On Fridays, per a long standing tradition, I do not work. It's always a day for straightening out paper stuff, purchasing supplies for the weekend, relaxing, kicking back. I intend to head out to Chinatown for lunch in about two hours or so, with pipes and a pouch of tobacco -- Golden Glow, a blonde Virginia from Samuel Gawith, a company founded in Kendall, Cumbria, more than two centuries ago, and I'm assuming that such a detail fascinates you, as it naturally must -- but first a strong cup of coffee and a cigar.
While listening to men talking about menstruation.
BUY A RED VELVET CAKE!
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bPN3Cc5i2RY.]
You know, I've never watched any of the 12 Friday The Thirteenth movies. At least I don't think I have, but there was a long weekend down in Southern California years ago when a friend stayed up for more or less three days straight copying rental tapes in the den and smoking cigars while his wife and her pals played mahjong.
I was there in a supernumerary role, sitting in whenever one of the ladies needed to go to the bathroom or sleep.
I haven't played mahjong since then.
Seventy hours of slasher flicks.
Piles of pancit and lumpia.
It's all a blur.
Voorhees. That's a Netherlandish name. I suppose I should eventually watch a movie about a famous Dutch American, my people after all, but I'm still waiting for an epic bio-pic about Martin Van Buren, eighth president of the United States, and a very great man. Also, a distant relative.
Which is actually neither here nor there.
I don't have a daughter, or any kids at all, but I suppose I'd be cool if she had a menstrual period. Many people I know have had them.
The red velvet cake, however, is dubious.
All that food colouring, that can't be good for you.
Wouldn't you rather have your first cigar?
Yargüera H. Upmann: fine aged air-cured Tapado wrapper around Criollo binder and filler from Honduras. A sweetness that belies the medium body and strength. Fairly even burn. Probably goes great with cake.
Mild spices, oak, and a warm bread impression.
Hints of cocoa and coffee.
Faintly floral.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Showing posts with label Cigars. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cigars. Show all posts
Friday, August 31, 2018
Tuesday, February 13, 2018
A PIPE SMOKER WITH CIGARS: THE FOUR PART PROJECT
This post will be updated as things progress. At nine thirty A. M. on Tuesday morning, February thirteenth, I'm only twenty five percent through the process. So the rest of it will come over the next day or two.
And I've got a cup of strong coffee.
Which is a good start.
"Ah, that first cigar of the day. Smells like low tide and discarded mattresses in the salt marsh. Good thing I've opened the windows; she'll never notice."
A few days ago a sales rep came bounding in, all bright-eyed and cleanly pressed. He wished to introduce three new products, and they were glorious! Three!
Some sales reps are charming when they've had caffeine.
I certainly warmed to him.
The net result was that I ended up with a total of four cigars to try. One of which I had already smoked twice, but I did not tell him that. They're good products, made in Nicaragua. Many of the finest stogies come from there nowadays, and they blow the mediocre shite from Cuba right out of the water. Fortunately Europeans, Arabs, and Chinese don't know it.
They're still smoking that crap from Havana.
And paying for the "privilege".
Here's some news, guys. The United States lights up over twenty percent of Cuban production. Yet of the top twenty five cigars for 2017, only four were actually Cubanos. Just four. Only four. Nebbech.
Probably a mistake. I've smoked 'em.
They are really not very good.
Nicaraguans are better.
And Hondurans.
CORNELIUS & ANTHONY
The brand was reborn two years ago, and the backstory is a little too fey and pretentious for my taste, but the cigar industry has always been more than a little goofy in it's marketing anyway -- "nothing says Valentine's day like a cigar" -- and many of the younger set who smoke cigars are tattooed monsters and junior lawyers, so you have to make allowances for that.
Thank heavens they broke away from Jägermeister and craft beer.
Now if we could only get them to vote rationally.
In any case, damned fine cigars.
FIRST REVIEW: VENGANZA ROBUSTO
8:40 AM to past 10:15 AM. Feb. 13, 2018.
Presently down to the last inch. It burned a little irregular ten minutes in, and I had to retouch it with the flame twice. But it has a very uniform and even burning zone right now, and I'm not putting it down. It's satisfying and earthy. As well as presenting some spicy woodsy notes. Quite enjoyable. The day looks very promising at this point.
Wrapper: Ecuadorean Habano of a warm silky umber hue.
Binder and filler: Nicaraguan.
UP NEXT (AS I GET TO THEM):SEÑOR ESUGARS, MERIDIAN, AND THE DADDY MAC.
Expect changes to this post.
All of them are robustos, of a very appetizing appearance.
I think I may go downtown and trigger some office workers by smoking in front of their building. But first I must bathe and do laundry. My clothes smell all fusty after a week among the cigar aficionados.
I might have curry for breakfast.
RE: "nothing says Valentine's day like a cigar"
Actually, what a cigar very probably says is that you're a crusty old dingus anywhere between twenty and one hundred years of age, without romance in your life, and probably Latin or Dutch. And that Tuesday and Wednesday are your weekend, your tolerant apartment mate has a poor sense of smell and wishes some woman would civilize your stinky ass ("it's been years, fercrapsakes!"), and you eat by yourself most of the time.
Yeah, Kipling said something about that.
A very Victorian sentiment.
Dry old bean.
Update no. 1
SECOND REVIEW: DADDY MAC ROBUSTO
11:30 AM to 12:59 PM. Feb. 13, 2018.
Started this one just before eleven thirty. It is rich and satisfying, but not blow-your-head-off full. More of a solid medium. A nice morning smoke. The wrapper appears to be a corojo, possibly even somewhat rosado. Not as uniform in appearance as the Venganza, variegated and a little shiny, but this cigar is a much more well-behaved smoke. The ash tends toward darker on the outside, fine and white within. It is utterly delicious.
Hands down a top notch cigar. Creamy, faint chocolate, a whisp of fruit.
Did not need any touch-up with the flame at all.
Great with another cup of coffee.
Wrapper: Brazilian.
Binder: Ecuadorian.
Filler: Nicaraguan.
I still need to head out and do laundry.
But this cigar isn't finished yet.
May have to pong a bit.
Update No. 2
THIRD REVIEW: SEÑOR ESUGARS ROBUSTO
9:54 PM to 11:12 PM. Feb. 13, 2018.
On Tuesday nights I often head over to Chinatown to meet the bookseller for drinks and madness at a dive we've been going to for years. It's a tradition. So I left the house an hour and a half earlier, intent on smoking the cigar before his bus landed at Grant Avenue at eleven thirty. I spent over an hour watching the rats in Spofford Alley. The city announced a scheme to improve and beautify the place over a year and a half ago, with great fanfare, and it was supposed to be done this past Autumn. With typical efficiency it isn't even approaching the finished stage. But, as a direct consequence of their labours, it now supports a vast population of rats.
Who traverse the various levels of unfinished pavement and ditch like familiar and beloved village streets, sometimes speeding down the entire length of the alley from point A to point B, singlemindedly heading for the garbage dump where it intersects at Clay Street. They are charming, lively, and bold. At least three out of more than two dozen are a whitish-tan.
They are elegant and lovely creatures.
This blogger loves animals.
The cigar is quite nice. Dark and spicy. Not quite as good as the previous one (Daddy Mac), but nevertheless the perfect cigar for watching wildlife. Medium body, earthy and peppery. It has a sweetness.
It is nevertheless packed with flavour.
Stephen Bailey, the owner of Cornelius & Anthony, named it after his dog.
Wrapper: Mexican, dark (San Andres).
Binder: American (what ?).
Filler: Nicaraguan.
This review was written after three in the morning.
It was a very good evening, by the way.
Update No. 3
FOURTH REVIEW: MERIDIAN ROBUSTO
10:13 AM to 11:48 AM. Feb. 14, 2018.
Having been a pipe smoker since my teenage years, I don't often go through so many cigars. It's enjoyable, but weird and intoxicating.
The apartment building is quiet, but from the nearby intersection I hear the noise of earth moving equipment. Rarely any other sounds.
The Meridian Robusto, by Cornelius and Anthony is an enjoyable mildly resinous product, that while it does not make any brash statements does hold your attention and gild the time you spend with it. The last two inches are contemplative. A classic and very lovely wrapper leaf, with a slight sheen. The cigar is semi firm, soundly constructed, no touch-up required. Woodsy notes with spice. Easy draw, regular burn, and a hint of oak.
I enjoyed our time together, and wish there were more.
For the first smoke of the day this is truly top notch.
Wrapper: Ecuadorian.
Binder: Nicaraguan.
Filler: Nicaraguan & Dominican.
The only problem was that during the final inch the flaky white ash kept depositing on my keyboard as I typed. I need to vacuum.
Best weekend in a long time.
It was fun.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
And I've got a cup of strong coffee.
Which is a good start.
"Ah, that first cigar of the day. Smells like low tide and discarded mattresses in the salt marsh. Good thing I've opened the windows; she'll never notice."
A few days ago a sales rep came bounding in, all bright-eyed and cleanly pressed. He wished to introduce three new products, and they were glorious! Three!
Some sales reps are charming when they've had caffeine.
I certainly warmed to him.
The net result was that I ended up with a total of four cigars to try. One of which I had already smoked twice, but I did not tell him that. They're good products, made in Nicaragua. Many of the finest stogies come from there nowadays, and they blow the mediocre shite from Cuba right out of the water. Fortunately Europeans, Arabs, and Chinese don't know it.
They're still smoking that crap from Havana.
And paying for the "privilege".
Here's some news, guys. The United States lights up over twenty percent of Cuban production. Yet of the top twenty five cigars for 2017, only four were actually Cubanos. Just four. Only four. Nebbech.
Probably a mistake. I've smoked 'em.
They are really not very good.
Nicaraguans are better.
And Hondurans.
CORNELIUS & ANTHONY
The brand was reborn two years ago, and the backstory is a little too fey and pretentious for my taste, but the cigar industry has always been more than a little goofy in it's marketing anyway -- "nothing says Valentine's day like a cigar" -- and many of the younger set who smoke cigars are tattooed monsters and junior lawyers, so you have to make allowances for that.
Thank heavens they broke away from Jägermeister and craft beer.
Now if we could only get them to vote rationally.
In any case, damned fine cigars.
FIRST REVIEW: VENGANZA ROBUSTO
8:40 AM to past 10:15 AM. Feb. 13, 2018.
Presently down to the last inch. It burned a little irregular ten minutes in, and I had to retouch it with the flame twice. But it has a very uniform and even burning zone right now, and I'm not putting it down. It's satisfying and earthy. As well as presenting some spicy woodsy notes. Quite enjoyable. The day looks very promising at this point.
Wrapper: Ecuadorean Habano of a warm silky umber hue.
Binder and filler: Nicaraguan.
UP NEXT (AS I GET TO THEM):
Expect changes to this post.
All of them are robustos, of a very appetizing appearance.
I think I may go downtown and trigger some office workers by smoking in front of their building. But first I must bathe and do laundry. My clothes smell all fusty after a week among the cigar aficionados.
I might have curry for breakfast.
RE: "nothing says Valentine's day like a cigar"
Actually, what a cigar very probably says is that you're a crusty old dingus anywhere between twenty and one hundred years of age, without romance in your life, and probably Latin or Dutch. And that Tuesday and Wednesday are your weekend, your tolerant apartment mate has a poor sense of smell and wishes some woman would civilize your stinky ass ("it's been years, fercrapsakes!"), and you eat by yourself most of the time.
Yeah, Kipling said something about that.
A very Victorian sentiment.
Dry old bean.
Update no. 1
SECOND REVIEW: DADDY MAC ROBUSTO
11:30 AM to 12:59 PM. Feb. 13, 2018.
Started this one just before eleven thirty. It is rich and satisfying, but not blow-your-head-off full. More of a solid medium. A nice morning smoke. The wrapper appears to be a corojo, possibly even somewhat rosado. Not as uniform in appearance as the Venganza, variegated and a little shiny, but this cigar is a much more well-behaved smoke. The ash tends toward darker on the outside, fine and white within. It is utterly delicious.
Hands down a top notch cigar. Creamy, faint chocolate, a whisp of fruit.
Did not need any touch-up with the flame at all.
Great with another cup of coffee.
Wrapper: Brazilian.
Binder: Ecuadorian.
Filler: Nicaraguan.
I still need to head out and do laundry.
But this cigar isn't finished yet.
May have to pong a bit.
Update No. 2
THIRD REVIEW: SEÑOR ESUGARS ROBUSTO
9:54 PM to 11:12 PM. Feb. 13, 2018.
On Tuesday nights I often head over to Chinatown to meet the bookseller for drinks and madness at a dive we've been going to for years. It's a tradition. So I left the house an hour and a half earlier, intent on smoking the cigar before his bus landed at Grant Avenue at eleven thirty. I spent over an hour watching the rats in Spofford Alley. The city announced a scheme to improve and beautify the place over a year and a half ago, with great fanfare, and it was supposed to be done this past Autumn. With typical efficiency it isn't even approaching the finished stage. But, as a direct consequence of their labours, it now supports a vast population of rats.
Who traverse the various levels of unfinished pavement and ditch like familiar and beloved village streets, sometimes speeding down the entire length of the alley from point A to point B, singlemindedly heading for the garbage dump where it intersects at Clay Street. They are charming, lively, and bold. At least three out of more than two dozen are a whitish-tan.
