Friday, 11 April

Comrade Meier:

So arrives friend weekend! As I sit to write this it is the prime hour of eight, late perhaps for toddlers but a mere starting off point for a raconteur such as I. Where will I drift tonight? The Homborg Room, where Tino Tiki and His Mischievous Island Elves are providing the rhythmic wallpaper? The Hotel Stefan, where the shapely Gwen de Lynn is giving song with the accompaniment of Djag Fjert's Royal Danes? Club Sillie, for the amusing musical asides of Zip Freen? Or will I, as is often the case, make an appearance at them all?

In any event, I will be guaranteed to end the evening in the petite hours at Brunch Up, the after-hours grille high atop the fortieth floor of the Frell Building. (And where is Frell? Rumor has it if you tap the cornerstone twice with your cane you can hear his dentures rattle.) Danzig Futsi is running the grille now and is using bigger eggs than his predecessor, Elliott Canipcion. Elliott was fun but his omelettes could fit on a cracker. The house ensemble of the moment is Pick 'N' Ninny. Theirs is an act that involves banjo playing and 'dumb' humor. Somehow it comes off as sophisticated -- if I may play Bosley Crowther for a moment -- in spite of the burnt cork makeup.

My thinking is that the night's activities will run from about ten to six. That's eight hours -- a full shift if you understand my reference to common labor.

Must dash, Larby is pressing my tux and I have to turn over.

Yours,

Nicos Poxonu