AFTER DARKNESS

In these times, my pipe has kept me saner than you would expect, and safer. Because many San Franciscans instinctively recoil from tobacco fiends, and, perhaps unjustly, suspect me of repressing natives, torturing little children, using plastic, eating meat, and burning witches.
Even during a pandemic I am the antichrist.
With which I am comfortable.

With a bit of luck I'll survive this period.

Assuredly some of the health freaks out there won't.

Neither will a number of residents in less densely populated areas.


From an article in The Atlantic: "Americans should expect neither a swift return to normalcy nor a unified national experience".

Peaks, plateaux, and spells in between. The rural heartland will get hit later and slower, but as bad or worse than the coastal cities. Other news articles indicate that many hospitals out in the stix do not have enough resources to deal with even a mild crisis.


Meanwhile, the president has demanded that the Republican National Convention be unencumbered by any health restriction or social distancing, insisting that the authorities where ever it ends up being held do not interfere with full attendance.

And I am fine with that.

It will be huge.

Perfect.



In other news, business cards and Muni bus transfers are useful for the paper tubes needed when making papirosi. In lieu of Mahorka or Black Sea tobacco, moist dark flake carefully massaged into thin shreds works well, and the last smoke of the day no longer has me on the front steps for very long, a silent fuming witness to the insanity outside my front door late at night. Just enough smoke to chase away the mental mosquitoes.



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