Is this thing on? Hello?? Hello? Ah, that’s better. Welcome. Welcome to my world. You can call me Jake, if you like. Rest assured that no matter what you call me I won’t be calling back. Not my style. I am a man of leisure. Don’t own a goddam cell phone. I hate the things. Pretentious, invasive, inconvenient responsibility . "But what if your car breaks down?" My car broke down in 1981 and, incredibly, I find myself still here. I got help and my car got fixed. Plus, I didn’t have people calling me while I was out RELAXING. If you need to reach me, leave a message, that’s all I’m saying. I got no cell phone.

For those still with me, I suppose a brief intro is in order. I send this out to you from my Hilltop Estate in East (By God) Texas. I am (again) a man of leisure. This term”man of leisure”may confuse some. I understand. Fact is that I am an old Hippie. Well, actually a youngish burning bras and justified public protest, this is not what I will be communicating. I’m not interested in discussing the economy or politics or sports. Plenty of other jabbering nabobs out there doing that. I want to talk about the finer things in life. Cigars, beer, women , food… the reason men get out of bed in the morning. A man of leisure is something of a renaissance man. I cook, make my own beer and wine and liquor, enjoy a cigar and conversation, grow my own spices and vegetables, play poker, travel, and share what passes for my wisdom with anyone unfortunate enough or bored enough to listen. I am the kind of guy that not only lives well, but can actually run my own civilization if the hammer ever comes down. Think about it…if we get nuked, I can make BEER, and GIN, and WINE and I can COOK over a fire with homegrown spices. You gonna want to be at MY campsite, or hangin with folks that never got out of the city? I’ve even been known to cultivate The Weed. Welcome to my world.

I had a speaking engagement in March. It was in San Francisco. Had 3 days there and had to speak in front of a few hundred folks for about an hour. 1 hour to talk, 3 days in San Francisco during St. Patrick’s Day, hotel, and transportation for free. As much as I enjoy the Hilltop Estate, the math was overwhelmingly in favor of heading out. So I did. I liked the plane ride ( Lake Mead is AMAZING from the air) and it went without incident (except for the fact that the stewardess had no fresh cut lime for my Tanqueray and Tonic…but I let her slide on it). We landed in Oakland and I caught a shuttle to the train for San Francisco. From there it was a short trolley ride to my hotel. It was a serviceable enough abode, dead in the middle of the red-light district. I noticed that it’s tricky to step over bums while women in thongs are out peddling their wares on the sidewalk. Too many distractions. I will certainly stay there again should I find myself in the City by the Bay in the future. I took a surprisingly enjoyable dinner at Yamo, a little Thai joint by the hotel. Later, I debated taking in a show in one of the booths at the flesh peddler on the way back to the hotel, but figured it wouldn’t be worth the 2 bucks, and besides I needed to fine-tune my speech.

Things went well at the Convention Center the next day. I had an enthusiastic and involved audience. I hobnobbed for 30 minutes or so afterwards, shared a light lunch with my patrons, and then made a quiet exit. My first order of business was to find a fine cigar shop and then to blend in with the tourist crowds and see some of the city. In fairly short order I located one and settled on a fist full of Ghurka Legends. I also procured (at no additional charge) Trolley directions to the Fisherman’s Wharf area. The Trolley system in San Fran is a charming form of mass transport. Each car includes a plaque describing when and where it was made, and the system, as a whole, is inexpensive to travel and convenient to all parts of the city. I disembarked north of the main Wharf area. A place of empty beaches and whispering waves. I’ve always loved the ocean, as I was raised on the proceeds of lobster fishing in New England. So I sat on the sea wall, clipped a Ghurka, and settled in for a peaceful smoke.

Ghurka Legend The is an excellent cigar. Although manufactured in The Dominican, for my money they are as good as anything I’ve ever smuggled in from the Castro crowd. Right from the start, the smoke is sultry, silky, and mellow, and, if anything, the mellowness actually increases as it is smoked. The flavors are rich, with notes of chocolate and a wonderful earthiness. They are a bargain in the $12 - $14 range. I spent a perfectly contenting hour, savoring the smoke while gazing across the bay at Alcatraz Prison (which, by the way, is imposing even from a distance). When the cigar eventually gave up the ghost I stood, saluted it, and solemnly gave it a burial at sea. I turned south and began a leisurely stroll toward the main Wharf area.

