VINTAGE HIPSTER

It is currently around fifty two degrees Fahrenheit and windy in SF. Tonight there is a great likelihood of rain. This is NOT typical May weather, and I wish to blame the Republicans, Florida, and Donald Trump for this, merely on principle. They, of course, are blaming the illegal aliens wandering around with leaf blowers, because that's what they always do.

I had better shower and get dressed. I'm freezing in my pajamas and bathrobe.
It will be warmer fully clothed. I'll light up a pipe and go outside.

Second cup of coffee. My apartment mate woke me up this morning to tell me in the voice of the turkey vulture that there had been theft while I was asleep. Someone, no naming names because it would shock me, had taken half a dozen Pu-Erh teabags for work.

My apartment mate works today. I don't.


Strange fun dream: Singlemalt Scotch on the rocks with a bunch of military men including a general. In somebody's digs near the base. I can still intensely taste it. I haven't had a drop to drink since early February of 2019 when some interesting side effects from the interaction of alcohol with my medications became apparent and I googled-up about that in great and exhaustive detail.

That party would have been twenty years after the hippie era, but some design ideas were still evident. Warm browns and crocodile greens; institutional paint hues and linoleum.


It strikes me that I have no clue what my grandfather -- a colonel in command of the base hospital for several years -- drank. My elderly uncle who lived near the base drank whisky, but seldom hosted anybody, let alone any groups larger than three or four people.
And uniforms were rare in his household.

So were pipes and cigars. At least six other people in the dream were pipe smokers.

The smell in the room indicated that some of them were into old-school American blends, mostly Burley with bright Virginias and some Kentucky fire-cured leaf. Stuff which was more common till the seventies when ghastly aromatics started to become popular. Someone had a Latakia mixture going, which suggested that I was not the only Scotch drinker present.


If nothing else, solid training teaches you how to control yourself and present an equitable face to people. As well as hold your liquour, maintain your composure, and rarely act up or be an idiot. In many cases.


Everybody in the room was calm and well-tempered, no one was loud.

Likewise, I too was calm when the turkey vulture was outraged.
There is more than enought tea, little fella.
It's meant to be drunk.
No sweat.


After that I went back to sleep.



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