THERE THERE, LITTLE WOOZUMS

Remember to use your most comforting mother-like voice. Extend your hand in a soothing wavy patting gesture, and softly say "there there". Trust me. To Helen, who has been batty for years and claims that Willie Brown stole her Nob Hill mansion and evicted her, "there there!". To Jake who was convinced that the police replaced his hands with these lobster claws that keep dropping his beer, "there there!" And always remember to also make the gesture of benediction. Be the pope of reassurance!

There there.

When I got in there was evidence that the old geezers had imbibed too much alcohol the previous day. The sink was absolutely filled with whiskey glasses, and two coffee cups.

I knew precisely who the instigator had been.
He's obviously back from Malibu.


It is quite likely that it won't just be the enormous quantity of booze that does him in.
Lines of nose-joy will play a part. Think of the movie Cocaine Bear.
Precisely so. Educational.

Speaking of 'educational', one of the rarely there regulars showed up and bent my coworker's ears pointlessly for nearly an hour. My coworker is really not interested in the workings of ancient lighters other than the silver Dunhill from the pre-butane era in his own pocket.
Which he made the mistake of taking out and showing.



There 'Little White Nipple Dude' will be, in his favourite easy chair in the corner, adjusting the flame heights of his lighters so that they are equal, readjusting them, then refilling them and repeating everything. For hours. "Mommy, what is Daddy doing?" his imaginary daughter asks. And his imaginary wife responds "shhh, it's VERY important!"


My coworker should have simply said "there there" and made the gesture of benediction.
It would have been better. More peaceful.
Restful, even.



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GREY, GREYNESS, GREYITY

Apparently I am a horrible human being and very un-Christian. Because I did NOT forewarn anyone about the signal peculiarities of Little White Nipple Dude. Who arrived at the same general time as most of the members of the local pipe club, spent nearly four hours there, and found nearly a dozen victims. Bernard thought I had come to save him at one point.
But was disappointed. He had to endure half an hour more of Little White Nipple Dude.

It should be mentioned that Little White Nipple Dude is a truly fascinating man and superior conversationalist. What with being a brain surgeon jet fighter pilot podiatrist astronaut in training nuclear physicist zen monk sherrifs deputy. AND having a rich inner life.

There was no way in hell I would save anyone at all from his delightful discursive stylings, because then I would have to listen to him. More than I already had. Which would be most unfair, there's more than enough of him to go around.
And I had things to do.

Calvin, the other person of peripherally Netherlandish heritage, agreed with Bernard. At the very least I should have rescued my fellow ethnics, if no one else. Sorry, you're both older than me, and very social. You should know better by now. Oh look, a pink-elephant!
And make your escape.

Or do what I do. Seize control of the conversation, dominate it, change the subject several times, and leave his little head spinning. Exercise conversational strategies which you've always wanted to try. Whenever possible mention that you're a vegan.
Hop up and down on one leg for a bit.
Confuse him.


Worst comes to worst, declaim all the lyrics to Charlotte The Harlot or The Winnipeg Whore as if it's Shakespearian poetry. I tried that once at a company meeting, and was excused.

When I got back home after the meeting of the pipe club it was turning cold and grey in San Francisco, with fog hiding large buildings at the top of the hills. So the first thing I did was fix myself a cup of coffee and put on a warmer garment. In the left pocket of this comfy piece of clothing there is a soft small sock, infant foot size, which I had found deposited in front of the apartment building last night. I may not be any good at saving my fellow pipe smokers, being all heartless and giggling at their predicament, but I can save a lonesome and abandoned sock. Somewhere a baby delinquent is wantonly waggling his or her toes at strangers.


I think it was a good meeting, but I didn't really notice. I kept looking over my shoulder to see if the worlds greatest conversationalist was sneaking up on me. But I probably would have heard him.



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A GASKET CASE

One of the old "fornicators" infesting the back room at work has sofar utterly failed to use my preferred personal pronouns which he asked about months ago. I shall have to chide him. He does not say things like "the God Emperor is now smoking a cigar exceptionally", or "the God Emperor dealt well with that sticky situation involving Little White Nipple Dude", or even "the God Emperor seems uninterested in the exciting game on television which involves big butch boys wearing shiny spandex booties chasing each other around and pounding each other into the astro-turf which is presently engaging us so very thoroughly".

