little hammers. No, not actual discussion or an exchange of information and insights, just several hundred men saying random stuff about rocks. And little hammers. Often to no one in particular, and not part of a sequential series of exchanges. No logical connection to what the nearest-person-by had voiced, followed by statements that did not segue or up-follow in any clear way either.
But they had an enormous good time, and thoroughly enjoyed hearing other people say incomprehensible things too. About rocks. And little hammers. Connections were made. One or two of them had wives.
Few of them were women.
No lizards.


I think I prefer gibbering rumpled men with rocks and little hammers to business-suited twats from Flyoverstan. Even though they may have spent the last several months in Arizona. But instead of rubbing their shoulders with the fascist Azonoid beefalumps, they associated with scorpions and lizards, who are much more civilized.

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