They are elegant and lovely creatures.
This blogger loves animals.
The cigar is quite nice. Dark and spicy. Not quite as good as the previous one (Daddy Mac), but nevertheless the perfect cigar for watching wildlife. Medium body, earthy and peppery. It has a sweetness.
It is nevertheless packed with flavour.
Stephen Bailey, the owner of Cornelius & Anthony, named it after his dog.
Wrapper: Mexican, dark (San Andres).
Binder: American (what ?).
Filler: Nicaraguan.
This review was written after three in the morning.
It was a very good evening, by the way.
Update No. 3
FOURTH REVIEW: MERIDIAN ROBUSTO
10:13 AM to 11:48 AM. Feb. 14, 2018.
Having been a pipe smoker since my teenage years, I don't often go through so many cigars. It's enjoyable, but weird and intoxicating.
The apartment building is quiet, but from the nearby intersection I hear the noise of earth moving equipment. Rarely any other sounds.
The Meridian Robusto, by Cornelius and Anthony is an enjoyable mildly resinous product, that while it does not make any brash statements does hold your attention and gild the time you spend with it. The last two inches are contemplative. A classic and very lovely wrapper leaf, with a slight sheen. The cigar is semi firm, soundly constructed, no touch-up required. Woodsy notes with spice. Easy draw, regular burn, and a hint of oak.
I enjoyed our time together, and wish there were more.
For the first smoke of the day this is truly top notch.
Wrapper: Ecuadorian.
Binder: Nicaraguan.
Filler: Nicaraguan & Dominican.
The only problem was that during the final inch the flaky white ash kept depositing on my keyboard as I typed. I need to vacuum.
Best weekend in a long time.
It was fun.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, February 11, 2018
FLAKES OF ASH ON MY KEYBOARD
Occasionally I joke about certain cigars that one really needs a white linen suit, Panama hat, and a hacienda with a deep veranda, to fully enjoy them. These are usually the afternoon-long smokes. Please imagine sugar fields, palm trees, and bare tanned backs sweating as they labour. The impeccably dressed colonial imperialist, exploiter of the third world, relaxing in a cane chair and enjoying the fruits of his tyranny.
With an iced beverage.
[Cue the salsa music.]
Some cigars, however, call a different ambiance to mind.
GLORIA CUBANA WAVELL MADURO
[Hecho por El Credito, República Dominicana]
A very charming robusto, consisting of a dark Connecticut broadleaf over a Nicaraguan binder and a lovely sensible blend of Nicaraguan and Dominican leaf. Complex, with a broad spectrum of flavour, mild spice.
It has oomph, but is not so bold as to floor you before breakfast.
Exceptional with the first, second, and third cup of coffee.
Tempered incense and a mild florality.
The mental scene playing in my mind is of a cavernous warehouse space, cool and dark, with light coming from the office area. Nearly empty, almost no one around; the end of the season, all the bales have been shipped, every one has been paid, all that needs to be done is filing bills of lading and counting the last facturas. There is music from far away.
I highly recommend this satisfying cigar.
A box of these would make a lovely birthday present to me. My birthday is coming up in October, nine months hence. But there is no reason to wait, feel free to jump the gun.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
With an iced beverage.
[Cue the salsa music.]
Some cigars, however, call a different ambiance to mind.
GLORIA CUBANA WAVELL MADURO
[Hecho por El Credito, República Dominicana]
A very charming robusto, consisting of a dark Connecticut broadleaf over a Nicaraguan binder and a lovely sensible blend of Nicaraguan and Dominican leaf. Complex, with a broad spectrum of flavour, mild spice.
It has oomph, but is not so bold as to floor you before breakfast.
Exceptional with the first, second, and third cup of coffee.
Tempered incense and a mild florality.
The mental scene playing in my mind is of a cavernous warehouse space, cool and dark, with light coming from the office area. Nearly empty, almost no one around; the end of the season, all the bales have been shipped, every one has been paid, all that needs to be done is filing bills of lading and counting the last facturas. There is music from far away.
I highly recommend this satisfying cigar.
A box of these would make a lovely birthday present to me. My birthday is coming up in October, nine months hence. But there is no reason to wait, feel free to jump the gun.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, February 02, 2018
SHIRTSLEEVE WEATHER ... SOME FISH
The best smoke of the day is that first cigar in the morning with coffee, with rays slanting in through the blinds, and other than earthmoving equipment doing the needful on the main drag a few houses over, all is still.
I shut the door to my apartment mate's quarters and opened widows.
The weather is a balmy 62 degrees, no rain.
Shirtsleeve weather.
If I had a patio or small courtyard, I would surely disport myself there now, poncing around in my stylish grey robe. A rattan chair, rickety table, glass cafe ashtray, and perhaps a willow ware cup and saucer for my steaming Costa Rican. Large leafy potted plants in huge ceramic tubs.
There might be wild animals in the green stuff.
Beyond the paving tiles.
The cigar is a Nicaraguan all long-filler rolled by the gentle hands of a blind fifty year old virgin deep in the lush tropical rainforests of Estelí, Jalapa and Ometepe, where chagas disease, yellow fever, and dengue hold sway; it is the realm of the savage giant tree sloth, carnivorous and hungry.
Or something. I've never been to Nicaragua, Honduras, and Guatemala, so I don't know, which gives me license to invent all kinds of stuff.
The terms Estelí, Jalapa and Ometepe, are well know among smokers of Nicaraguan cigars, and the fourth growing region, Condega, is a little further north, and not represented in this excellent cheroot.
Fonseca. A puro, introduced in 2016.
Plasencia Cigars S.A.
When someone in a pipe aficionado Facebook group two years ago whined that the weather was so beastly cold, he hated having to smoke outside, the wife wouldn't allow that indoors, how on earth could the rest of us stand it, my growl-text response was "get a divorce!" This was, you understand, to keep him from moving to California.
Any woman who chases her husband into the snowstorm to enjoy his cigar or pipe is not someone we ever want here. Nor is the man who married her.
Both of them need to stay in the frigid zone, inhaling stale cabbage odours from the other apartments, while elderly drunks freeze in the drifts or set their urine-stained mattresses on fire.
Yeah, no, I've never been to the Midwest either.
I just imagine goofy stuff about it.
Disapproving Lutherans.
Weather.
There are no volcanoes or jungles in Kansas. Just flat potato fields, turnips, cabbage soup, and horrid little gothic churches for hundreds and hundreds of miles, plus tornadoes, bad coffee, Pabst Blue Ribbon, and malaria.
The Fonseca Nicaragua Petite Corona is a damned fine cigar. I would have probably chosen a toro instead, but this item came from a trade show as a sample, and sat in one of my humidors for over a year. It's a piss-elegant little number, dark wrapper leaf, earthy and a little spicy, slight pepper muted by a faint fruitiness. Consistent and even burn, attesting to the care with which it was rolled by that blind fifty year old virgin in the rainforests.
My final thoughts about this are that I really need a tiled courtyard or patio with large potted plants, where the neighbors cannot see me smoking because that would traumatize the poor dears.
They'd demand I go out into the snow drifts with that thing.
A pipe or a cigar, no matter, off with you!
Disapproving Lutherans.
There is no lutefisk in San Francisco.
They should all move back.
Mmmm, lutefisk!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I shut the door to my apartment mate's quarters and opened widows.
The weather is a balmy 62 degrees, no rain.
Shirtsleeve weather.
If I had a patio or small courtyard, I would surely disport myself there now, poncing around in my stylish grey robe. A rattan chair, rickety table, glass cafe ashtray, and perhaps a willow ware cup and saucer for my steaming Costa Rican. Large leafy potted plants in huge ceramic tubs.
There might be wild animals in the green stuff.
Beyond the paving tiles.
The cigar is a Nicaraguan all long-filler rolled by the gentle hands of a blind fifty year old virgin deep in the lush tropical rainforests of Estelí, Jalapa and Ometepe, where chagas disease, yellow fever, and dengue hold sway; it is the realm of the savage giant tree sloth, carnivorous and hungry.
Or something. I've never been to Nicaragua, Honduras, and Guatemala, so I don't know, which gives me license to invent all kinds of stuff.
The terms Estelí, Jalapa and Ometepe, are well know among smokers of Nicaraguan cigars, and the fourth growing region, Condega, is a little further north, and not represented in this excellent cheroot.
Fonseca. A puro, introduced in 2016.
Plasencia Cigars S.A.
When someone in a pipe aficionado Facebook group two years ago whined that the weather was so beastly cold, he hated having to smoke outside, the wife wouldn't allow that indoors, how on earth could the rest of us stand it, my growl-text response was "get a divorce!" This was, you understand, to keep him from moving to California.
Any woman who chases her husband into the snowstorm to enjoy his cigar or pipe is not someone we ever want here. Nor is the man who married her.
Both of them need to stay in the frigid zone, inhaling stale cabbage odours from the other apartments, while elderly drunks freeze in the drifts or set their urine-stained mattresses on fire.
Yeah, no, I've never been to the Midwest either.
I just imagine goofy stuff about it.
Disapproving Lutherans.
Weather.
There are no volcanoes or jungles in Kansas. Just flat potato fields, turnips, cabbage soup, and horrid little gothic churches for hundreds and hundreds of miles, plus tornadoes, bad coffee, Pabst Blue Ribbon, and malaria.
The Fonseca Nicaragua Petite Corona is a damned fine cigar. I would have probably chosen a toro instead, but this item came from a trade show as a sample, and sat in one of my humidors for over a year. It's a piss-elegant little number, dark wrapper leaf, earthy and a little spicy, slight pepper muted by a faint fruitiness. Consistent and even burn, attesting to the care with which it was rolled by that blind fifty year old virgin in the rainforests.
My final thoughts about this are that I really need a tiled courtyard or patio with large potted plants, where the neighbors cannot see me smoking because that would traumatize the poor dears.
They'd demand I go out into the snow drifts with that thing.
A pipe or a cigar, no matter, off with you!
Disapproving Lutherans.
There is no lutefisk in San Francisco.
They should all move back.
Mmmm, lutefisk!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, December 29, 2017
IT STINKS LIKE A NICARAGUAN JUNGLE
While I can imagine a woman enjoying the same things I do, there is scant evidence that such a person actually exists. Perhaps this says more about my imagination than my grasp of reality and normal human behaviour.
For instance: Heading out for lunch or a snack, then wandering around Chinatown and Northbeach smoking a pipe, people watching and buying groceries. Generally, wasting time outside because smoking indoors in the afternoon leaves scant time for my quarters to air out before evening.
Tomato porkchop and rice, with soup and a hot beverage? Baked mild curry chicken and potatoes over rice? Fatty meat with a little salted vegetable?
I think we're describing a working man's food here.
Or a mature Dutch American bachelor.
Not the preferences of a woman.
The pipe, of course, is right out. Apparently civilized females do not truck with briars, although they may indulge occasionally in a cigar. But pipes, in this age and social environment, are considered fussy and un-ladylike.
Very few women wish to be thought neurotic or Gandalfian.
One woman I know has recently started experimenting with a pipe, but she already was a cigar smoker, and it is quite likely she will revert to that in a few weeks or months. The mid-fifties ring gauge Havana was always her first love.
Women's tastes differ. You already knew that. In the same way that you probably fantasize about a helpmeet who eats pizza and cheers on the game every weekend -- no matter how bloody boring that might be for anybody rational -- I will imagine a female person with glasses who likes digging into a juicy chop over rice by herself, prefers dark bold smells over car freshener, and fights the urge to swear whenever the phone rings.
If she exists, all of her female relatives probably think she's peculiar.
Lord knows, my female relatives think I'm peculiar.
Though for a man, that's "normal".
Not "normal" normal ...
But, you know.
AN OCCASIONAL 'BREAKFAST' CIGAR
There's a bit of a smell in the apartment at present (it stinks). I've got a cigar going, and I am on my second cup of strong coffee. I got up late, having been on the internet till after four in the morning watching videos of small fierce wild animals. Rambunctious weasels and the like.
After shaving and a shower I shall head out and find something good to eat.
No, I don't know where. I already had porkchops earlier this week, as well as milk tea at the place where the ladies who work there are friendly but not too pushy. As well as flaky pastries at the other place. It might just be black bean bitter melon and fish over rice, even though the woman who works at that restaurant during the day is a bit casual and slapdash.
It's near that alleyway that the city has been improving for well over a year. Honestly, how much time does it take to upgrade the sewers and lay down new cement? We don't care about the fancy bamboo and murals, that pretty-pretty crap is strictly for the tourists. You've torn it up too long.
Pave it already and be done, dammit.
Either that, or the cheap lunch counter on Stockton.
Fatty pork and salted vegetable in gravy.
Two other dishes for balance.
And small soup.
It's a set price; three dishes and a bowl.
Rice, and your choice of overs.
One scoop each.
Ho sik.
NOTE: Yes, I always compare my proclivities with those of a woman.
It provides much needed perspective. A kick in the face by reality.
Everybody needs that.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
For instance: Heading out for lunch or a snack, then wandering around Chinatown and Northbeach smoking a pipe, people watching and buying groceries. Generally, wasting time outside because smoking indoors in the afternoon leaves scant time for my quarters to air out before evening.