It is an omission which bothers me.

It now seems quite likely, in retrospect, that he may have asked the question for rhetorical purposes. Perhaps to goad me. Because I am a screaming liberal and despise his reactionary skank-ass. The odious cretin.

As does everyone with even half a lick of sense.


Including Little White Nipple Dude.

Not all gaskets are equal!

That is to say, by rights he should. It is hard sometimes to figure out what goes on inside Little White Nipple Dude's pointy cranium, as his thought processes are often dense and convoluted. The only things about which there is certainty are that A) he's a kungfu monk brain surgeon astro-pilot employed by the navy, and B) he is obessed with the little white nozzle adapter used on cans of one particular brand of lighter fuel.

One is quite tempted to slice his head open to observe which way the little gears are turning, or even if they are turning at all, much more so the old "fornicator" in the back who asked the pronoun question, but is doubtful that the latter actually has anything there. One is.

[The old "fornicator" can also be thought of as a squatty bald pervert. I often do.]

Little White Nipple Dude has not been by in a few weeks. Given that we are the sum total of his social life, I am worried. Why has his dreariness not deigned to grace us?

Maybe he is financially or vehicularely constrained?

This would be sad.


The God Emperor is concerned for the little people.
They make it all worthwhile.



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A MIGHTY GOOD SHOW OLD CHAPS

Bus drivers in the Bay Area should be paid extra. Because there is always at least one crazy person on the bus, quite close to confrontation, loud surreal argument or screaming match, or complete breakdown, as well as at any given time half a dozen people who don't know where they're going. And on the busses traversing Marin, a potsmoker trying to push the envelope. That smell.

So if at all possible, don't get into any conversations on the bus.

"Does anyone have change for a twenty?"

No. No way in hell am I admitting that I have twenty, OR speak a human language. My teeth and claws itch for your blood, my tail hurts, and I failed at communicating in grammar school. I'll just sit here mutely looking like I want to rip your lungs out. Now go away or I shall make you rather uncomfortable. I am an eldritch horror.


The chap sitting behind me this morning was convinced that the bus driver was deliberately trying to make it impossible for him to catch another bus in San Raphael. And was louder everytime he said so.

The bus has a few stops that it cannot leave before a set time, the computerized console for the driver tells him when. Traffic flowed easily, and the busdriver waited for the computer to greenlight his departure at those few stops. Which the eighty year old behind me was convinced was deliberately meant to inconvenience him.
Paranoid, senile, confrontational.
A winner.



The monthly meeting of the local pipe club today was graced with three hours of little white nipple dude. Who doesn't ride the bus thank you Jesus but could. Three. Solid. Hours.

He obsesses over one brand. Several types of product.

As well as an imaginary helicopter which he pilots, his imaginary wife and daughter when he remembers that they exist and live with him, and the single red red rose he bought for a date when he was still in his teens or twenties. He's a thrilling on and on droner with a past that changes a lot, and is always marvelous and educational. A remarkable man.

Three. Solid. Hours.

I spent that entire time high as a kite on caffeine. I've learned that the only way to survive people like that is to stay constantly ahead of them.

Several of my associates made bee-lines for the single malt or the sherry, then fled over to the area where I was to talk about Stanwell pipes and Esoterica Tobacciana tobaccos, plus Greg Pease's Fog City Collection. So I had a wonderful time.

Sadly, the lovely fellow getting a PHD in Art History could not stay. Not that I wish for him to have exposure to little white nipple dude, but I would have liked to have conversed with him more. Before he left I made sure he had a large enough sample of Dorchester for several bowls. It's mighty good stuff. He'll try and stay longer next month.


I had a good time. I hope the others did as well, despite the imaginary kinfolk and the submarine with which someone fought the plesiosaurs in World War One.

For some reason one of the members brought a big bag of Mendocino Oregano, which a kinsman cultivates. None of it was actually sampled, but there was some smoked salmon which was very nice.

I enjoyed two bowls of Dorchester.



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WHEN BURRITOS ARE WEAPONIZED

Plainly put, he's a bit of a fruitcake. In the past he's lectured me on the duties of a buddhist monk astronaut brain surgeon in the marine corps. If such a man existed.
Of which he is one. It's onerous.

