Somehow working late enjoys the company of missed social gatherings. Typically these days are Fridays or "Fraturdays" and the schedule always seems harmlessly accommodating for after work activities. Inevitably the post lunch lag gangs up with unforeseen delays to threaten that birthday bash you excitedly "maybed" on Facebook weeks ago. As hours slip away and Google maps turns bloodshot with traffic alerts it becomes clear you'll be work clad and late if only the day ends now. So why in a city stretched with Inland Emperors parked along the 210 till eight and free-range work hours do we limit our gatherings to mirror prime time tv?
One sixth of each day we maintain our states color with premature last calls and locked liquor cases. Between two and six California is a dry state, prompting bar and restaurant closures and flooding the roads with irresponsible Uber dodgers to share the lanes with thousands of Cal Trans workers. By the time you fight through the end of rush hour and cross town to pass that lot-less dive bar it's closing on 11pm. Another twenty minutes to park and walk finds you shoulder to shoulder with the weekend crowd as you tag face after face looking for one familiar. When you find the remaining core group composed of childless singles and non-mutual friends a quick round of small talk sends you back through the hoard in search of that first drink just before midnight.
We fall short of Japan's devastating work ethic and relish the rest of a Spanish siesta, leaving us with mediocrity in work and at play. After the long hours is a suspended hope for respite, the chance to see friends, meet someone or plan a date. Maybe I'm too much of a night owl or my callsheet dependent internal clock keeps me out of the nine to five routine, but I don't think an extra hour on the weekends slopes to Sodom. So if you're one of my friends and your game night is winding down, I'm excited and bringing beer, but also probably in traffic about 20 minutes out.
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