IN PRAISE OF NEANDERTHALS, BEER, AND PIZZA

A very good friend asked why I did not show up at the usual place on Saturday night upon my return from Marin County. Was I, she asked, trading nights? She and her husband had noted my absence.
No, I wasn't. I was avoiding sports-crazed yobbos.
And the screaming madness that entails.
Conversation is impossible.
During games.


I like going to the usual Saturday evening place. Not being in a relationship at present makes it an easy choice.
No, it isn't because of women.

There are in fact only three women who show up regularly there, as it is a cigar-smoking establishment, and women are nearly as shy about huffing stogies as they are about pipe-smoking and the clap.

Two of the women are attached, and the third is a mad partying type. And, truth be told, I am not really set on women who like cigars.
If a woman smokes, it should be fine tobacco in a well-chosen briar. That's much more ladylike, and shows common sense and good taste.

I like going there because of the conversation.
Which, usually, is calm and intelligent.
Except on game nights.


This blogger does not like sports, loud music, screaming, crowds, or drunkenness.

I'm rather a prude. A good place to spend some time in the evening, assuming that one does not have a relationship going on -- which I don't, not even a glimmer -- and dinner with a delightful creature of the suitable gender (female) is not part of the programme, is an environment where smoking (cigars and pipes) is allowed (encouraged), a spot of liquor (cheap Scotch) may be had, the lights are bright, and the clientele more than average interesting and thoughtful.

Sports fans, as everyone knows, are dull and stupid.
They smell bad and eat too much.
Besides swearing.
A lot.


I think the Giants or Forty-niners were playing.
That's a sure recipe for disaster.


Tea, anyone?



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