Somebody's got to do it.

Yesterday I postponed my lunch until I was certain that Elvis had not only left the building but wasn't lurking in the parking lot. Nothing would have said "screw you and your burrito" worse than hearing a long rehash of the time he operated on the Shah of Iran while eating a burrito, or the time he fought off Iraqi incendiarists infiltrating the airbase armed with nothing but a burrito. Saved a damsel in distress. With his burrito.
The finest burrito he ever ate.
In great detail.

I had no wish to hear Little White Nipple Dude share his deep thoughts about burritos.

I do not fervently dislike him. But I had already heard about his red lacquer Dunhill lighter, and how it might not be the best thing for lighting his pipe because the high flame could scorch the rim and thus seriously detract from the enjoyment he should have while smoking the Rolls Royce of Tobaccos in the Rolls Royce of briars, and conversationally he goes nowhere too many ways to give him another opening.


It was a very nice burrito. Carnitas, no beans, Spanish rice, extra cheese, chipotle cream, and salsa picante. With the addition of a little salt and Sri Racha it was totally exquisite.



Hearing about the miracle of sardine and whale blubber buritos at the polar station would have cheapened the experience.




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A MAN WITHOUT A MATCH

Sometimes it seems like daycare. Because it was a gorgeous day today, sunny and bright, few of the people I like dropped by, but Little White Nipple Dude did. I am a patient and tolerant man, and consequently know more about his meerschaum pipes as well as his smoking habits, than I wanted. As well as that the San Francisco Police will cite you for smoking where you shouldn't if you are yelling abuse at people and throwing things.

Which seems perfectly reasonable.

He was there for more than an hour. I felt like calling the SFPD, but it's in Marin, and he wasn't being abusive.

He also mentioned, in very great detail, the red lacquer Dunhill lighter he uses for lighting his pipes.

Again, I shall stress that I am a patient and tolerant man.


I could have been a combat medic.


Confession: What every sane pipe smoker wants, really wants, is either good company and a place to smoke, OR peace and quiet and a place to smoke. Plus tea and occasionally some chocolate. Dark chocolate covered lemon satin creams are very nice, fyi. They should be on sale now that Valentine's Day is over.


Note that by "sane pipe smoker" is meant this blog author.
Certainly not Little White Nipple Dude.


Cookies are nice too.



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CLEAN SMELLING THINGS

Despite my work being a smoke-friendly environment, I enjoy my pipes and occasional cheroot much more when I am not there. Even outdoors freezing my rear-end off. And I think the reason is timing, pace, and freedom to not be the eternally upbeat pipe-expert ready to answer bizarre questions.

One of my key survival strategies is that I can and will take over the conversation, rather than letting others dominate it and blather.

Little White Nipple Guy is sort of the exception. When I absolutely cannot avoid interacting with him, I'll throw out little prods and pokes to help him realize his full potential as the big loud gibbering elephant in the room. Which, being a man with loose wires, never fails to bring out the flower within. This is all I can do for him.

[One or two readers will realize that I am quoting Any Lau here. And I'm sure situations like these are exactly what Andy Lau was referring to. Have you ever read his lyrics? 
He's the wild sugar-crazed fruitbat of Canto-pop.]


One thing I often return to is the idea that your briar pipes are rather like your favourite boxer shorts. Yes, they look dashing, and howdy Jeebus are they comfortable! But they benefit from a good cleaning regularly, and should probably not be worn day in day out. Hence keeping a number of them in rotation, and making sure that you use plenty of pipe-cleaners.

Surely you don't want swamp on a stick four inches from your nose?

So you will understand that during my Weekends (Tuesday and Wednesday, as well as Friday), the pipes in my coat pocket when I head down to Chinatown in the afternoon for something to eat and a cup of hot Hong Kong Milk Tea will be carefully chosen. There are several that are specific to C'town usage, especially 'The Pipe For Watching Rats in Spofford Alley'.

[There are also pipes I will never bring to work, for fear that they will be jinxed by doing so. They could acquire associated moods and memories which might spoil the pleasure of touching, feeling, seeing, or smoking them.]

