At the back of the hill

Warning: If you stay here long enough you will gain weight! Grazing here strongly suggests that you are either omnivorous, or a glutton. And you might like cheese-doodles.
BTW: I'm presently searching for another person who likes cheese-doodles.
Please form a caseophilic line to the right. Thank you.

Sunday, July 03, 2016


A fellow pipe smoker who lives entirely across the country, somewhere near large bales of tobacco, posted a moody picture on Facebook. Now, you should know that where she lives they often have four seasons, including Halloween, which she enjoys enormously.
Me personally, not so much into the pumpkin thing.
Or the goth thing, also one of her things.
Nor aromatics; she likes aros.

But it's a lovely picture.


Can you not imagine wandering though that quiet glade, feeling the moisture against your face, with a pipe filled with a nice fullbodied Virginia mixed with a little Perique to perfume the autumn air?

Perhaps there is a country inn somewhere nearby, where though they've been told you cannot smoke indoors anymore they don't quite hold with the wussy offense-levels of modern urban healthnuts.

Go ahead, smoke. We like the smell. It reminds us of our friends.

"Den geruch von guten tabak freut uns sehr!"

Today the fog never really lifted near Spencer Drive and on the hills closer toward the bridge. It did not warm up significantly at all. The regular cigar smoker on the patio eventually came inside, as it was just too cold for him, and the lounge did not fill with screaming zombies huffing cheroots either.
It is a three day weekend, but one would've expected more people.
Perhaps they were off crunching leaves underfoot.
Cigar smoke mixing with the fog.

Tomorrow I shall wander around the downtown, very likely traumatizing tourists and sensitive people with the reek of my pipe tobacco. No, not Saint James Flake by Samuel Gawith, but my own blend of Virginias with a little Burley and Perique. It is an old-fashioned smell, guaranteed to cause indignant anguish among the delicate wussified classes, even though their grandfather's generation and sensible people today would not find it offensive in the slightest, probably even sniff appreciatively.
This is my city, you silly people.
I live here in the fog.

I actually don't like the cold very much, but my apartment mate has off too, so I cannot lurk indoors like a vegetable, as is my wont. She's a complete abstainer who once warned me that as long as her Teddy Bear never ended up smelling like smoke, my ass was safe. She gets kind of paranoid about that possibility. I'll probably head over to Chinatown before lunch, and spend several hours there.

Her Teddy Bear rather disapproves of me.

Note: Her Teddy Bear also disapproves of her boyfriend, and has grumbled about how that whiny bloke needs to be pushed off a pier. Sometimes, when my apartment mate is at work (unlike me she has a normal Monday through Friday schedule), Ms. Bruin and I discuss that wonderful idea. Given the murderous tendencies of the small ursine, I strive to keep her impression of myself as positive as I can.
Which is why I sneck her door on my days off.
And open up all the windows.
Despite the cold.

I frequently have a rug around me when I indulge.

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


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