Tomato porkchop and rice, with soup and a hot beverage? Baked mild curry chicken and potatoes over rice? Fatty meat with a little salted vegetable?
I think we're describing a working man's food here.
Or a mature Dutch American bachelor.
Not the preferences of a woman.
The pipe, of course, is right out. Apparently civilized females do not truck with briars, although they may indulge occasionally in a cigar. But pipes, in this age and social environment, are considered fussy and un-ladylike.
Very few women wish to be thought neurotic or Gandalfian.
One woman I know has recently started experimenting with a pipe, but she already was a cigar smoker, and it is quite likely she will revert to that in a few weeks or months. The mid-fifties ring gauge Havana was always her first love.
Women's tastes differ. You already knew that. In the same way that you probably fantasize about a helpmeet who eats pizza and cheers on the game every weekend -- no matter how bloody boring that might be for anybody rational -- I will imagine a female person with glasses who likes digging into a juicy chop over rice by herself, prefers dark bold smells over car freshener, and fights the urge to swear whenever the phone rings.
If she exists, all of her female relatives probably think she's peculiar.
Lord knows, my female relatives think I'm peculiar.
Though for a man, that's "normal".
Not "normal" normal ...
But, you know.
AN OCCASIONAL 'BREAKFAST' CIGAR
There's a bit of a smell in the apartment at present (it stinks). I've got a cigar going, and I am on my second cup of strong coffee. I got up late, having been on the internet till after four in the morning watching videos of small fierce wild animals. Rambunctious weasels and the like.
After shaving and a shower I shall head out and find something good to eat.
No, I don't know where. I already had porkchops earlier this week, as well as milk tea at the place where the ladies who work there are friendly but not too pushy. As well as flaky pastries at the other place. It might just be black bean bitter melon and fish over rice, even though the woman who works at that restaurant during the day is a bit casual and slapdash.
It's near that alleyway that the city has been improving for well over a year. Honestly, how much time does it take to upgrade the sewers and lay down new cement? We don't care about the fancy bamboo and murals, that pretty-pretty crap is strictly for the tourists. You've torn it up too long.
Pave it already and be done, dammit.
Either that, or the cheap lunch counter on Stockton.
Fatty pork and salted vegetable in gravy.
Two other dishes for balance.
And small soup.
It's a set price; three dishes and a bowl.
Rice, and your choice of overs.
One scoop each.
Ho sik.
NOTE: Yes, I always compare my proclivities with those of a woman.
It provides much needed perspective. A kick in the face by reality.
Everybody needs that.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, December 19, 2017
PEEVISH CIGAR REVIEW
Sometime around early afternoon I lit up a pale vintage shaggy foot toro. This puppy is not cheap, and the company that put it into circulation has a massive reputation, although one must assume that marketing department brilliance had more to do with that than anything substantial.
No, shan't mention the name, as I do not wish to be sued pantsless or beaten up by Gujarathis. Keen instinct for self-preservation here.
It's a Dominican Puro, and honestly the tobacco ain't bad. But hard to draw on, not very exciting, and it took effort to get the nice cedar savoriness going. It is creamy, slightly sweet, and quite unexceptional.
Though it does have a beautiful ash.
There are very many far better Dominican cigars.
This cigar too could have been far better.
If another company had made it.
Or they hired rollers.
Cigars that I have enjoyed in the past few weeks have been Pier 28, Oliva Serie V, Romeo 505, Alec Bradley Sanctum, Diamond Crown, Rocky Patel 1990, Eiroa, and a few others. And though I find smaller ring gauges to often be piss-elegant, the larger cigars draw much better and give a broader spectrum of flavours. So mostly toros and torpedos.
Cigars are largely the domain of unlovable freaks and men who worry about their testicular abilities, which may be failing due to age or diet. Pipes, on the other hand, speak of thoughtful people, and calm rational behaviour. Unless someone is smoking a frightful aromatic in a pipe made rancid and soggy by intemperate use.
I have some suggestions about pipe tobacco for the man who founded the company that made this cigar. And where he can put it. He probably wears shiny shirts with wide lapels, open down to his navel.
And gold chains on his hairy chest.
He's probably rancid.
And soggy.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
No, shan't mention the name, as I do not wish to be sued pantsless or beaten up by Gujarathis. Keen instinct for self-preservation here.
It's a Dominican Puro, and honestly the tobacco ain't bad. But hard to draw on, not very exciting, and it took effort to get the nice cedar savoriness going. It is creamy, slightly sweet, and quite unexceptional.
Though it does have a beautiful ash.
There are very many far better Dominican cigars.
This cigar too could have been far better.
If another company had made it.
Or they hired rollers.
Cigars that I have enjoyed in the past few weeks have been Pier 28, Oliva Serie V, Romeo 505, Alec Bradley Sanctum, Diamond Crown, Rocky Patel 1990, Eiroa, and a few others. And though I find smaller ring gauges to often be piss-elegant, the larger cigars draw much better and give a broader spectrum of flavours. So mostly toros and torpedos.
Cigars are largely the domain of unlovable freaks and men who worry about their testicular abilities, which may be failing due to age or diet. Pipes, on the other hand, speak of thoughtful people, and calm rational behaviour. Unless someone is smoking a frightful aromatic in a pipe made rancid and soggy by intemperate use.
I have some suggestions about pipe tobacco for the man who founded the company that made this cigar. And where he can put it. He probably wears shiny shirts with wide lapels, open down to his navel.
And gold chains on his hairy chest.
He's probably rancid.
And soggy.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, September 12, 2015
VALKENSWAARD IN PREVIOUS TIMES
The southern part of the Kingdom of the Netherlands fades from coastal or estuarine swampland in the west to gently rolling countryside on the way to Germany, along the way displaying peat bog, scrub and wooded stretches, expanses of farmland, and small towns whose church spires are visible afar. This is the often beautiful and sometimes depressing scenery of Vincent Van Gogh, and earlier, Brueghel.
Here lie the landscapes that inspire, and will cause obsession.
They form and malform the visual imagination.
Malleable points of reference.
Dreams.
And madness.
A family from California once headed in this direction, and settled down.
It appeared to be a good idea at the time.
TENANT FARMERS, SAND, AND FALCONRY
Valkenswaard, which lies in the east of this area, is equidistant from Eindhoven to the north and the Belgian border southwards. Pine forests start on the north side of town, fields stretch to the Dommel river on the west, and farms give way to the Malpy Fens a few miles before the frontier.
It seems isolated, but nowhere in the entire benelux is truly distant from anywhere.
Not if you receive deliveries from Blackwell's Bookstore in Oxford.
Book deliveries from the civilized world, Dundee Marmalade, Twinings Tea, and tinned plumpudding, are the mark of exiles worldwide. Along with Rattrays tobacco blends, and the Balkan Sobranie smoking mixture.
Having returned to the United States long ago, what I really want nowadays is the occasional pouch of Heerenbaai Tabak, which is ribbon-cut Maryland leaf, soft and fragrant ("zacht en geurig"), strong Dutch coffee, and, naturally, deep fried objects that cannot be described.
[Strong Dutch Coffee: most of the still extant native brands are now of questionable provenance, having been buggered up by an American company, then off-shored, and finally associated with yet another miserable American multinational in a German guise.]
Our house was diagonally opposite the Saint Nicholas Church, next to the Kerkweg. Driessen's drugstore was on the other side of the Kerkweg. The police station was down the block, facing the apotheek as well as the old Amsterdam Bank building across the square.
Small businesses, grocery stores, wholesalers of dry goods, household goods, banks, a bicycle repair shop, and insurance companies, alternating with private dwellings and the occasional eatery.
There weren't very many cafes or restaurants in the centre of town then, but the last time I went back for a visit, every other building on the Markt Plein, Luikerweg, Leenderweg, and elsewhere had been turned into an eatery or drinking hole. Mostly drinking holes.
My childhood home is now a bar.
From this you might assume that alcoholism presents a major business opportunity in Valkenswaard, and you would probably be right. But tobacco has a much stronger history. At one time there were over two dozen small cigar factories. They're gone now, but they are fondly remembered. The last two (Hofnar and Willem II) shut down in the nineteen eighties and nineties respectively. Nearly every family had based its march from the grinding poverty of the nineteenth century to the middle-class prosperity of the twenty first by means of employment in the smoking trade.
[Small cigar factories: Starting in 1865 when falconer Jan van Best established a small manufactury with money he had been left by a patron, there were over twenty such by the end of second decade of the twentieth century, employing leaf-strippers, bunchers, rollers, and warehousemen. Mostly younger women rolled the narrower diameter smokes, more practised hands produced the coronas and figurados. By the midtwenties, nearly half of the working population was employed in tobacco. It was an occupation that for over a century seldom experienced unemployment.]
When I was a child, tobacco was not part of my personal programme yet. But coffee, French fries, and the occasional unidentifiable fast-food comestible, along with books, definitely had a place in my life.
[Unidentifiable fast-food comestibles: frikandel, kroket, bami bal, nasi bal. Delicious.]
Every Wednesday afternoon I would park my bicycle outside of Priem's bookstore, go in, and spend two or three hours happily reading. They didn't have much in English, but their selection of fun stuff in Dutch was rather good, as was the section with comic books. They are still in business, and flourishing more than ever.
On a rainy afternoon, nothing was more enjoyable than forgetting the entire world while safe and dry amidst books.
Eventually I also discovered De Slegte in Eindhoven, as well as autres bibliothèques et librairies, but in Valkenswaard, Priem was an oasis.
I shall imagine that later crops of young people have also gratefully discovered the place, and likewise savoured time spent there.
Boekhandel Priem is a priceless treasure.
It's where the world begins.
THE TIME OF FRAGRANT LEAVES
The tobacconist next door to Priem is no longer in business, but far further down the Eindhovensche Weg the shop where I picked up tins of Balkan Sobranie and wonderful cigar factory seconds during my high school years has been transformed into Compaenen van Ravenstein, an emporium of luxury smokers requisites, including both Cubanos as well as Dutch cigars, and a selection of wines which might be enjoyed with your smoke.
They don't appear to be set up for internet purchases, but they can be contacted: write a letter to Messrs Meulensteen.
Returning to the United States after a trip back years ago, my luggage was filled with Dutch literature and cigars. Approaching customs I staggered under the weight, and was filthy, sweaty, exhausted.
"Do you have anything to declare?"
"No sir, not a thing."
"What's in your bags?"
"Books and dirty laundry. Lots of dirty laundry."
"I see..... Welcome home."
There's something about a fine Dutch cheroot that makes life grand.
It's worth suffering for.
The store is now in its second or third generation of ownership, and bigger and better than ever. Harry van Ravenstein, who sold the business in 2008, knows all about pairing pipe-tobacco and Scotch Whisky.
Which is priceless information.
THE ROAD TO THE REST OF THE WORLD
Closer to the Meerendreef, which marks the northern boundary of the settlement, the old house with the straw thatched roof where rats lived above the residents is, of course, a precious architectural masterpiece, and carefully preserved. We had a chance to buy it, and chose not to.
My mother did not want to sleep under so much combustible material.
Or the rats. For some reason she wasn't okay with rats.
I passed it every day during my teenage years.
It looked like a comfortable house.
The High School to which I went no longer exists -- conceivably too many brilliant graduates went on to stints in prison for brigandage or incendiary activities -- and the youth club where I hatched any number of plots to take over the world, along with several dissolute comrades of a similar bent, closed many years ago also.
[Youth club: Jeugdociëteit Parsifal. Formerly Aquaradius, in the Draaikolk building on the Maastrichterweg, where it was on the top floor, and, apparently, considered a serious nuisance. When that location was closed down, the intellectual rowdies invaded a working men's bar near Willem II for over a year, until the municipality relented and rented us an abandoned and falling apart building on the Eindhovenscheweg, on the condition that we act nicely, and also fix up the premises. I spent many happy afternoons and twilights there, swilling tea and smoking dark stinky Latakia blends in my pipe. It was just up the road from the aforementioned tobacconist.]
A long time ago, Plane Tree Lane ("Plataanlaan") past the Hertog Jan College was a spooky deserted area permanently in the shade from the old growth, but the last time I saw it it seemed gilded with sunlight, although still haphazardly unpaved and bumpy.
I don't know why I didn't remember it being beautiful.
Perhaps because one of my sadistic physical education teachers forced us all to jog in this section of the woods for hours, in lieu of anything more creative in the field of exercise.
Rain, sleet, frost and fog, occasionally snow.
I wonder if any of the kids at the high school ever got picked off and eaten by trolls there because of him.
THE ENDS OF THE EARTH
The town peters-out abruptly beyond this point. It's a half hour by bike to Eindhoven, which counts as the nearest big city. But Eindhoven, though exotic and foreign, never seemed as special.
It was simply where teenage boys went to buy smutty magazines.
Not a very exciting place, all things considered.
Stranger food. And worse coffee.
Valkenswaard is one of the navels of the world.
The centre of its own discrete universe.
Timeless, and stil fragrant.
