HELLO, NEIGHBOR!

There are moments when the grown man realizes that he really should put on some pants. Naturally, these include those times when he heads off to vote at the local church -- where his local polling place has been for the last four years, before that it was in the Buddhist temple around the corner -- or when he's passing a grammar school. Even here in San Francisco, people get dressed if there's a remote chance that they'll be passing by a school, especially at recess time when all the students are outside.

Most people.

Children are innocent; they're bound to remark if a pantsless man walks past the playground.

"Hey mister," they're likely to say, "those things are remarkably white!"

Or perhaps "bald thigh patches, bald thigh patches!"

Then they'll scream with glee.


That hasn't been my experience, but I imagine that such things happen. Point is that one should not have forgotten one's pants in public; often there is more going on when there's less clothing. It could turn out to be an inappropriate situation for people who are not actually involved in one's personal march of progress.

Sharing pantslessness should probably be arranged beforehand.

I don't know. I have not been pantsless around other people in a long time.
Things may have changed since then.
A very long time.

We'll ignore de-panting during Pride and the Folsom Street Fair. I haven't lacked pants then either -- I heck, wasn't even in town for many of those celebrations -- but some people are remarkably comfortable letting it all hang out on those days, though it isn't fun for all.

There's nothing more discordant than hearing a girlish voice exclaim "Dad, put your pants back on, you're embarrassing me!"

Mister, why one earth did you bring her to this? A bondage and skin-puncture fest south of Market Street is not a place for a teenager, no matter that it's a beautiful sunny day, and you're making sure she gets exposure to a broad spectrum of cultural manifestations.

She lives in San Francisco, she will get that anyway.

If she wanted to go, she would've gone alone.

Or with her Best Friend Forever.

It's Selfie Time!


My apartment mate left this morning at around seven thirty. Till that very moment, I had been wearing pants. As soon as she left, I locked her door and opened the windows, so that I could smoke in the apartment. This is something I often do, and as long as I let the place air out thoroughly for four hours before she gets back, she won't even notice. She works Monday through Friday, I have a different schedule and there are times during the week when I have the apartment all to myself.

Naturally I shave everyday. It's a mark of a civilized man that he shaves and washes even when it isn't really socially necessary. Personal grooming is a measure of self-respect, and so is dressing appropriately for the occasion. In fact, the missionaries out in the Antarctic Wilderness, with nothing but Penguins and dead explorers for company, should ALWAYS put on proper evening dress when leaving their igloos for dinner. As well as attend to their fingernails; nothing says 'grunge' like grotty fingernails.
And stubbly chins.
Anyway, you get the idea.

We are not Seattle, forcrapssakes.

Shaving is best done naked. The foamy soap drips and splatters, and sleep-wear gets crusty if one shaves while wearing it.
So, logically, it must be removed.

[This is something where I follow my dad's fine example. At six thirty in the morning he could always be found at the kitchen sink, shaving in the buff. One time our cleaning lady came early, and opened the door from the stable to the kitchen. No, she didn't scream. She quietly closed it, and waited half an hour. When she re-entered later she remarked that she'd make more noise if she ever came early again.]

Now, opening all the windows means that, if one leaves for instance the doors between the bathroom and the hallway, or the kitchen and the main chamber, open, there will be a crossdraft which blows out the reek of small cigars or pipe tobacco.

This morning I headed back into the main room after shaving, for my first pipe of the day. Enjoyed the smoke, with the large cup of coffee which I had already placed in the teevee room on the little tray on top of the stack of books to the left of my seat in front of my computer.
It was very good.
After finishing, I felt I needed a book from the other room.
At which point I realized that I hadn't closed the door.
And that one of my neighbors was at his window.





It was a very fine Virginia tobacco, from a tin I stashed away several years ago and only opened recently. Mostly red, with a dollop of brown for depth, and Perique for added spice. There may also have been the merest touch of a fire-cured Kentucky leaf in there too; many British companies think that's a fine addition to anything meant to be a broken flake. There was a rich fruitiness due to prolonged fermentation, a distinctly perfumed whiff of the carotenoids so abundant in flue-cured leaf.
The pipe was a Peterson Oom Paul, smooth, with a tapered stem. Normally I don't smoke such extremely bent shapes, seeing as I favour something that I can chase a pipe cleaner through while smoking. But I've fiddled with the interior of this pipe to make that possible.
I did that while naked too; there was too much briar dust to risk discolouring my day-clothes or sleepwear.

Really, I cannot emphasize enough how delicious the first pipe of the morning can be. Today it really sang. A wonderful experience.

We're having a spell of summery weather in San Francisco now.
I understand it's cold back east, stormy in Europe.
But here it's just right for nudity.


I'll be heading to Marin in a few hours.
I'll be wearing pants.




==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================