At this very moment I am sitting in front of my computer, certain in the knowledge that on Saturday evening I shall not be adhering to my predictable schedule.
Normally on that day I return from Marin, prepare myself a quick dinner, and head out to the cigar bar armed with two or three fine briars, and a pouch of aged Virginia -- often a flake, often one with Perique in the mix -- and on the whole a very positive attitude. There are several good friends and acquaintances whom I expect to see there.
John, "G", Edwin, Jimmy, Shan, Josef, Amin, Chung, Jogger, Justin.
The Idiot, Eric, Nicholas, Sint-O, Pino, Dante.
Mark, Robyn, and their friends.
Not this coming Saturday.
I know who is working that night.
Consequently I am staying the hell away.
There are two pipes I smoked tonight. A nicely grained pipe from France: Sommer, Paris, Grand Luxe, three stars, classic pot shape; plus a Hardcastle Sandblast, Made in England, saddle stem bent dog.
The first is a memento of a trip, the second was purchased at Grant's on Market Street before stupidity closed their doors.
Saturday evening is wide open.
Being a single man in his early middle age, I should be out there acting like a wolf. But that is not my style. Instead, I shall be sitting at home, most likely, reading news articles and Wikipedia before going to bed.
Polk Street will be a hothouse; hormonal madness.
South of Market ditto; crazed sexfiends.
A city awash with sleaze.
Sex-O.
Unless inspiration strikes, I shall have a last pipe of the evening wandering around the neighborhood at around nine o'clock or there-abouts, with naught but an aged Virginia Flake for company.
It could be very much better.
But good enough.
By the way: The Parisian pipe has superlative wood. It's old, the surface translucence is phenomenal; deep, iridescent, rich. It smokes like a dream. Probably one of the finest pieces of briar I've ever found.
Too good to waste on a misadventure.
With aged Virginia flake.
No drama at all.
Alas.
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