APPENDICES
CIGAR COMPANIES FOUNDED IN VALKENSWAARD
A. Brangers; Botycos; Erba (N.V. Gijrath's Sigarenfabrieken); Firma Baeten; Firma Gebroeders Jeurissen; Firma H. Kersten & Co.; Firma Van Aken & Van Veldhoven, Firma Van Hoof-Swinkels; Firma Van Veldhoven en Van Der Heijde; Firma W. Helling en Co.; G. Plompen & Co.; Gebroeders Neijnens (Neijnens Brothers); Gebroeders Rijkers (Rijkers Brothers); Gebroeders Van Best (Van Best Brothers, Hollandia brand); Hofnar; H. Kinjet (Hamilton brand); Holland-Amerika; J. Heesterbeek & Co.; J. Peters; J. Smulders; Lord Carnavon; N.V. Jasneva (Jaspers & Snellens; Hendrick Hudson cigars); S. de Louwere; Taberna (Chris Van De Kerkhof & Zoon); Texas Sigaren Fabriek (Firma Hoekx en Maas, "Texas Tips"); Theo van Gerven; Van Aken & Co.;Willem II.
Et mult altres.
Altogether, there were over seventy brands from this town.
Only Hofnar and Willem II survived past the sixties.
SOME TOBACCOS USED IN DUTCH CIGARS
MAJOR TYPES:
Sumatra, which is soft, silky and thin; of an even light-medium hue, fragrant and almost floral. Often used for wrapper ("dekblad"; capa).
Java (Besuki regencies), thicker and a little coarser, stronger than Sumatra, and while naturally aromatic, it is a drier fragrance, more incense like and resinous. Both binder ("omblad"; banda, capote, ) and filler.
Brazilian, having both a spiciness as well as a sweetness; filler only ("binnengoed", tripa).
Cuba, also called Havana, a rich-tasting medium full leaf from Pinar del Río with a broad flavour palette, earthy and somewhat "salty".
Often used condimentally as part of the filler melange.
Finer qualities are suitable as wrapper leaves.
It feels "toothy" to the finger tips.
LESSER TYPES:
Varinas, that being the name for Venezuelan crops from Varinas and neighboring provinces, a fine delicate leaf of chestnut colour, medium strength.
Manila, sweeter and less aromatic than Java, but more uniform in hue.
Mexican, very similar to Cuban in appearance, touch, and flavour, but less finely cultivated and cured.
Domingo, Santo Domingo; a fragrant light coloured leaf of excellent aroma, suitable for long filler, though the finest leaves will be used as wrappers.
Porto Rico is suitable only for filler due to variable colouration, but it adds a sweetness. It is more often used to make 'krul tabak' ("curly"), that being a single-type pipe tobacco formerly both cheap and popular.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Here lie the landscapes that inspire, and will cause obsession.
They form and malform the visual imagination.
Malleable points of reference.
Dreams.
And madness.
A family from California once headed in this direction, and settled down.
It appeared to be a good idea at the time.
TENANT FARMERS, SAND, AND FALCONRY
Valkenswaard, which lies in the east of this area, is equidistant from Eindhoven to the north and the Belgian border southwards. Pine forests start on the north side of town, fields stretch to the Dommel river on the west, and farms give way to the Malpy Fens a few miles before the frontier.
It seems isolated, but nowhere in the entire benelux is truly distant from anywhere.
Not if you receive deliveries from Blackwell's Bookstore in Oxford.
Book deliveries from the civilized world, Dundee Marmalade, Twinings Tea, and tinned plumpudding, are the mark of exiles worldwide. Along with Rattrays tobacco blends, and the Balkan Sobranie smoking mixture.
Having returned to the United States long ago, what I really want nowadays is the occasional pouch of Heerenbaai Tabak, which is ribbon-cut Maryland leaf, soft and fragrant ("zacht en geurig"), strong Dutch coffee, and, naturally, deep fried objects that cannot be described.
[Strong Dutch Coffee: most of the still extant native brands are now of questionable provenance, having been buggered up by an American company, then off-shored, and finally associated with yet another miserable American multinational in a German guise.]
Our house was diagonally opposite the Saint Nicholas Church, next to the Kerkweg. Driessen's drugstore was on the other side of the Kerkweg. The police station was down the block, facing the apotheek as well as the old Amsterdam Bank building across the square.
Small businesses, grocery stores, wholesalers of dry goods, household goods, banks, a bicycle repair shop, and insurance companies, alternating with private dwellings and the occasional eatery.
There weren't very many cafes or restaurants in the centre of town then, but the last time I went back for a visit, every other building on the Markt Plein, Luikerweg, Leenderweg, and elsewhere had been turned into an eatery or drinking hole. Mostly drinking holes.
My childhood home is now a bar.
From this you might assume that alcoholism presents a major business opportunity in Valkenswaard, and you would probably be right. But tobacco has a much stronger history. At one time there were over two dozen small cigar factories. They're gone now, but they are fondly remembered. The last two (Hofnar and Willem II) shut down in the nineteen eighties and nineties respectively. Nearly every family had based its march from the grinding poverty of the nineteenth century to the middle-class prosperity of the twenty first by means of employment in the smoking trade.
[Small cigar factories: Starting in 1865 when falconer Jan van Best established a small manufactury with money he had been left by a patron, there were over twenty such by the end of second decade of the twentieth century, employing leaf-strippers, bunchers, rollers, and warehousemen. Mostly younger women rolled the narrower diameter smokes, more practised hands produced the coronas and figurados. By the midtwenties, nearly half of the working population was employed in tobacco. It was an occupation that for over a century seldom experienced unemployment.]
When I was a child, tobacco was not part of my personal programme yet. But coffee, French fries, and the occasional unidentifiable fast-food comestible, along with books, definitely had a place in my life.
[Unidentifiable fast-food comestibles: frikandel, kroket, bami bal, nasi bal. Delicious.]
Every Wednesday afternoon I would park my bicycle outside of Priem's bookstore, go in, and spend two or three hours happily reading. They didn't have much in English, but their selection of fun stuff in Dutch was rather good, as was the section with comic books. They are still in business, and flourishing more than ever.
On a rainy afternoon, nothing was more enjoyable than forgetting the entire world while safe and dry amidst books.
Eventually I also discovered De Slegte in Eindhoven, as well as autres bibliothèques et librairies, but in Valkenswaard, Priem was an oasis.
I shall imagine that later crops of young people have also gratefully discovered the place, and likewise savoured time spent there.
Boekhandel Priem is a priceless treasure.
It's where the world begins.
THE TIME OF FRAGRANT LEAVES
The tobacconist next door to Priem is no longer in business, but far further down the Eindhovensche Weg the shop where I picked up tins of Balkan Sobranie and wonderful cigar factory seconds during my high school years has been transformed into Compaenen van Ravenstein, an emporium of luxury smokers requisites, including both Cubanos as well as Dutch cigars, and a selection of wines which might be enjoyed with your smoke.
They don't appear to be set up for internet purchases, but they can be contacted: write a letter to Messrs Meulensteen.
Returning to the United States after a trip back years ago, my luggage was filled with Dutch literature and cigars. Approaching customs I staggered under the weight, and was filthy, sweaty, exhausted.
"Do you have anything to declare?"
"No sir, not a thing."
"What's in your bags?"
"Books and dirty laundry. Lots of dirty laundry."
"I see..... Welcome home."
There's something about a fine Dutch cheroot that makes life grand.
It's worth suffering for.
The store is now in its second or third generation of ownership, and bigger and better than ever. Harry van Ravenstein, who sold the business in 2008, knows all about pairing pipe-tobacco and Scotch Whisky.
Which is priceless information.
THE ROAD TO THE REST OF THE WORLD
Closer to the Meerendreef, which marks the northern boundary of the settlement, the old house with the straw thatched roof where rats lived above the residents is, of course, a precious architectural masterpiece, and carefully preserved. We had a chance to buy it, and chose not to.
My mother did not want to sleep under so much combustible material.
Or the rats. For some reason she wasn't okay with rats.
I passed it every day during my teenage years.
It looked like a comfortable house.
The High School to which I went no longer exists -- conceivably too many brilliant graduates went on to stints in prison for brigandage or incendiary activities -- and the youth club where I hatched any number of plots to take over the world, along with several dissolute comrades of a similar bent, closed many years ago also.
[Youth club: Jeugdociëteit Parsifal. Formerly Aquaradius, in the Draaikolk building on the Maastrichterweg, where it was on the top floor, and, apparently, considered a serious nuisance. When that location was closed down, the intellectual rowdies invaded a working men's bar near Willem II for over a year, until the municipality relented and rented us an abandoned and falling apart building on the Eindhovenscheweg, on the condition that we act nicely, and also fix up the premises. I spent many happy afternoons and twilights there, swilling tea and smoking dark stinky Latakia blends in my pipe. It was just up the road from the aforementioned tobacconist.]
A long time ago, Plane Tree Lane ("Plataanlaan") past the Hertog Jan College was a spooky deserted area permanently in the shade from the old growth, but the last time I saw it it seemed gilded with sunlight, although still haphazardly unpaved and bumpy.
I don't know why I didn't remember it being beautiful.
Perhaps because one of my sadistic physical education teachers forced us all to jog in this section of the woods for hours, in lieu of anything more creative in the field of exercise.
Rain, sleet, frost and fog, occasionally snow.
I wonder if any of the kids at the high school ever got picked off and eaten by trolls there because of him.
THE ENDS OF THE EARTH
The town peters-out abruptly beyond this point. It's a half hour by bike to Eindhoven, which counts as the nearest big city. But Eindhoven, though exotic and foreign, never seemed as special.
It was simply where teenage boys went to buy smutty magazines.
Not a very exciting place, all things considered.
Stranger food. And worse coffee.
Valkenswaard is one of the navels of the world.
The centre of its own discrete universe.
Timeless, and stil fragrant.
APPENDICES
CIGAR COMPANIES FOUNDED IN VALKENSWAARD
A. Brangers; Botycos; Erba (N.V. Gijrath's Sigarenfabrieken); Firma Baeten; Firma Gebroeders Jeurissen; Firma H. Kersten & Co.; Firma Van Aken & Van Veldhoven, Firma Van Hoof-Swinkels; Firma Van Veldhoven en Van Der Heijde; Firma W. Helling en Co.; G. Plompen & Co.; Gebroeders Neijnens (Neijnens Brothers); Gebroeders Rijkers (Rijkers Brothers); Gebroeders Van Best (Van Best Brothers, Hollandia brand); Hofnar; H. Kinjet (Hamilton brand); Holland-Amerika; J. Heesterbeek & Co.; J. Peters; J. Smulders; Lord Carnavon; N.V. Jasneva (Jaspers & Snellens; Hendrick Hudson cigars); S. de Louwere; Taberna (Chris Van De Kerkhof & Zoon); Texas Sigaren Fabriek (Firma Hoekx en Maas, "Texas Tips"); Theo van Gerven; Van Aken & Co.;Willem II.
Et mult altres.
Altogether, there were over seventy brands from this town.
Only Hofnar and Willem II survived past the sixties.
SOME TOBACCOS USED IN DUTCH CIGARS
MAJOR TYPES:
Sumatra, which is soft, silky and thin; of an even light-medium hue, fragrant and almost floral. Often used for wrapper ("dekblad"; capa).
Java (Besuki regencies), thicker and a little coarser, stronger than Sumatra, and while naturally aromatic, it is a drier fragrance, more incense like and resinous. Both binder ("omblad"; banda, capote, ) and filler.
Brazilian, having both a spiciness as well as a sweetness; filler only ("binnengoed", tripa).
Cuba, also called Havana, a rich-tasting medium full leaf from Pinar del Río with a broad flavour palette, earthy and somewhat "salty".
Often used condimentally as part of the filler melange.
Finer qualities are suitable as wrapper leaves.
It feels "toothy" to the finger tips.
LESSER TYPES:
Varinas, that being the name for Venezuelan crops from Varinas and neighboring provinces, a fine delicate leaf of chestnut colour, medium strength.
Manila, sweeter and less aromatic than Java, but more uniform in hue.
Mexican, very similar to Cuban in appearance, touch, and flavour, but less finely cultivated and cured.
Domingo, Santo Domingo; a fragrant light coloured leaf of excellent aroma, suitable for long filler, though the finest leaves will be used as wrappers.
Porto Rico is suitable only for filler due to variable colouration, but it adds a sweetness. It is more often used to make 'krul tabak' ("curly"), that being a single-type pipe tobacco formerly both cheap and popular.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, September 06, 2015
BIG BREASTS ARE UPON US!
Twice within twenty four hours I have been confronted with humongous tatas. Gazongas that make one scream "good gracious!". No, I haven't been hanging out at strip clubs or the Playboy Mansion. Those are by no means environments I find conducive. The problem is average Joe cigar smokers; many of them are attracted to large-bosomed women.
It must be the pheromones exuded by oily skin.
That, plus a simplicity of intellect.
Large bosomed women appreciate all that. Much more than they could possibly ever value the inherent subtlety and wit of men who smoke fine Virginias or Medium Latakia Mixtures in their pipes. Which is all far too impossibly finicky and complicated for women of huge bazoomb and unexercised mind.
Four days a week I come in contact with cigars during the course of the working day. It is both a blessing and a curse. The blessing is high-quality tobacco, the curse is the armpit-scratching cavemen of Marin.
As well as the bazoombacious monsters for whom they fall.
Okay, now that I've got the obligatory sneering and insulting of stogie-chompers out of the way .....
Even though I am a pipe smoker, I actually like cigars. I can't help it.
