That being the monthly meeting of the Golden Gate Pipe Club, consisting of the gregarious portion of the San Francisco and Marin pipe smoking crowd. The rest are somewhat anti-social, and don't meet, ever, except to growl and snap over decomposing roadkill carcasses.
Or maybe they are too busy to attend.
How very sad.
There are some customers I see occasionally who smoke the same briar until it is filthy, sopping wet, and thoroughly plugged (they never use pipe-cleaners, those are for sissies). They will then bring in the slimy gunked-up bastard, and either claim that it is defective, or ask me to ream and clean it good. Usually their tobacco of preference is Captain Black or 1-Q.
Or, lordelpus, Blue Note
These folks do not join pipe clubs. They've been smoking since they were in grammar school, they know everything there could possibly be to know about pipe smoking, and they refuse to consider that 1-Q hotboxed till the sodden residue in the shank boils may not be the optimum way to enjoy what could very well be a pleasant habit.
Honestly, we would welcome them. I would.
Their company might prove enjoyable.
What I would REALLY enjoy, however, would be the company of female pipe smokers. There are far too few of them, and unlike the brazen hussies who once in a blue moon venture into the Oxxy in downtown SF to amateurishly wave around a stale corona while ogling the talent, female pipe smokers are strong-minded women of taste and discernment, whose character and intelligence cannot fail to charm.
[And at this point, I would like to warmly congratulate Mary Walters, who recently joined Smokingpipes.com as a customer service representative. Despite a queer pumpkin fetish, she's a splendid example of the female pipe smoker, with a marked fondness for snazzy Italian pipes. She also speaks French, and once dressed up as Xena, Warrior Princess.]
We had our monthly meeting two days ago.
No female pipe smokers present. Dammit.
There was cheese however, along with wine and port, and some tasty preserved meats, plus chocolate bonbons. Naturally I spent the entire time in the background, occasionally making a snotty comment, and glowering at Nick, who at nearly eighty is still a chick magnet. Probably because he just looks so huggable. William and I informed the crowd of the time a lively young lady glued herself on to him and cleaned his ear, before Curtis threw her out of the bar.
She spent the better part of the next half hour trying to get back in, to no avail.
Nick is shorter than me, clear skinned, puckish, and has an impish grin. He's warm, charming, and witty. And he's already married, bitches!
Various Virginias were smoked. Some Oriental blends too.
We did NOT snap over roadkill carcasses in any way.
The preserved meats sated our bestial appetites.
That, and the excellent examples of vintnery.
AFTER WORD
I'm still smoking one of my own blends, by the way. Personally, I think when it comes to pipe tobacco my stuff is pretty darn good (I'm a ruddy genius), but due to "club blend" resistance at the corporate level from a certain tobacco company whose owner I used to know (but who, alas,
is no longer with us), it will never be produced commercially.
That's fine by me. Really, that's fine. No problem.
I'm okay with that. It's fine.
Yep.
TOBACCO INDEX
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