Culturalization.

The triumph of integrating oneself into the art scene of downtown Erie is, surprisingly, a kind of unique other-world affair.

That's how I spent my Friday night -- meandering through comfortable crowds of wine connoisseurs and those with a taste for beautiful artwork and people. Everyone was dressed up. Big hats sat on permed heads, Burberry shawls lounged on pin-straight shoulders, men wore ties and sports jackets and were cleanly shaved in an arrogant, wealthy sort of way.

I've always wondered where these kinds of people hide. I drive through Erie quite frequently and I must say, the selection of people is nothing short of depressing. I can point out which corners the hobos frequent, where the Crackdonalds is located, and which types are always hopping the guardrails in the middle of the highway, pulling their pants up with a lazy finger. To put it bluntly, downtown Erie is not the kind of place I'd like to find myself lounging around in at night. It's not what one might call 'rough', but it's just kind of run-down and dead-ended.

So, I park the Beast outside of the Crackdonalds and maneuver past the hoards of thick perfume and wads of money into my first gallery. Bright lights, Big city. Everything is shiny, well-kept. Price tags litter shelves and my eyes bulge at the glassware, the couture of Vera Wang, the utter style and motion of mastery design. It's perfect.

Of course I find the food -- a lovely selection of brownie bites (with a thin layer of fudge slapped in the middle), crackers and bread bits ready to be sloughed with crab dips and artichoke paste. This, I thought with a smile, is going to be a good night.

I ended up purchasing a Christmas gift, and one of those yummy oreos with the frosting made to look like a cutesy snowman, and made my way to the next four galleries all in a matter of two some hours.

Through the course of the night, I stared at Picasso's artwork, thinking I myself could mimic something like that. I ran a finger along the earth ware that I should not have touched. I sipped punch and wine and had my fair share of cookies and strawberries and crackers filled to the brim with dips galore. I lingered too long, and stared too much, and had an absolute blast mingling with the artsy types.

If only my wallet were fuller, my stomach a bit hungrier, my gas tank not screaming FEED ME, then I might have walked around a little more. But every good night must end. So, indeed, here I am on a Saturday night, waiting to make my way out into the flurry of snow for another round of Christmas shopping and taste-testing and beautiful people-watching.

I suppose Friday night might have ended, but who says I can't keep making it last forever? Saturday night, here I come.