I grew up in a town which at one point had over two dozen cigar factories (Valkenswaard), although by the latter part of the twentieth century the number had been reduced to two (Hofnar and Willem II), then one. When I last visited, Hofnar was long gone, and the once brand-new office building of Willem II was being torn down.
Eindhoven, the nearest metropolis (yes, that's what it seemed like at the time), had been "The City That Smokes" ('La Ville Fumée') well before old Fritz established his light-bulb factory there.
Cigars are part of a balanced life.
More germane to this essay, however, are all the elegant ladies and lovely women who smoke cigars.
At the present time I know of several, including 'The World's Cutest Cigar Smoker', who really should copyright that nickname.
It speaks of a strong mind when a woman knows her cigars, and has discriminating taste in that area. Stubbornness, yes, but tempered by confidence and sound intelligence.
Such a person is not easily swayed by common praeconceptions, and chooses to ignore the unknowing judgementalism of the herd.
In Valkenswaard there were quite a few women who liked cigars -- not all of them limited themselves to the local product; some of them had a fondness for Cubans -- and most of these exemplary persons had an independent streak that was praiseworthy indeed.
One of them had smuggled guns and ammo during the war, and lots of other things in the years since. Another was a notoriously toughminded and capable local politician, whom one would rather not cross.
A third was a schoolteacher, very inspiring!
And so on. You get the idea.
The perfect cigar for a woman is, probably, a robusto (one of the most popular shapes in America), or a toro. Either Nicaraguan tobacco from Esteli and Jalapa, or something in the Arturo Fuente range.
Padrons, Perdomos, Olivas.
Nothing small and effete. Nor a big whomping Salomon or gordo that screams "I have a very tiny penis". The 6x60 and the 7x70 are, of course, quite ridiculous. The cigar-smoking woman need not prove her manhood, and should naturally sneer at the problem cases who do.
Smokers of enormous cigars have issues.
And are probably very small.
Almost all are men.
Wee men.
I actually prefer a toro, because the pointy end makes it easier for me to hold it in my mouth while working, whereas some other vitolas cause unfortunate drooling, rather like a slobbery blood hound.
Perfectos too. The perfecto is a classic shape.
Many of the finest brands do a perfecto.
Including Dutch companies.
The World's Cutest Cigar Smoker prefers something between five and seven inches. Remember that. It's an important bit of information.
The best things in life come in likable dimensions.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It must be the pheromones exuded by oily skin.
That, plus a simplicity of intellect.
Large bosomed women appreciate all that. Much more than they could possibly ever value the inherent subtlety and wit of men who smoke fine Virginias or Medium Latakia Mixtures in their pipes. Which is all far too impossibly finicky and complicated for women of huge bazoomb and unexercised mind.
Four days a week I come in contact with cigars during the course of the working day. It is both a blessing and a curse. The blessing is high-quality tobacco, the curse is the armpit-scratching cavemen of Marin.
As well as the bazoombacious monsters for whom they fall.
Okay, now that I've got the obligatory sneering and insulting of stogie-chompers out of the way .....
Even though I am a pipe smoker, I actually like cigars. I can't help it.
I grew up in a town which at one point had over two dozen cigar factories (Valkenswaard), although by the latter part of the twentieth century the number had been reduced to two (Hofnar and Willem II), then one. When I last visited, Hofnar was long gone, and the once brand-new office building of Willem II was being torn down.
Eindhoven, the nearest metropolis (yes, that's what it seemed like at the time), had been "The City That Smokes" ('La Ville Fumée') well before old Fritz established his light-bulb factory there.
Cigars are part of a balanced life.
More germane to this essay, however, are all the elegant ladies and lovely women who smoke cigars.
At the present time I know of several, including 'The World's Cutest Cigar Smoker', who really should copyright that nickname.
It speaks of a strong mind when a woman knows her cigars, and has discriminating taste in that area. Stubbornness, yes, but tempered by confidence and sound intelligence.
Such a person is not easily swayed by common praeconceptions, and chooses to ignore the unknowing judgementalism of the herd.
In Valkenswaard there were quite a few women who liked cigars -- not all of them limited themselves to the local product; some of them had a fondness for Cubans -- and most of these exemplary persons had an independent streak that was praiseworthy indeed.
One of them had smuggled guns and ammo during the war, and lots of other things in the years since. Another was a notoriously toughminded and capable local politician, whom one would rather not cross.
A third was a schoolteacher, very inspiring!
And so on. You get the idea.
The perfect cigar for a woman is, probably, a robusto (one of the most popular shapes in America), or a toro. Either Nicaraguan tobacco from Esteli and Jalapa, or something in the Arturo Fuente range.
Padrons, Perdomos, Olivas.
Nothing small and effete. Nor a big whomping Salomon or gordo that screams "I have a very tiny penis". The 6x60 and the 7x70 are, of course, quite ridiculous. The cigar-smoking woman need not prove her manhood, and should naturally sneer at the problem cases who do.
Smokers of enormous cigars have issues.
And are probably very small.
Almost all are men.
Wee men.
I actually prefer a toro, because the pointy end makes it easier for me to hold it in my mouth while working, whereas some other vitolas cause unfortunate drooling, rather like a slobbery blood hound.
Perfectos too. The perfecto is a classic shape.
Many of the finest brands do a perfecto.
Including Dutch companies.
The World's Cutest Cigar Smoker prefers something between five and seven inches. Remember that. It's an important bit of information.
The best things in life come in likable dimensions.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, December 27, 2014
SPALTED TAMARIND: FOR THE BENEFIT OF CHINESE CIGAR SMOKERS
Sometimes you can tell where someone is from even before they open their mouth. In this case, both mother and son looked like they were northerners, and when they spoke privately among themselves, their pronunciation had that furry rolling quality one associates almost only with Peking. Except for a few brilliant people in Chinatown who can fake it marvelously well.
The place where the bookseller and I have drinkies once a week is not a place where one may hear it, though. It is undoubtedly rare there. Usually what one hears is snarled Taiwanese Mandarin, and curse-word laden Cantonese. Both of which have their own charms, but they aren't decent Beijing-hua (北京話 'pak king waa').
The mother and son were indeed from Peking.
I asked, and they affirmed my guess.
Both were naturally pale.
Very northern.
One of the items which they ended up with was a Xikar Xi3ST.
That being a spalted tamarind double bladed cigar cutter.
一把漬紋酸豆木的西卡(牌)雪加剪刀。
Tamarind was easy to translate. Either "sour bean tree" (酸豆木 'suāndòu mù', 'suen dau muk') or "gauzy view thingy tree" (羅望子木 'luōwàng-zi mù', 'lo mong ji muk'). Either term is used for tamarind, which does not grow anywhere near Peking, so it makes no difference which name you use.
The brand name (品牌名 'pǐnpái míng', 'ban paai meng') is transcribed as "western wedge" (西卡 'xīkǎ', 'sai kaa').
The product is a "snow add" scissor (雪加剪刀 'xuějiā jiǎndāo', 'suet gaa jin dou').
Note: Cantonese transcription of cigar.
許多種的木材當受到外傷或真菌感染刺激會產生顏色條紋。
[Several kinds of trees produce variously hued stripes if they are traumatized by fungus or damage.]
There is no exact word for spalting in Chinese, but it can be described as "soak tracing" (漬紋 'zìwén', 'ji man').
漬紋 (淺顏色的木頭或深色)：如果感染了真菌，淺色木變成深色。
"'Spalting' (light coloured wood versus dark): if infected with fungus, the lighter hued material becomes darker".
Xikar is a great brand. Well-made, durable, and a life-time guarantee.
They also do cigar lighters; single jet, double, or triple jet.
Here in the San Francisco Bay Area (三藩市灣區 'Sānfānshì-wān qū', 'saam faan si waan keui'), Cantonese (粵語，廣東話 'Yuèyǔ', 'Guǎngdōnghuà'; 'yuet yü','gwong tung waa') is more widely spoken than Mandarin (國語，普通話 'Guóyǔ', 'Pǔtōnghuà', 'gwok yü', 'pou tong waa'), and usually far more useful. My ability with Mandarin is bollocky (真可怕的) at best. Hence the inclusion of the southern pronunciation after the pinyin.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The place where the bookseller and I have drinkies once a week is not a place where one may hear it, though. It is undoubtedly rare there. Usually what one hears is snarled Taiwanese Mandarin, and curse-word laden Cantonese. Both of which have their own charms, but they aren't decent Beijing-hua (北京話 'pak king waa').
The mother and son were indeed from Peking.
I asked, and they affirmed my guess.
Both were naturally pale.
Very northern.
One of the items which they ended up with was a Xikar Xi3ST.
That being a spalted tamarind double bladed cigar cutter.
一把漬紋酸豆木的西卡(牌)雪加剪刀。
Tamarind was easy to translate. Either "sour bean tree" (酸豆木 'suāndòu mù', 'suen dau muk') or "gauzy view thingy tree" (羅望子木 'luōwàng-zi mù', 'lo mong ji muk'). Either term is used for tamarind, which does not grow anywhere near Peking, so it makes no difference which name you use.
The brand name (品牌名 'pǐnpái míng', 'ban paai meng') is transcribed as "western wedge" (西卡 'xīkǎ', 'sai kaa').
The product is a "snow add" scissor (雪加剪刀 'xuějiā jiǎndāo', 'suet gaa jin dou').
Note: Cantonese transcription of cigar.
許多種的木材當受到外傷或真菌感染刺激會產生顏色條紋。
[Several kinds of trees produce variously hued stripes if they are traumatized by fungus or damage.]
There is no exact word for spalting in Chinese, but it can be described as "soak tracing" (漬紋 'zìwén', 'ji man').
漬紋 (淺顏色的木頭或深色)：如果感染了真菌，淺色木變成深色。
"'Spalting' (light coloured wood versus dark): if infected with fungus, the lighter hued material becomes darker".
Xikar is a great brand. Well-made, durable, and a life-time guarantee.
They also do cigar lighters; single jet, double, or triple jet.
Here in the San Francisco Bay Area (三藩市灣區 'Sānfānshì-wān qū', 'saam faan si waan keui'), Cantonese (粵語，廣東話 'Yuèyǔ', 'Guǎngdōnghuà'; 'yuet yü','gwong tung waa') is more widely spoken than Mandarin (國語，普通話 'Guóyǔ', 'Pǔtōnghuà', 'gwok yü', 'pou tong waa'), and usually far more useful. My ability with Mandarin is bollocky (真可怕的) at best. Hence the inclusion of the southern pronunciation after the pinyin.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, December 25, 2014
CUBAN CIGARS WILL NOT BE AVAILABLE ANYTIME SOON
For several days now the giddy masses have been happily speculating that Havanas will be stocked by tobacconists within weeks. Some are more sober, conceding that it might be a few months. On the other hand, any number have been insanely demanding "where's da Cubans, bro, dey iz legal now!" Dammit, they want their Cubans!
All in all this is rather like a bunch of wannabe gangsta rappers hooting at a pole dance. The twirly girl up on stage is unavailable, and not in their league. But she's close, so close! Sweat pearls their pimply brows.
A truly realistic person knows it ain't gonna happen.
There are still several obstacles.
"BUT WON'T THOSE SYPHILITIC BASTARDS IN CONGRESS WANT CUBANS THEMSELVES?!?"
For one thing, the embargo is still in place, and won't be lifted anytime soon. While the President and the State Department can create a smoother diplomatic relationship with our long-time enemy, it is Congress that will decide when and if to ease trade restrictions.
Given that Congress is filled with constipated hacks and ideological swine, that will probably take several months at least, even years.
"But won't the syphilitic bastards want to buy Cubans themselves?" I hear you ask. "Surely the venal thugs who run this country should like to indulge in good cigars?"
No.
Those of them that like a good smoke already have them. The embargo has not affected them in the slightest, and has in fact added an exclusiveness and mystique to the cheroots they flaunt.
Their aides and friends already have them parcelled in from tobacconists in Switzerland, Spain, and Australia. At prices which are not out of line with other cigars in any case, with reasonable guarantees that the supplier will refund or replace any that get seized by the authorities. They've got their sources, the embargo does not affect them. The same goes for their financial backers.
Congress people who are NOT into fine cigars, on the other hand, are probably in the same camp as the fanatical anti-tobacco activists, and will as usual whore themselves out to a key demographic.
Their interest lies in preventing access.
And then there's the FDA.
For cigarettes, the FDA has to approve the products for sale. If Cubans are categorized as ciggies (not at all unlikely), the process is arduous, and the chances incredibly slim. Did you ever wonder why all those lovely European smokes you enjoyed during your continental holiday could not be found in the States? The FDA hasn't allowed them in.
You can thank the anti-smoking nuts for that one; it was because of them that we have the Family Smoking Prevention and Tobacco Control Act of 2009.
For cigars and pipe tobaccos it is still a little easier, but there are plans to narrow the exemptions those products currently enjoy, which explains why some pipe tobaccos have already disappeared entirely, while others are now being made in the U.S. rather than coming from abroad.
In any case, control over smoking products now rests with a federal bureaucracy heavily slanted toward protectionism AND sneering disapproval of a fond habit. Suck it up, bitches.
WHO OWNS WHAT?
One other little issue will stump the issue for years to come, and provide a comfortable living for a generation of lawyers: trademarks. Most of the famous brandnames have double representation. Outside of the United States the ownership lies with the Cuban government and its henchmen, who dispossessed nearly every company or family that was vested in the industry, and seized the factories.
