GLOOMTH

Woke up to the sound of rain. When I looked outside it was very moody, grey, half-lighted, and wet. Perfect for a day off, good weather for smoking a pipe, and quite acceptable in many ways, except that even though I despise the commercial frenzy of holidays I do have things to do in the lead-up to Jesusantagasm. Consequently I should probably rush out with a bag of laundry at the first sign of rain stopping. Nothing says "festive" like clean clothes, wine, and cheese.

Perhaps the sound of happy children filled with glee, for some people, but my work days are filled with grumpy senescent folks, and that's very similar, so I've satisfied whatever need that is, and look forward to having none of that for the next several days. Snow drifts, grandma's house, roaring fires, carolls? Meh. I live in San Francisco. We have rain, fog, a high wind advisory, and a warning of floods despite living so far up from the ocean that if I feel any wetness licking my toes everyone else is in serious trouble.


Grinchville is our happy place. Yesterday I saw some individuals dressed for a Dickens fest, tightly uncomfortable in antique clothing (with steam punk embellishments and frippery), and while I didn't sneer, because I enjoy all manner of goofty get-ups when other people do it, that isn't me, and those things are best enjoyed from a safe distance.
Bah, humbug, as they say.

Years ago, when I worked at the toy company, December was our quiet time. If retailers didn't have the final shipments of the season by the end of November, they were out of luck, and the last orders went out the warehouse doors first week of December or not at all. Sales reps would send gift baskets with Midwestern festive delicacies (cheeseballs covered with crumbled walnuts and pink and green sprinkles, dessert wine, sweet slabs of artificial maple sludge, etcetera), and the edible items would have been devoured, apathetically, by colleagues not flying to Alabama or Kansas till the last possible moment.

The design Department would roam the hallways with bottles of whiskey and strange items they had made that never hit production because thy were too scary. The Christmas tree in the foyer would droop forlornly, someone would order pizza, and perhaps a troll in Marketing would be happily destroying a Santa Doll because there was, really, nothing else to do.

Nothing says Christmas season like rap music, bad candy, and a Parsee on the other side of the cubicle divider following cricket matches a world away where it's warm and summery. Let's have Indian food; I feel like samosas, paneer kofta, and cucumber sandwiches!



Over the past few days I've lit up several bowls of Greg L. Pease's Silver Jubilee, a mostly Virginia broken flake celebrating a quarter of a century of tobacco blending. It's a good first pipe of the day, medium strength, complex and velvety with a hint of creaminess from the soupçon of Fire Cured leaf. It's also great in the afternoon with a cup of tea while the yutzes in the back are yelling at the game. I heartily recommend it, but I don't want you to buy any because if you do there will be less for me, and that's what Christmas is all about: keeping me happy. Just remember that.



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