I sometimes say that pipe smoking is perfect for neurotic people.

Please do not feel free to riff off of that thought.

We've already explored the concept.

Extremely thoroughly.


My friend Neil has a number of pipes that remind him of events and places from years ago, as well as the tobacco he smoked then. Using those pipes brings back those memories, and he'll pensively speak of them at times.

Some pipes, some tobaccos, pull my mind back to summer evenings near the St. John's church in Valkenswaard, or rainy days at the train station in Tilburg, Indonesian restaurants in Den Haag (oh boy, maybe I should cook something with garlic, chilies, and tamarind, this evening), or even watching a man with two live cellphones nearly get run over on Sansome Street.


One pipe always reminds me of an old gentleman requiring an ambulance and Cantonese speaking emergency medical technicians on Grant and Clay in Chinatown, similar to a memory associated with 'The Pipe For Watching Rats in Spofford Alley', when Spofford was still a long trench with plank walkways (that was when the city was revamping it to make it more attractive for the tourists; the inefficient project benefitted the local rat population immensely). Ambulance technicians had a hard time moving a stretcher down narrow stairs onto the walkway, then carrying it gingerly through the obstacle course to Washington Street in the rain that night. The city should have been sued for letting the digging go on for so long and at so slow a pace. Doing so was extremely irresponsible of them.
It may actually have been murderous.

Nearly a year later almost no progress was evident.
But they finally gassed the rats.

[Rats, everybody agrees, are bad for the tourist trade. As well as bad for business in general. Though they immensely entertain pipe smokers, who might thoughtfully observe them for half an hour late at night.]


My plans today involve laundry (see aforementioned boxer shorts), lunch, and wandering around the alleyways for a while. A Virginia mixture which will remind me of good weather several years ago, down near the Pyramid, the fresh green of new leaves on the ginkgo trees, and the quietness of the Financial District on Sunday afternoons.
Then home for a long nap.

Tomorrow I'm taking a small Peterson Canadian from the early sixties (the confluence of different stamping on the shank suggests that era) with me for after my doctor's appointment, and I plan specifically to have bittermelon omelette over rice for lunch in Chinatown later.

The days are sunny now, but it is still too cold for normal people.
It will probably rain again later in the week. Bah.

I'm looking forward to warmer weather.

TOBACCO INDEX


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GAYS IN SPACE!

Louie Gomert staunchly defended Donald Trump yesterday. Louie Gomert is the Christian representative who in 2016 argued passionately in Congress against sending homosexuals into space. Because, in his Texan Christian unhinged mind, it would be a disaster and signal the end of mankind.


"Okay, we've got a spaceship that can go as Matt Damon did in the movie, plant a colony somewhere. We can have humans survive this terrible disaster about to befall. If you can decide what 40 people you put on the spacecraft that would save humanity, how many of those would be same-sex couples?"


If Louie Gomert argues on your behalf, your cause is pretty messed up.

Louie Gomert is many things. Rational isn't one of them.

But Louie Gomert stands by his man.

He's from Texas.


Anyway, enough of Washington and the armpits of Texas, here in the rainy heart of Northern California it was a day of normalcy and sensible behaviour, over all, when other than the lengthy visitations of Little White Nipple Guy and the Reindeer Repair Man, nothing surprised me. As Little white Nipple Guy held forth eloquently on his favourite subject (Dunhill lighters), to the staggerment of a rational person who was subjected to his tirade, this blogger disappeared in the direction of the Garcia y Garcia products, from whence I tried not to emerge until Elvis had left the building.

CHATTERSOME AMBUSH

Though I get along well with people, and can engage in pleasant discussion with nearly anybody when required, I am hard pressed when Little White Nipple Guy, the Reindeer Repair Man, and Tin Foil Hat Stevie visit.

Fortunately they can maintain conversations entirely without input from anybody else, and the Garcia y Garcia section needed attention.

The staggered rational person eventually broke free of the locutionary embrace to which he had been subjected, and enjoyed the rest of his smoke in calmer quieter circumstance.

I fondly imagine Louie Gomert's district as being filled with people like Little White Nipple Guy, Reindeer Repair Man, and Tin Foil Hat Stevie. But all of them speaking like The Investment Banker, who has a Tennessee twang, and won't shut up either.