Because of the embargo, those trademarks were not exercised in the United States, which meant that when they lapsed (ref: Lanham Act, "abandonment", 15 U.S.C. § 1127), they were claimed -- often by or on behalf of the original owners -- and in consequence there are Monte Cristos, Cohibas, Partagas, Upmans, and several other famous brands represented in the U.S. by excellent non-Cuban products. It should also be particularly noted that the quality of the cigars available in the United States is far higher than what the rest of the world accepts.
Of the twenty five top cigars for 2014, only three are Habanos. Many more, including the number one cigar, come from Central America.
Consider these three names: Oliva, Padron, Perdomo.
Solid Nicaraguans, better than Havanas.
As are also many Dominicans.
And Hondurans.
[And don't overlook Arturo Fuente. Grown men weep when deprived of their Arturo Fuentes.
As well as Illusione, Flor De Las Antilles, La Aroma De Cuba, LFDs, Aging Room...
Matilde, San Cristobal, Litto Gomez, Alec Bradley.]
The fight over trademarks and intellectual property rights will make the import of Cubans into the United States a long slog. The probability is that the products imported soonest will be flying under imaginative flags of convenience -- Don Salami, Don Frijole y Cia, Empresas Tomas Elculo, Pulgadoras -- and not very good.
The plain fact of the matter is that the famous brands will only be commercially available once the legal issues have been settled.
Who gets to import these and supply them to the trade is also a problematic legal situation, as irrespective of their current non-availability, several companies already own rights or have claims that are in play.
Lastly, there's the matter of production. Currently Cuba takes less time to bring cigars to market than many non-Cuban brands which age their tobacco before rolling the product, then let the flavours marry over another several months or years of maturing. Many of the finest cigars that you purchase today started off as seedlings over five years ago. And because they face an uphill struggle against the damned-fool herd's blind loyalty to Cuban leaf, their quality control and attention to detail are much higher than anything in Havana. The Nicaraguans previously mentioned again come to mind, as well as Davidoff, which was so displeased with the shoddiness of Castro's factories that they withdrew completely from the island more than a quarter of a century ago.
Only the top Cubans will be in a position to compete.
That's far fewer brands than you might think.
Manufacturing will need to be geared up for the North American market, distribution and supply issues worked out, brandnames and marketing campaigns re-thought or tweaked.......
And that will only happen after the embargo is lifted, and after all the legal battles.
NO ES FACIL
Good Cuban cigars will always be an expensive luxury product. Mediocre crap, however, won't be worth smoking even with a famous name, shan't compete against the fine smokes now available all across the country, and as usual will be sold primarily to Spaniards.
There may be some Havanas at your local tobacco paradise within three or four years. By five or six years from now, a few highly regarded brands will also have representation. At unsurprisingly premium cigar prices.
But by then you might not be allowed to smoke anything.
Because even that privilege is under threat.
Except of course for marijuana.
Which is "medicinal".
Therapeutic."
In short: Embargo. FDA. Legalities. Logistics. Supply. Marketing.
And politicians. Always politicians.
Plus lots of crap.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
All in all this is rather like a bunch of wannabe gangsta rappers hooting at a pole dance. The twirly girl up on stage is unavailable, and not in their league. But she's close, so close! Sweat pearls their pimply brows.
A truly realistic person knows it ain't gonna happen.
There are still several obstacles.
"BUT WON'T THOSE SYPHILITIC BASTARDS IN CONGRESS WANT CUBANS THEMSELVES?!?"
For one thing, the embargo is still in place, and won't be lifted anytime soon. While the President and the State Department can create a smoother diplomatic relationship with our long-time enemy, it is Congress that will decide when and if to ease trade restrictions.
Given that Congress is filled with constipated hacks and ideological swine, that will probably take several months at least, even years.
"But won't the syphilitic bastards want to buy Cubans themselves?" I hear you ask. "Surely the venal thugs who run this country should like to indulge in good cigars?"
No.
Those of them that like a good smoke already have them. The embargo has not affected them in the slightest, and has in fact added an exclusiveness and mystique to the cheroots they flaunt.
Their aides and friends already have them parcelled in from tobacconists in Switzerland, Spain, and Australia. At prices which are not out of line with other cigars in any case, with reasonable guarantees that the supplier will refund or replace any that get seized by the authorities. They've got their sources, the embargo does not affect them. The same goes for their financial backers.
Congress people who are NOT into fine cigars, on the other hand, are probably in the same camp as the fanatical anti-tobacco activists, and will as usual whore themselves out to a key demographic.
Their interest lies in preventing access.
And then there's the FDA.
For cigarettes, the FDA has to approve the products for sale. If Cubans are categorized as ciggies (not at all unlikely), the process is arduous, and the chances incredibly slim. Did you ever wonder why all those lovely European smokes you enjoyed during your continental holiday could not be found in the States? The FDA hasn't allowed them in.
You can thank the anti-smoking nuts for that one; it was because of them that we have the Family Smoking Prevention and Tobacco Control Act of 2009.
For cigars and pipe tobaccos it is still a little easier, but there are plans to narrow the exemptions those products currently enjoy, which explains why some pipe tobaccos have already disappeared entirely, while others are now being made in the U.S. rather than coming from abroad.
In any case, control over smoking products now rests with a federal bureaucracy heavily slanted toward protectionism AND sneering disapproval of a fond habit. Suck it up, bitches.
WHO OWNS WHAT?
One other little issue will stump the issue for years to come, and provide a comfortable living for a generation of lawyers: trademarks. Most of the famous brandnames have double representation. Outside of the United States the ownership lies with the Cuban government and its henchmen, who dispossessed nearly every company or family that was vested in the industry, and seized the factories.
Because of the embargo, those trademarks were not exercised in the United States, which meant that when they lapsed (ref: Lanham Act, "abandonment", 15 U.S.C. § 1127), they were claimed -- often by or on behalf of the original owners -- and in consequence there are Monte Cristos, Cohibas, Partagas, Upmans, and several other famous brands represented in the U.S. by excellent non-Cuban products. It should also be particularly noted that the quality of the cigars available in the United States is far higher than what the rest of the world accepts.
Of the twenty five top cigars for 2014, only three are Habanos. Many more, including the number one cigar, come from Central America.
Consider these three names: Oliva, Padron, Perdomo.
Solid Nicaraguans, better than Havanas.
As are also many Dominicans.
And Hondurans.
[And don't overlook Arturo Fuente. Grown men weep when deprived of their Arturo Fuentes.
As well as Illusione, Flor De Las Antilles, La Aroma De Cuba, LFDs, Aging Room...
Matilde, San Cristobal, Litto Gomez, Alec Bradley.]
The fight over trademarks and intellectual property rights will make the import of Cubans into the United States a long slog. The probability is that the products imported soonest will be flying under imaginative flags of convenience -- Don Salami, Don Frijole y Cia, Empresas Tomas Elculo, Pulgadoras -- and not very good.
The plain fact of the matter is that the famous brands will only be commercially available once the legal issues have been settled.
Who gets to import these and supply them to the trade is also a problematic legal situation, as irrespective of their current non-availability, several companies already own rights or have claims that are in play.
Lastly, there's the matter of production. Currently Cuba takes less time to bring cigars to market than many non-Cuban brands which age their tobacco before rolling the product, then let the flavours marry over another several months or years of maturing. Many of the finest cigars that you purchase today started off as seedlings over five years ago. And because they face an uphill struggle against the damned-fool herd's blind loyalty to Cuban leaf, their quality control and attention to detail are much higher than anything in Havana. The Nicaraguans previously mentioned again come to mind, as well as Davidoff, which was so displeased with the shoddiness of Castro's factories that they withdrew completely from the island more than a quarter of a century ago.
Only the top Cubans will be in a position to compete.
That's far fewer brands than you might think.
Manufacturing will need to be geared up for the North American market, distribution and supply issues worked out, brandnames and marketing campaigns re-thought or tweaked.......
And that will only happen after the embargo is lifted, and after all the legal battles.
NO ES FACIL
Good Cuban cigars will always be an expensive luxury product. Mediocre crap, however, won't be worth smoking even with a famous name, shan't compete against the fine smokes now available all across the country, and as usual will be sold primarily to Spaniards.
But by then you might not be allowed to smoke anything.
Because even that privilege is under threat.
Except of course for marijuana.
Which is "medicinal".
Therapeutic."
In short: Embargo. FDA. Legalities. Logistics. Supply. Marketing.
And politicians. Always politicians.
Plus lots of crap.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, May 28, 2014
ONCE THE NICOTINE HITS THE ADRENAL MEDULLA
There are times when it feels that I am surrounded by Joe the Plumber. Or his spiritual acolytes. Largely this happens when I am in the company of cigar smokers. And there's the division: cigar smokers are mostly blinkered and thoughtless rightwing creeps, whereas many pipesmokers (such as myself) are thoughtful and nuanced liberal humanists.
Cigarette smokers are rather like gerbils.
It's all that nervous energy.
Spent nearly six hours with the cigar smokers today.
When I got home, I really needed a drink.
So I fixed a strong 鴛鴦.
Chilled out.
[鴛鴦 'Yuen yeung': A typical Hong Kong and Chinatown mixture of forty percent coffee sixty percent strong tea, plus sweetened condensed milk to pale it up.
Drunk hot. It's the condensed milk that makes it good.]
I'm all better now. Wired. Might not get to sleep for a while, but my sanity has returned. They're lovely people, those cheroot-whackers, despite their many flaws. And signs of barking madness.
If you hear strange noises and over-excited giggling in the night, it's the stogey puffing crowd.
THE TEA PARTY NATIONAL ANTHEM
[Source: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tO_WscoP_Ps.]
Yep. Gun-rights discussion today. Plus where to stick those Edge Cigars by Rocky Patel. Corojo & Maduro. And a bit about malnourished guide dogs. Whose intellectual horizons have shrunk, due to their jobs.
Guide dogs eventually get retired, often when they're old.
Horizons seldom expand for them, then.
On the positive side, they've become experts at baby-sitting humans, and have subtly assumed the rank of Alpha-male at that point.
Human person, you want to cross the street!
There's a fire hydrant over there.
And it smells fabulous!
Oh look, green light! Lets walk!
The minds of cigar smokers are easily distracted by blinky objects.
Whereas pipe-smokers stick to the subject.
It's intellectual rigour.
Two of my favourite cigar-smokers are vacationing in Cabo San Lucas this week. For both their sakes, I sincerely hope they remember to put sun-screen on their nipples.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Cigarette smokers are rather like gerbils.
It's all that nervous energy.
Spent nearly six hours with the cigar smokers today.
When I got home, I really needed a drink.
So I fixed a strong 鴛鴦.
Chilled out.
[鴛鴦 'Yuen yeung': A typical Hong Kong and Chinatown mixture of forty percent coffee sixty percent strong tea, plus sweetened condensed milk to pale it up.
Drunk hot. It's the condensed milk that makes it good.]
I'm all better now. Wired. Might not get to sleep for a while, but my sanity has returned. They're lovely people, those cheroot-whackers, despite their many flaws. And signs of barking madness.
If you hear strange noises and over-excited giggling in the night, it's the stogey puffing crowd.
THE TEA PARTY NATIONAL ANTHEM
[Source: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tO_WscoP_Ps.]
Yep. Gun-rights discussion today. Plus where to stick those Edge Cigars by Rocky Patel. Corojo & Maduro. And a bit about malnourished guide dogs. Whose intellectual horizons have shrunk, due to their jobs.
Guide dogs eventually get retired, often when they're old.
Horizons seldom expand for them, then.
On the positive side, they've become experts at baby-sitting humans, and have subtly assumed the rank of Alpha-male at that point.
Human person, you want to cross the street!
There's a fire hydrant over there.
And it smells fabulous!
Oh look, green light! Lets walk!
The minds of cigar smokers are easily distracted by blinky objects.
Whereas pipe-smokers stick to the subject.
It's intellectual rigour.
Two of my favourite cigar-smokers are vacationing in Cabo San Lucas this week. For both their sakes, I sincerely hope they remember to put sun-screen on their nipples.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
COHIBA, HOYO DE MONTERREY, LFD, MONTECRISTO, PARTAGAS, ROMEO Y JULIETA
Overhearing cigar-smokers discussing the dating scene is educational. Given that, vermin-like, they have a certain odour-spectrum which is so much more than mildly off-putting that their obstacles are higher than everyone else's, it is a remarkable wonder that they breed at all.
"Why are they not extinct" you might ask, "especially in California, where the only acceptable smells are tofu, marijuana, and recycling?"
I am as baffled as you are.
Yet the other day I had half an ear cocked sideways as several of them were discussing the dating sites of the world. On which some of the younger ones are a constant presence.
Apparently.
[Courtesy of e-kvetcher.]
What really makes cigar-smoker love-lives such a profound mystery -- other than their obsession with vegetal phallicism -- is that they largely manifest themselves only in the presence of others of their kind.
We pipe-smokers are not like that. We are at times the solitary lone wolf roaming the galaxies of urban America, wandering over San Francisco hills, or lurking in well-lit Tenderloin doorways wearing stylish trenchcoats and fedoras. But we are marked by bonhomie, social polish, and intellectual brilliance during those times when we come down from Olympus to mingle with the vibrant juicy mortals.
