CONSIDERING THE NOTORIOUS QUALITY OF SATURDAY NIGHT

The problem with Saturday night is that one would much prefer there to be unctuous bits. Instead, it's like a huge vat of crunchy peanut butter. That isn't nearly as much fun.

If you're Jewish, you've been waiting for the end of the sabbath, so that you can go out and snarf some pizza.
If you're Chinese American, you are probably at home with your family, watching a sixty part television series from the nineteen-eighties, with lots of weeping and wailing.
If you're Wasp, you may very well be drunk by now.
Uproariously stinko drunk.

I don't know about you Chinese and Jews, maybe you are too.
Or you wish you were.

Often, on a Saturday evening, I end up at the Occidental, where I will enjoy a pipe or two in relative quiet. Except that of late it's been more throngsome than would be usual for a weekend night, and much of the fun for me has dissipated. I really do not like crowds, much preferring the company of a few good people over the generic hullabaloo of a tipsy multitude.
Cigars have become the latest craze.
The Oxxy has them.

Upon reading this, somewhere, a tofu-snarfing Berkeleyite is weeping.
Tobacco is the bourgeois anti-christ, who must be fought.
Every time you light up, an earthmom dies.

This evening I left rather earlier than usual.

Noodles at home were calling my name.


Too many chupacabras.


[This evening I actually wasn't planning to go in the first place, but it was a mission of mercy. Needed to drop off some Davidoff Millenium Blend Piramides. It was a desperate situation.]


Years ago on Saturday evening I would go out for Indian food, then return home and doze the doze of the just. Then, after Savage Kitten and I broke up, I would spend it by having dinner in Chinatown, followed by a few hours at the Oxxy. At that time it was never busy, and some evenings there would be only four or five people there. One can have very good conversations when there are so few people around.
Only well-behaved thoughtful folks.

Nowadays the Oxxy gets fairly crowded by nine. I often don't get there in time, and the yowling savages abound when I've finished my dinner and head over. Having a decent conversation is absolutely impossible when everyone else is intent upon sports and drinking like salmon.

I'm fairly certain baseball was on. Not sure who.

I'm not really fond of heavy drinkers.
Even if they do tolerate smoke.
While shouting.

Besides, by the time I get back from Marin, I've been exposed to a large number of cigar-fans already, there is no novelty in the experience.
Yes, I still like the Oxxy, and I'm very glad it exists.
But I cannot hack a mob of yuppies.


Saturday night is for romance, furtive smoochies, handholding, kissy poo, and curry. Poached fish, fatty pork, or ginger-scallion clams and mussels. French fries with mayonnaise and SriRacha. Black bean spare ribs, fried chicken wings, and asparagus. Long walks across Nob and Russian hill, and a nightcap at a civilized tavern. Lovely company, nice conversations, and definitely intelligence. Tea or chocolate, and a good read.
Sixty-part weepy-waily television shows if forced.
Pizza too, but absolutely no beer.
A calm last pipe.


In the downtown, drunken orgiasts are leaping from building to building, swinging their dangly naked parts and howling at the moon. They've had Bourbon and strong cigars, they are indeed men to be reckoned with. Their charming blonde companions are down in the gutters, fighting over designer handbags and Christian Louboutin among the rotten fruit.
Everywhere there is madness and despair.
Despite the tipsy laughter.



If you would rather stroll across the moorlands smoking some Navy Cut, let me know. We can find a way to make that possible.




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