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, January 15, 2017


As you know, I am not a cigar smoker. I do indulge occasionally, but given that most American cheroot-huffers are loathsome swine, vulgarians, right-wing bozos, and carry typhoid to boot, it just ain't my natural m├ętier.
It is not something for individuals who appreciate subtlety.
Such as, opportune example, pipe smokers.
The detail oriented.

My apartment mate is such a person, but I have never been able to talk her into smoking a pipe. She has quite an eye. Incautiously I commented about a bauble on a television show, and promptly got the half hour disquisition on the finer points of gold smithery.
No, I did not take notes.

She's a jewel, but seriously Aspy.
I can't remember the show.
A sixties series.
Spy drama.

She paid keen attention to everything that showed up on screen, including the platinum thingy the actress wore around her neck, as well as the black dress of peculiar cut. Sodium pentothal, miss Brooks, and captain Kovicz. Oddly, what I noticed was a painting of a rabbi on the wall of the palace, probably chosen because it looked Eastern European.

I am a man, and as such a bit unconcerned with precious stones.
Paintings, however... Maybe the Alter Rebbe.
Strange prop department.

PLEASE NOTE: This essay is NOT about cigars, in case you haven't figured that out, but about women. And pipes. I've had quite enough of the cigar smokers this weekend; every time someone puffs a stogey now I see the loyal stormtrooper boots of a bloviating egomaniac in the smoke.
They were screaming in the lounge today, oafs cheering a cretin.


Red Panda. Sanrio's newest creature. "Aggressive Retsuko".

I felt that a binge-drinking death-metal karaoke singing office lady needed a quiet and civilized habit. So I led her into Aged Virginia territory.

Welcome to the dark side.

Two tobaccos come to mind: Dunhill Ready Rubbed, and Dunhill Dark Flake. Delightful, but not overstated. For some reason several reviewers of the first believe that there is Turkish in it, possibly because having read somewhere that some of the leaf comes from India, they jumped to conclusions about the type.

Conclusions are things to which one should not jump.

They are flue-cured, and quite good.

Personally I think that any well brought up red panda office lady would naturally appreciate both of these fine Dunhill products. The sensibility required is such that it does not tolerate charlatanry ('Trumpismo').

[The Dunhill pipe tobacco portfolio is presently held by Kohlhase & Kopp in Deutschland; the quality is better than when Murrays (known for sticks, twigs, crud) bollicksed up the blends.]

The pipe, as you might suspect, is a Comoy, Canadian shape. Perhaps a Grand Slam or a London Pride. A lovely design, and perfectly suited to a person of excellent taste, even if she does belt out hard pounding horror lyrics when swilling beer or sake after leaving the office.
That's just a passing phase. Youthful.
Or a reaction to yutzes.

Young women who take up pipe-smoking need to have more than one briar, of course. Six or seven if it is a daily pleasure, just two or three if an occasional indulgence. But preferably several.

[My own collection contains over a hundred and fifty exemplars, of which around forty or so show up regularly in the rotation. I have numerous Comoys.]

Nice women really should not smoke cigars.

Dangerous women enjoy pipes.

It's lovely.


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