Don't need to visit the rest of the country; got more than plenty of their representatives right here, and I ain't nearly that social.

I'll just hide near Garcia y Garcia.




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HE HAS OPINIONS

Dinner: home made sarson da saag, toasted focaccia, and grilled sausage. Because vegetables are important. They vote.

Little White Nipple Guy has one cigar for the trip north. Everyone is hoping it will last him a while. I know I am, I still remember the time I told him about the leaves of the gympie gympie tree and the English officer ignorant of their disadvisability as bathroom tissues in a pinch.

Make no mistake, I actually like Little white Nipple Guy, but much more for his affect on the cigar smokers than any real human quality. And I do not want to socialize with him. I am not self-abusive that way.


Many of the people I know because of work are queer as blazes, but he takes the cake, and heads into uncharted territory with it.


He was in again recently.
I am not a Christian.




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HOLD ON TO YOUR GALL BLADDER!

This blogger works with perverts. I did not need to be exposed to either the shart song, or a little ditty from a man to a part of his own anatomy that begins "dear penis", and details certain things that would cause the eyes to open. And then that one of them has neurotic issues regarding certain condiments is also information that's not, strictly speaking, necessary.
Except if she's choosy about what she rubs herself all over with.
Still don't need to know, and spare me details.
Feminine skin care.

[This was after I shared with them the advice for men heading into late middle-age: Never ignore a hard-on, never pass-up on an opportunity to pee, and never ever trust a fart. One of the regular passengers on Golden Gate Transit three years ago would have benefitted from those words of wisdom, all three parts, but he was beyond caring.]

Enough. This is the woman who was told by one visitor that she looked like a Disney Princess, and asked by another when the baby was due. Disney Princess Man ranks highly, Pregnant Dude is rock-bottom.

Disney Princess Man is, as every one knows, crazier than a bedbug.
He has a rich inner life as a podiatrist and brainsurgeon.
Fighter pilot astronaut zen master gunsmith.
Former marine, presently a ninja.


He's also a Doctor of Divinity; if your divinity is ailing, he can help you.

My other coworker is jealous. He wishes he were a Disney Princess.


[He did not know that naked catgirl vampires in bondage are a thing. Now he does, and it inspires him. I just threw that out as a conversation starter, but he went ahead and googled it. He now fears me because I "know things".]


Fortunately, Disney Princess Man is not a member of the pipe club, which met today. All of whom are sane. Including the half a dozen or so who were missing in action. Ten total today, including myself eleven.

Disquisition by the expert on briar age, two Virginias, preserved meats, plus cheese, with hummus and pita. And several bottles on the table.

[There was also some lovely shortbread that one of the members had made. He brought it early, so that my colleagues and I could feast. Because the Disney Princess is dieting, I ate several pieces slowly in her line of sight. Ooh, yummy! Delicious! Ooh! Mmmmmmm!
All gone now!]

For part of that time I was in the back buffing stems.
I am a boring man, and have little to say.
My divinity is fine.


Besides, I didn't feel like sharing with them that if your gallbladder has been removed, you will become a toilet-hazard. Almost a natural disaster.
It's a datum I picked up recently, and I'm glad I've still got mine.
Conversations at work are informative.
Content rich.
Laden.

Mostly excited cigar smokers.

Giddy.

Maybe it's something about the shape or appearance that wigs them, but cigar smokers just can't stop talking about bodily functions.
Pipe smokers, at least, are normal.

TOBACCO INDEX


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KEEP YOUR PANTS ON!

A friend forwards the details for the 18th Annual "No Pants" BART Ride. In fond hopes that I will alert a mutual acquaintance ('Little White Nipple Guy') and report back what his input on the matter might be.

No.

The instructions are too precise for our friend 'Little White Nipple Guy'. He is by nature a rebel. A dreary unimaginative rebel. But a rebel.


Cite:

"Sit in the car as you normally would. Read a magazine or whatever you would normally do. Your team leader will have already divided you into smaller groups, assigning your group a specific stop."


"Remember, if anyone asks you why you’ve removed your pants, tell them that they were “getting uncomfortable” (or something along those lines)."