Darn it all, we are just so personable.
Cigar smokers aren't.
As, no doubt, you have yourself ascertained.
On your own. Upon investigation.
Intellectual curiosity.
Consequently, it may surprise you to know that sometimes, when I'm feeling totally degenerate, I also indulge in cigars. Not just the regular small cigarillos which function as my nicotine-delivery system of choice when time prevents enjoyment of a pipe, nor the strawberry or vanilla flavoured reeksticks marketed to teenagers and pot-smoking deviants (or trailertrash), but actual real cigars.
[One brand of such perfumed monstrosities is drenched in mango chocolate mint ice cream essence, others have bing cherry, licorice, peach, rum, toffee, or watermelon disguises. Recently I smelled excressence of grape from a deviant in a local park.
Don't go there.]
I too on occasion pong of Caribbean leaf. It's a character flaw.
My humidors are quite overflowing at present.
Double coronas, perfectos, toros.
Maduro, corojo, shade.
No candelas.
Later on this evening, however, I shall smoke small cigarillos while in a karaoke bar. Once a week, as has been the custom for nearly a quarter of a century, I visit the lower depths with a bookseller, as we explore the fascinating late night anthropology of San Francisco. Bad wine will be drunk in moderation, followed by good beer, then excellent whiskey. Songs will be sung (not by us), and strange events observed.
Cigar-smoker-like there will be no women in our vicinity.
Excepting the staff of certain establishments.
A man needs time to be a beast.
There will be no smokers of large cigars either.
We're not crazy; their conversation lags.
All they can talk about is sex.
And why it is missing from their lives.
Tomorrow we shall be sane and lovable again. Hello ladies, you may now pay attention please. But they will still be cigar smokers.
Alone and howling in the canyons.
This post is loveingly dedicated to Bob, Buck, Charlie, Dave, Jeff, Itzy, Lennie, Marvin, Mike, Nick, Patricio, Quentin, Rich, Simon, Tom, Urquhart, Vinnie, Winston, and Yamil, et alios quosdam similes.
As well as Fat P, who is unspeakable.
Neener neener neener.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
"Why are they not extinct" you might ask, "especially in California, where the only acceptable smells are tofu, marijuana, and recycling?"
I am as baffled as you are.
Yet the other day I had half an ear cocked sideways as several of them were discussing the dating sites of the world. On which some of the younger ones are a constant presence.
Apparently.
When they say "tell me about yourself", make it very clear that you are not a lizard or a newt. Say it firmly: "I am human, just like the rest of you", avoiding any sudden tongue movements.
[Courtesy of e-kvetcher.]
What really makes cigar-smoker love-lives such a profound mystery -- other than their obsession with vegetal phallicism -- is that they largely manifest themselves only in the presence of others of their kind.
We pipe-smokers are not like that. We are at times the solitary lone wolf roaming the galaxies of urban America, wandering over San Francisco hills, or lurking in well-lit Tenderloin doorways wearing stylish trenchcoats and fedoras. But we are marked by bonhomie, social polish, and intellectual brilliance during those times when we come down from Olympus to mingle with the vibrant juicy mortals.
Darn it all, we are just so personable.
Cigar smokers aren't.
As, no doubt, you have yourself ascertained.
On your own. Upon investigation.
Intellectual curiosity.
Consequently, it may surprise you to know that sometimes, when I'm feeling totally degenerate, I also indulge in cigars. Not just the regular small cigarillos which function as my nicotine-delivery system of choice when time prevents enjoyment of a pipe, nor the strawberry or vanilla flavoured reeksticks marketed to teenagers and pot-smoking deviants (or trailertrash), but actual real cigars.
[One brand of such perfumed monstrosities is drenched in mango chocolate mint ice cream essence, others have bing cherry, licorice, peach, rum, toffee, or watermelon disguises. Recently I smelled excressence of grape from a deviant in a local park.
Don't go there.]
I too on occasion pong of Caribbean leaf. It's a character flaw.
My humidors are quite overflowing at present.
Double coronas, perfectos, toros.
Maduro, corojo, shade.
No candelas.
Later on this evening, however, I shall smoke small cigarillos while in a karaoke bar. Once a week, as has been the custom for nearly a quarter of a century, I visit the lower depths with a bookseller, as we explore the fascinating late night anthropology of San Francisco. Bad wine will be drunk in moderation, followed by good beer, then excellent whiskey. Songs will be sung (not by us), and strange events observed.
Cigar-smoker-like there will be no women in our vicinity.
Excepting the staff of certain establishments.
A man needs time to be a beast.
There will be no smokers of large cigars either.
We're not crazy; their conversation lags.
All they can talk about is sex.
And why it is missing from their lives.
Tomorrow we shall be sane and lovable again. Hello ladies, you may now pay attention please. But they will still be cigar smokers.
Alone and howling in the canyons.
This post is loveingly dedicated to Bob, Buck, Charlie, Dave, Jeff, Itzy, Lennie, Marvin, Mike, Nick, Patricio, Quentin, Rich, Simon, Tom, Urquhart, Vinnie, Winston, and Yamil, et alios quosdam similes.
As well as Fat P, who is unspeakable.
Neener neener neener.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, March 16, 2014
CANTONESA, PURA Y DURA
Two young ladies on the bus. Which caused this blogger to forcefully repress his inner Humbert Humbert. No, they did NOT look like the slutty juvenile temptress that Vladimir Vladimirovich so tastefully described.
Too sweet and innocent.
As well as ladylike.
And refined.
Roundish faces, nice cheeks, elegant moth-antenna eyebrows, full lips and angry eyes. Features and physical characteristics that would make a dead man blush.
I shall not mention what I think their age might have been. Cantonese people always look far younger than they really are. One Cantonese gentleman I know is my age but looks many years more youthful.
So for all I know these two young ladies may already be college graduates. It's a talent.
Nor shall I describe them in any great detail. Any accurate explicatum would pull the perverts in. And there are already far too many such.
[Somewhere between twenty and forty would be my guess. Use your fermentive mind, and don't go nasty on the imaginary details. Though if you do, please imagine a savage slap upside your face.]
Neither one wore any scrap of Hello Kitty.
Not consciously alluring.
But, if they were employed at a cigar bar or tobacco shop, they'd make any damned cheroot seem smokeable. Precisely like my classmates years ago who successfully persuaded me as a young lad that the bolknak (which is the quintessence of a figurado vitola) would be an altogether excellent smoke. Or a tuitknak from Hajenius, Oud Kampen (La Reina), De Heeren van Ruysdael, or Justus van Maurik. Exquisite choices.
So elegant! So magnificently femmy wemmy!
Or, for men, masculinny-winnie.
Macho-wacho.
[Bolknak: a fat Dutch torpedo, pointy at both ends, with a gradual taper at the mouth end, a blunter taper at the tip. Tuitknak: a smaller more elegant version of the bolknak. Nearest equivalents are variations on the Perfecto, and it must be mentioned that Oliva makes an excellent version, although the La Libertad short perfecto is not to be sneezed at.]
If these two were selling smokes, the store would be empty of product in mere hours.
We're on fire now, dudes!
Delicious. Divine.
Delightful.
Sometimes I wish I were fifteen years younger.
Yes, ma'am, I will buy that cigar.
Can you light it for me?
Please note: I was going to edit out the creepazoid factor, but on second thought it had to stay. This blog veers close to the cusp of disturbing at times, which may be why some people read it.
It's sort of a hallmark.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Too sweet and innocent.
As well as ladylike.
And refined.
Roundish faces, nice cheeks, elegant moth-antenna eyebrows, full lips and angry eyes. Features and physical characteristics that would make a dead man blush.
I shall not mention what I think their age might have been. Cantonese people always look far younger than they really are. One Cantonese gentleman I know is my age but looks many years more youthful.
So for all I know these two young ladies may already be college graduates. It's a talent.
Nor shall I describe them in any great detail. Any accurate explicatum would pull the perverts in. And there are already far too many such.
[Somewhere between twenty and forty would be my guess. Use your fermentive mind, and don't go nasty on the imaginary details. Though if you do, please imagine a savage slap upside your face.]
Neither one wore any scrap of Hello Kitty.
Not consciously alluring.
But, if they were employed at a cigar bar or tobacco shop, they'd make any damned cheroot seem smokeable. Precisely like my classmates years ago who successfully persuaded me as a young lad that the bolknak (which is the quintessence of a figurado vitola) would be an altogether excellent smoke. Or a tuitknak from Hajenius, Oud Kampen (La Reina), De Heeren van Ruysdael, or Justus van Maurik. Exquisite choices.
So elegant! So magnificently femmy wemmy!
Or, for men, masculinny-winnie.
Macho-wacho.
[Bolknak: a fat Dutch torpedo, pointy at both ends, with a gradual taper at the mouth end, a blunter taper at the tip. Tuitknak: a smaller more elegant version of the bolknak. Nearest equivalents are variations on the Perfecto, and it must be mentioned that Oliva makes an excellent version, although the La Libertad short perfecto is not to be sneezed at.]
If these two were selling smokes, the store would be empty of product in mere hours.
We're on fire now, dudes!
Delicious. Divine.
Delightful.
Sometimes I wish I were fifteen years younger.
Yes, ma'am, I will buy that cigar.
Can you light it for me?
Please note: I was going to edit out the creepazoid factor, but on second thought it had to stay. This blog veers close to the cusp of disturbing at times, which may be why some people read it.
It's sort of a hallmark.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, March 15, 2014
WHERE SMOKING IS PERMITTED
Due entirely to my enjoyment of the company of certain people, my Saturday evening routine is set in stone. No change is possible, except within certain parameters. Basically, return to the city and eat dinner in Chinatown, at one of several restaurants where the wait-staff consists entirely of pleasant women who speak Cantonese better than any other language, and would never consider me romantic material no matter what the circumstance. There's no threat there, just a measure of mutual respect.
Most of them are not so young (timorous eighteen somethings) as to realistically still be looking; either they're married already, or heading into a singular and unique maturity.
A few of them qualify as "aunty" (阿姨 'ah yi').
Excellent food, no theatre majors, artists, or snoots.
After that, over to an environment where most of the patrons are either middle aged, or men, or both. Where smoking is permitted.
A CIGAR CLUB
There are a few individuals there whose company is always enjoyable. Yes, I've frequently had pleasant conversations with other folks there, but many people cannot get beyond the voice, the range of facts at my finger tips, the vocabulary, and the sheer oddness of my frames of reference.
Not boasting.
I grew up listening to Oscar Brand singing totally unprintable songs, many of which I had memorized completely by the time I was eight years old, and I devoured my parents humongous library. Reading was an obsessive behavior, and I enjoy the company of people for whom it is the same. Those whose nose is ever in a book.
That, by definition, excludes a large majority.
Add to that the fact that I know next to nothing about sports -- any sport, period -- and you have a portrait of someone who challenges the paradigm.
There are about half a dozen intelligent and likable Saturday night regulars at the place where smoking is permitted. They are fascinating and complex, even though several of them know distressingly much about sports, and can at times be easily distracted by a well-placed ball or foot on the telly. They are more perfectly socialized than I am, apparently, and somehow got infected.
I tend to be a bit lonely during baseball and football season, when everyone is distracted. And my eyes kind of glaze over.
I would bring a book, but that might elicit negative comments.
Reading seems so "anti-social".
Even "unfriendly".
Heaven forfend, don't want to be accused of anything like that, ever. In the middle-ages they burned such people at the stake.
I can already smell the smoldering faggots!
Oh wait..., those are cigars.
Perhaps taking someone there who didn't know diddly about sports, had no interest in spandex men and their balls besides, and devoured books, might be a good idea. We could discreetly, politely, and privately, poo poo the glazed eyes, while reviewing recent reading matter and food adventures for each other's pleasure.
It would by edifying.
At the right moment, we could pull out our ...... books.
When no one notices.
Heh.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
A few of them qualify as "aunty" (阿姨 'ah yi').
Excellent food, no theatre majors, artists, or snoots.
After that, over to an environment where most of the patrons are either middle aged, or men, or both. Where smoking is permitted.
A CIGAR CLUB
There are a few individuals there whose company is always enjoyable. Yes, I've frequently had pleasant conversations with other folks there, but many people cannot get beyond the voice, the range of facts at my finger tips, the vocabulary, and the sheer oddness of my frames of reference.
Not boasting.
I grew up listening to Oscar Brand singing totally unprintable songs, many of which I had memorized completely by the time I was eight years old, and I devoured my parents humongous library. Reading was an obsessive behavior, and I enjoy the company of people for whom it is the same. Those whose nose is ever in a book.
That, by definition, excludes a large majority.
Add to that the fact that I know next to nothing about sports -- any sport, period -- and you have a portrait of someone who challenges the paradigm.
There are about half a dozen intelligent and likable Saturday night regulars at the place where smoking is permitted. They are fascinating and complex, even though several of them know distressingly much about sports, and can at times be easily distracted by a well-placed ball or foot on the telly. They are more perfectly socialized than I am, apparently, and somehow got infected.
I tend to be a bit lonely during baseball and football season, when everyone is distracted. And my eyes kind of glaze over.
I would bring a book, but that might elicit negative comments.
Reading seems so "anti-social".
Even "unfriendly".
Heaven forfend, don't want to be accused of anything like that, ever. In the middle-ages they burned such people at the stake.
