The word "brunch" bypasses my conscious mind entirely, and goes right to those synapse-things between my individual nerves, causing involuntary twitches and guttural vocalizations. Nevertheless, it can't be avoided, especially if I continue to patronize the one at San Antonio Sam's, which I do, drawn by a dish called "Migas", which, when chemically combined with a Bloody Mary, releases all sorts of whatchamacallits, pheremones, giving me an oceanic sense of peace, which nicely cancels out the aforementioned nerve storm. No, not pheremones, that's smelly stuff. Oxycontin, it releases the natural oxycontin in my system. An inevitable by-product of this exercise is the sketch of Sam's patio and its patrons; inevitable because when I come here alone, I have to sketch so as not to appear to be an abject loser sitting by oneself at a brunch--on the contrary, I'm an artist at work, and brunch companions would just be an annoying distraction from my labors. As it happened, I needn't have worried this weekend, for I was still basking in the glow of a highly active Friday night, which included, among other events, downing beers with a bunch of old coots at the neighboring Italian "eatery", where they had gathered to admire a "rack", which I took to be the wine selection, and, to tell you the truth, I didn't find it all that impressive. But that's neither here nor there. Well, it might be there, but it's not here, for sure. The upshot being, there was no need to pose as an abject loser this weekend, having already been infected with that damn bonhomie.