"Exit the train at your assigned stop and stand on the platform, pants-less. You will wait on the platform for the specified train to arrive."

"When you enter, act as you normally would. You do not know any of the other pants-less riders. If questioned, tell folks that you “forgot to wear pants” and yes you are “a little cold.” Insist that it is a coincidence that others also forgot their pants. Be nice and friendly and normal."

"Remember: Taking photos is not keeping a straight face. Enjoy the experience and resist the urge to document. Take those Instagram shots when the ride is over. There will be plenty of people who aren’t pants-less who will be taking pictures."

End cite.

[SOURCE: 18th Annual “No Pants” BART Ride Day | 2019 .]

Furthermore, Little White Nipple Guy has imperfect filters. His rich but dreary imaginary life and his neuroses are in permanent conflict.
And he is imperfectly socialized. No finesse whatsoever.
Were he to participate, he'd likely go 'rogue'.
Nobody wants that. Trust me, NO! body.
I'm worried about the children.
And innocent old folks.

I'll brief him about it after the fact.
That will be bad enough.





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PLEASE IMAGINE MEDICATION

You know that thing they say when someone is slowly turning into a weirdo loner? When it's obvious that there is no one in their life who will keep them grounded, and they gradually start convincing themselves that the Clintons are lizard-aliens, or that Obama is white?

Usually they say that that person needs a sexual experience.

Well, that won't help in this case. Both Little White Nipple Dude and Tinfoil Hat Stevie are too far gone.

This morning Tinfoil Hat Stevie was on the phone with his credit-card company. When is his money going to be refunded?
He filled out all the forms.


That conversation went sideways fast.


See, the problem is that "they" are tracking him, because Shell and Trump are planning to strip-mine Marin County. All of it. Now that the Russians and the Clinton Foundation have stepped back because their cover got blown.
Everybody knows that the Ruskies and Clintons were planning to frack Marin. They showed their hand when they killed Robin Williams.

Fo' shizzle.

He spent twenty minutes angrily trying to convince the poor clerk on the other end of the line of these facts, which are important, dammit, and fundamental to understanding why and how his credit card got stolen.
So it's not his fault, and where's his money?


"WHAT HE NEEDS IS A GOOD LAY!"


Yeah, no. That kind of weird-ass old fart needs Valium, is what. And no woman needs that between her bed sheets or in the backseat of her car. Or man. If he's that way. Which if he is, would embarrass all the fine gay gentlemen I know. They don't need that fronting for them.

He does NOT need a good lay. Any lay. And kindly stop saying that, you're making it seem like sex cures "eccentricity". It doesn't. Trust me on this.

And Little White Nipple Dude was already problematic before adolescence, from what I hear, and has become calmer and more well-behaved as he's entered middle-age, though in no way less dreary and fanciful.
But that might be because of his imaginary wife.
And the fourteen year old daughter.
Also figmentary.

If he had a good lay, it would only complicate matters.

Besides, for both of these splendid exemplars of irritating goobus the ideal woman would surely be a four hundred pound female wrestler who doesn't take crap from anyone. And who is herself "forcefull".

"Jes' lay down and shut up, little man. Conversation isn't your strong suit, and that isn't why you're here."

You know, I would worry about her.
Maybe she likes living wild?

In any case, it ain't gonna happen.
And I don't want to hear about it.
In any detail, even forensically.




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IT'S A BIRD, OR A PLANE! SOMETHING!

Just what every hospital needs; a bionic orderly. Today Little White Nipple Dude visited us again, and told a long convoluted tale about when he was in the medical field, before he reverted to his other science, that being physics. Which allowed him to use the giant blowers in the laboratory to remove all traces of smoke after he had enjoyed a cigar. Which was a Havana.

[Little White Nipple Dude = L.W.N.D.]

He has a rich inner life. That he insists on sharing.
Sometimes I am a remarkably patient man.
Damned near saintly.


A few weeks before he nearly killed someone who threatened him, with a wet lighter. The cotton had not absorbed any water from the lake.


In addition to being a surgeon and physicist, he is also an engineer, an astronaut, and a jet-fighter pilot. And a race car driver. As well as an expert on Cuban tobacco. Which is, of course, why the dear man doesn't know beans about other products.