I can already smell the smoldering faggots!
Oh wait..., those are cigars.
Perhaps taking someone there who didn't know diddly about sports, had no interest in spandex men and their balls besides, and devoured books, might be a good idea. We could discreetly, politely, and privately, poo poo the glazed eyes, while reviewing recent reading matter and food adventures for each other's pleasure.
It would by edifying.
At the right moment, we could pull out our ...... books.
When no one notices.
Heh.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, March 04, 2014
DEPROGRAMMING THE DOGS
Words that come to mind:
Gestalting: trying to find the one reality, or understanding of reality, that explains everything.
From Wikipedia:
"The concept of gestalt was first introduced in philosophy and psychology in 1890 by Christian von Ehrenfels (a member of the School of Brentano). The idea of gestalt has its roots in theories by David Hume, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Immanuel Kant, David Hartley, and Ernst Mach.
Max Wertheimer's unique contribution was to insist that the "gestalt" is perceptually primary, defining the parts it was composed from, rather than being a secondary quality that emerges from those parts, as von Ehrenfels's earlier Gestalt-Qualität had been."
Rosebud: through the gate to the big house, first shot of Citizen Kane.
I didn't enjoy the movie at all. It was a load of poofle.
Psychologist: snake-oil salesman.
Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.
I've never really liked the double claro, or as it is now known: candela.
As cigar wrappers go it is very much more a curiosity than a worthwhile flavour component. And aesthetically it has scant appeal; no one really wants to stick a puke green thing into his (or her) mouth.
I expect it will sell well on Saint Patrick's Day.
La Flor Dominicana.
Arturo Fuente.
Rocky.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Gestalting: trying to find the one reality, or understanding of reality, that explains everything.
From Wikipedia:
"The concept of gestalt was first introduced in philosophy and psychology in 1890 by Christian von Ehrenfels (a member of the School of Brentano). The idea of gestalt has its roots in theories by David Hume, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Immanuel Kant, David Hartley, and Ernst Mach.
Max Wertheimer's unique contribution was to insist that the "gestalt" is perceptually primary, defining the parts it was composed from, rather than being a secondary quality that emerges from those parts, as von Ehrenfels's earlier Gestalt-Qualität had been."
Rosebud: through the gate to the big house, first shot of Citizen Kane.
I didn't enjoy the movie at all. It was a load of poofle.
Psychologist: snake-oil salesman.
Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.
I've never really liked the double claro, or as it is now known: candela.
As cigar wrappers go it is very much more a curiosity than a worthwhile flavour component. And aesthetically it has scant appeal; no one really wants to stick a puke green thing into his (or her) mouth.
I expect it will sell well on Saint Patrick's Day.
La Flor Dominicana.
Arturo Fuente.
Rocky.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, February 27, 2014
WE LOVE YOUR LITTLE HAMMERS
Whenever there's a convention or conference in town, the cigar bar becomes unlivable. Rational people prefer a quiet place, with plenty of seats to choose from, and a noise level far below the volume of screaming pain.
Out-of-towners however seem to like a massive flustercrump.
They find San Francisco to be traumatizing.
And seek loud sanctuary.
We're going through a bit of a warm spell, so it would have been much more enjoyable to simply wander through the streets and alleyways of Nob Hill with my pipe; I did not need to find an indoor place to smoke.
And while I liked conversing with IT guys from Boston, Philadelphia, and Chicago, the two beefcakes from the fascist state of Arizona harshed everyone's mellow with their coarse antics.
Years ago, when the geologists held their yearly meeting in the city, things got out of hand in a different way. Men who had spent the last twelve months out in the desserts and wastelands with little hammers, surrounded by nothing but scorpions and lizards, with no one to talk to, would experience synaptic overload. And, having not had meaningful conversations for so long, found themselves regressed on the autism spectrum to the point of stumbling goobertude.
Just add whiskey; the results are stellar.
Total verbal mayhem.
Perkily cheerful chatter about rocks. And little hammers. No, not actual discussion or an exchange of information and insights, just several hundred men saying random stuff about rocks. And little hammers. Often to no one in particular, and not part of a sequential series of exchanges. No logical connection to what the nearest-person-by had voiced, followed by statements that did not segue or up-follow in any clear way either.
But they had an enormous good time, and thoroughly enjoyed hearing other people say incomprehensible things too. About rocks. And little hammers. Connections were made. One or two of them had wives.
Few of them were women.
No lizards.
I think I prefer gibbering rumpled men with rocks and little hammers to business-suited twats from Flyoverstan. Even though they may have spent the last several months in Arizona. But instead of rubbing their shoulders with the fascist Azonoid beefalumps, they associated with scorpions and lizards, who are much more civilized.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Out-of-towners however seem to like a massive flustercrump.
They find San Francisco to be traumatizing.
And seek loud sanctuary.
We're going through a bit of a warm spell, so it would have been much more enjoyable to simply wander through the streets and alleyways of Nob Hill with my pipe; I did not need to find an indoor place to smoke.
And while I liked conversing with IT guys from Boston, Philadelphia, and Chicago, the two beefcakes from the fascist state of Arizona harshed everyone's mellow with their coarse antics.
Years ago, when the geologists held their yearly meeting in the city, things got out of hand in a different way. Men who had spent the last twelve months out in the desserts and wastelands with little hammers, surrounded by nothing but scorpions and lizards, with no one to talk to, would experience synaptic overload. And, having not had meaningful conversations for so long, found themselves regressed on the autism spectrum to the point of stumbling goobertude.
Just add whiskey; the results are stellar.
Total verbal mayhem.
Perkily cheerful chatter about rocks. And little hammers. No, not actual discussion or an exchange of information and insights, just several hundred men saying random stuff about rocks. And little hammers. Often to no one in particular, and not part of a sequential series of exchanges. No logical connection to what the nearest-person-by had voiced, followed by statements that did not segue or up-follow in any clear way either.
But they had an enormous good time, and thoroughly enjoyed hearing other people say incomprehensible things too. About rocks. And little hammers. Connections were made. One or two of them had wives.
Few of them were women.
No lizards.
I think I prefer gibbering rumpled men with rocks and little hammers to business-suited twats from Flyoverstan. Even though they may have spent the last several months in Arizona. But instead of rubbing their shoulders with the fascist Azonoid beefalumps, they associated with scorpions and lizards, who are much more civilized.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, January 25, 2014
THE SENSIBLE APPROACH TO SATURDAY NIGHT
The other evening K-chai and I left the Occidental early, as it was getting too crowded for conversation, and he needed to get up at a reasonable hour the next morning. While walking toward the metro station, I asked him if he had ever been in a particular drinking establishment that we just passed.
He indicated he had, but it was not his kind of place.
Which I can well understand. It isn't my kind of place either. It's a meat rack. Shallow and aggressive college grads go there in hopes of finding someone to boff.
Which, you will understand, is a lousy reason to go to a bar.
And alcohol is a perfectly idiotic reason for boffing.
I've always liked peaceful well-lit bars, but those are getting harder to find.
A place where one can simply read the papers while enjoying a pipe is almost entirely a thing of the past. Primarily because one cannot smoke in bars anymore, secondarily because people are just not used to or tolerant of non-social relaxation.
This is also why visiting my formerly favourite coffee shops in North Beach has disappeared from the plate. In one of them, I'm guaranteed inane chatterments with "artistic" types. Or maybe they're just skeevy;
there seems to be an enormous overlap there.
Skeevy bohemians.
Most other coffee shops are similar, and Starbucks doesn't appeal.
Besides, there aren't too many places where on can curl up and read for several hours anyway. Coffee shops just aren't particularly quiet now that everyone has ego problems and cell-phones.
The Occidental, on a quiet night, is a very pleasant place. Frequently one can have a worthwhile discussion about subjects other than sports, and no one in their right mind goes there to pick up sexual partners. Sure, occasionally one of the desperate pudgy middle-aged single-men might strike up a conversation with an unattached woman with precisely that goal in mind, but the rational patron will naturally assume that she's there NOT in hopes of random anonymous sex, but would appreciate semi-random semi-anonymous evidence of common humanity while she enjoys her smoke.
It is, as perhaps you know, the last place in San Francisco where one can smoke indoors. Consequently there is a reasonable presumption that the clientele are there primarily for that purpose.
Any desperation should be left outside.
We expect civilized behavior.
There aren't a lot of women who visit, because bars are often more of a man thing as one gets older. And many women do not appreciate cigars or even pipes.
Most Saturday evenings I will end up there after work, having stopped in Chinatown beforehand for a bite to eat. It used to be almost empty at that time, but the economy is improving, and recently young urban professionals have learned that cigars are a mighty cool thing. So sometimes they'll stop by on their way to the pick-up joint on Kearney Street, in order to compose their nasty minds beforehand, and get a head-start on the intoxication needed for random anonymous coupling.
On the whole, we are glad to see them leave.
Conversationally they offer little.
Plus they come in groups.
Male bonding.
THE COMMON LIVING ROOM
Sex and alcohol should never be combined. If either party to the event needs Dutch courage (or the support of their peers), they probably shouldn't go forward. Sex, always, should be something you want to do while sober, with someone you actually like, whom you have seen in good light. And then only discreetly; not as the result of a social scene.
Are they a nice person; intelligent, decent, clean, and sane?
Could you ever introduce them to your friends?
Are they kind to your stuffed animals?
Can you trust them?
Personally, I cannot imagine bringing up the stuffed animals in a bar, and certainly not with someone tipsy. The chance of everything heading south at a rapid clip is far too great.
Stuffed animals can ONLY be discussed in private.
And then ONLY with nice people.
Final note: ALWAYS introduce your dates to your stuffed animals. But NEVER rely on the furballs for recommendations and romantic advice; they'll usually get it wrong. They're stuffed animals.
If you read this on Saturday evening, I may be at the Oxxy.
The stuffed animals wait disapprovingly at home.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
He indicated he had, but it was not his kind of place.
Which I can well understand. It isn't my kind of place either. It's a meat rack. Shallow and aggressive college grads go there in hopes of finding someone to boff.
Which, you will understand, is a lousy reason to go to a bar.
And alcohol is a perfectly idiotic reason for boffing.
I've always liked peaceful well-lit bars, but those are getting harder to find.
A place where one can simply read the papers while enjoying a pipe is almost entirely a thing of the past. Primarily because one cannot smoke in bars anymore, secondarily because people are just not used to or tolerant of non-social relaxation.
This is also why visiting my formerly favourite coffee shops in North Beach has disappeared from the plate. In one of them, I'm guaranteed inane chatterments with "artistic" types. Or maybe they're just skeevy;
there seems to be an enormous overlap there.
Skeevy bohemians.
Most other coffee shops are similar, and Starbucks doesn't appeal.
Besides, there aren't too many places where on can curl up and read for several hours anyway. Coffee shops just aren't particularly quiet now that everyone has ego problems and cell-phones.
The Occidental, on a quiet night, is a very pleasant place. Frequently one can have a worthwhile discussion about subjects other than sports, and no one in their right mind goes there to pick up sexual partners. Sure, occasionally one of the desperate pudgy middle-aged single-men might strike up a conversation with an unattached woman with precisely that goal in mind, but the rational patron will naturally assume that she's there NOT in hopes of random anonymous sex, but would appreciate semi-random semi-anonymous evidence of common humanity while she enjoys her smoke.
It is, as perhaps you know, the last place in San Francisco where one can smoke indoors. Consequently there is a reasonable presumption that the clientele are there primarily for that purpose.
Any desperation should be left outside.
We expect civilized behavior.
There aren't a lot of women who visit, because bars are often more of a man thing as one gets older. And many women do not appreciate cigars or even pipes.
Most Saturday evenings I will end up there after work, having stopped in Chinatown beforehand for a bite to eat. It used to be almost empty at that time, but the economy is improving, and recently young urban professionals have learned that cigars are a mighty cool thing. So sometimes they'll stop by on their way to the pick-up joint on Kearney Street, in order to compose their nasty minds beforehand, and get a head-start on the intoxication needed for random anonymous coupling.
On the whole, we are glad to see them leave.
Conversationally they offer little.
Plus they come in groups.
Male bonding.
THE COMMON LIVING ROOM
Sex and alcohol should never be combined. If either party to the event needs Dutch courage (or the support of their peers), they probably shouldn't go forward. Sex, always, should be something you want to do while sober, with someone you actually like, whom you have seen in good light. And then only discreetly; not as the result of a social scene.
Are they a nice person; intelligent, decent, clean, and sane?
Could you ever introduce them to your friends?
Are they kind to your stuffed animals?
Can you trust them?
Personally, I cannot imagine bringing up the stuffed animals in a bar, and certainly not with someone tipsy. The chance of everything heading south at a rapid clip is far too great.
Stuffed animals can ONLY be discussed in private.
And then ONLY with nice people.
Final note: ALWAYS introduce your dates to your stuffed animals. But NEVER rely on the furballs for recommendations and romantic advice; they'll usually get it wrong. They're stuffed animals.
If you read this on Saturday evening, I may be at the Oxxy.
The stuffed animals wait disapprovingly at home.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
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UNDERCOVER MONSTERS
It is still foggy and dark on the hill, fog horns sound regularly from the Bay. An older man crossed ahead of me, gaunt silhouette, slow pac...