I expected, from what I had heard, that Fisherman’s Wharf would strongly resemble what I experienced in New England. A bustling place of boats and men unloading the day’s catch, small homey restaurants serving the freshest seafood simply prepared in a quiet, peaceful atmosphere, seafood wholesalers with a small area reserved for public retail…Fisherman’s Wharf ain’t none of that. How in the hell I had been so grossly misinformed I will never know. Instead, it is a place of kitsch (and I mean that in the most disgusted way possible). Tourists, like herded sheep, packed nuts to butts , gleefully overpaying for overpriced trinkets sold by bored, overworked teenagers in row upon row of overstocked shops and stalls. I was underwhelmed. I decided, however, to soldier on. I had a pocket full of Ghurkas and a day to kill. So I spent the next hour being jostled by shoppers dashing across the aisle to be the first person on their block to own a shellacked crab shell with the San Francisco skyline painted on it, all the while dodging mimes (MIMES for God sake) and screaming children who were running around and chasing each other or sword fighting with their new plastic swords emblazoned, inexplicably, with the words” I left my heart in San Francisco. ”Yikes. I needed a beer.

Eventually, I found myself outside the Pier Market Seafood Restaurant & Market. Brilliant. A name, no doubt, devised by the Advertising Agency of Redundant, Repetitive, and Droll Agency (Advertising our specialty!!). Whatever, the place was supposed to have good food. I was seated and immediately ordered a Heineken (on tap, in a cold glass) and my spirits rose immediately. There exists nothing so fine to lift a mood than a quality beer in a cold glass. To eat, I ordered the house specialty, clam chowder served in a bowl of sourdough bread and half a Dungeness crab (served cold). Understand, I am something of a seafood connoisseur. For most people I am sure the chowder would be enthusiastically reviewed and highly recommended. I found it pedestrian. The broth was sufficiently creamy and not overwhelmed with onion and the potato/clam ratio was appropriate, though the potato was cut too large and the clam too small. There was no hint of garlic, which I find essential to a good New England style chowder . It needed both salt and pepper. Though renowned in the area, it was average at best. However, my third Heineken helped, and I was able to get through it.

I had never had Dungeness crab before, and was looking forward to trying it. They are large crabs and the meat is visually impressive; these crabs are chock-full of good sized chunks. But I found the flavor lacking compared to other species. In fact, I would rate the Dungeness 4th of all the types of crab I have eaten. Alaskan King , Blue Opilio, then Dungeness … barely ahead of Hermit. After years of anticipation, the experience left me deflated.

I decided to salvage what I could of the day and, after settling the check, stepped outside for a smoke. I clipped and fired another Ghurka and noticed a sign pointing to the famous Fisherman’s Wharf seal viewing area. “What the hell?” I figured, and turned the corner and entered the viewing area, cigar clamped happily in my teeth. If there is a more overrated animal on Gods earth than the pinniped (I have yet to hear of it. Vile, noisy, filthy, stinking bastards. Every one of them. And behind the throng of tourists grinning idiotically while snapping away with disposable cameras, the seals are even worse. The stench of the beasts hits you in the face like a club (this is called”foreshadowing”in literary terms). They do absolutely nothing but lay there and shit themselves and occasionally bark at each other. Utterly disgusting. My cigar was as disgusted as I, and began to burn unevenly until the unburned side resembled flaccid foreskin and the smoke took on what I can only imagine to be the taste of seal excrement. I yanked it, gagging, from between my teeth and angrily hurled it from the pier at the offending critters. They took no notice and continued shitting on each other. I got a few angry stares from the gawking moron tourists, so I gave them the finger, turned on my heel, and strode away. Fucking seals.

Day ruined, I stopped at a book store for an Ian McEwan novel, at a liquor store for a bottle of Aberlour, and returned to the hotel. I decided to forgo the Trolley for the last two blocks and run the red-light district gauntlet. It was great fun. Try it sometime. I was dressed well, carrying a $60 bottle of Irish Whisky. While the bums took little notice, the whores did. I got several fascinating offers from the women, men, and the indeterminate (to put it kindly) who were working the block. A few caused me to chuckle and move on, but one or two had me seriously considering their offers simply for their originality and creativity.. But, since I was wearing the only business formal clothing I had brought, and didn’t know where the nearest dry cleaner was, I respectfully declined. I entered my room, shed my suit, poured a glass of Aberlour, lit another Ghurka, and settled in to read. Aberlour (is a lovely Whisky. A single malt, it was as smooth as could be with a spicy and sweet flavor. Warm and invigorating, finishing with a toffee and honey aftertaste, a perfect compliment to a fine cigar. 65 pages, 3 drinks, and 80% of a cigar later, I shut the light and went to sleep. Tomorrow was St. Patrick’s Day.