BALMORAL AÑEJO 18

Medium full-bodied, smooth, spicy. It is exceptionally well made. Brazilian and Nicaraguan leaf. The reason for the name is the age of the wrapper (18-year-old sun-grown Brazilian Arapiraca). From the Agio (Wintermans) factory in San Pedro de Macoris, Dominican Republic. Distributed by Drew Estate.


I only mention this to show that there are other things in life besides Cuban cigars and Little White Nipples. Admittedly, Little White Nipples are VERY important -- one really cannot refill one's Dunhill lighter without the cunning adapter colloquially know as 'Little White Nipple' -- and Cubanos are a fit subject for extensive distiquisition, but good lord, man.
That dull droning voice of yours!
Good lord.


The Balmoral Añejo 18 is a very fine cigar.

Little White Nipples are a minor(!) thing.

Unless you have little white bosoms.

If you do, don't prove it to us.

Keep them private.




Last anybody heard, L.W.N.D. was an orderly at a hospital.
Can't light up his Cubans on the premises.
No giant blowers.





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AMONG THE SECRET RITUALS OF THE WORLD GOVERNMENT

Little White Nipple Dude asked me what I thought was the best Indian dish. Probably because Indian food is so limited, and he wishes to try it so that he can counter or comment on my opinion. I mentioned the potatoes with fried dried chilies in a toasted cumin butter cream sauce, accompanied by fresh naan, that Jheet Singh used to prepare for me late in the evening. But there is also Roghan Josh, wich isn't really Indian -- the words 'ravgan' and 'josh' are Perso-Urdu, and translate as grease frazzle -- but Kashmiri and partly Afghan. The genuine article is quite different from anything an Indian restaurant does, just like restaurant versions of Vindaloo, Jalfrezi, and Dhansak. Which are meaningless menu terms in most cases.
But without fresh hot roti, all of this is pointless.
Naan, kulcha, rumali, or chapati.
Sheermal.

And of course some achaar.

Most northerners would probably want a bowl of yoghurt, lentils ka tarka, and a vegetable dish (sabji) along with, or instead of. And would choose a different meal than a gaura.

Little White Nipple Dude was baffled by the time I mentioned 'ghee' in the toasted cumin butter cream sauce, zoned out entirely when I spoke of roti, and now will probably never talk to me again about Indian food. Which is excellent -- his conversation lacks 'spice' -- but I didn't even get to mention Mirch ka salan, Katal muzaffar, Biriani, Awadhi shami kabab, Navrattan korma, Sarson da saag, Dam pukht, or other delights.



Somehow, I have hobbled Little white Nipple Dude yet again. It's become an unfortunate habit. Because he's a nice enough chappie, and inoffensive.
With far too many fancy lighters which he keeps flicking, to the consternation of his imaginary wife and daughter.

He once snipped off someone's thumb with a cigar cutter.

And dated a girl. Who didn't show up.

A harmless man.



Here, for nearly no reason, is an illustrative video.

SOMETHING BURNING


[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CnVf1ZoCJSo.]


It's surprisingly relevant. Life is like that.
His life. Not mine.



Ich habe absolut keinen affen dabei.




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NEED MORE CHOCOLATE, SEND HELP!

Actually, I need more time and caffeine. Today was pipe club day, which is always a bad time to take on a big project. And it was also pothead day and little white nipple guy day. Let it be known that little white nipple guy has an entire jar of the things. And those are just the one's on top of his desk, that to his great distress got knocked over by someone in his house.
He does not know who.

He needs the little white nipples in case there is ever a shortage of Dunhill butane (for lighters) and the Lotus butane requires adapters. It is a serious matter, and he has given it considerable thought.

He arrived shortly after three. He left a few minutes before five.

Help me Jayzis, there's nuts down here.



The pipe club stayed in the far corner discussing the theory of relativity, and the new foundations for William's cottage. They were no problem at all.
The pothead called to find out something he's known for years.
Little white nipple guy disquisitioned at great length.



Tomorrow is the last day of my work week. I've got fifteen pipes to finish.
Fortunately all that is left to do is stem-polishing.
Should be a piece of cake.

TOBACCO INDEX


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CONVERSATIONAL TORNADO

Middle aged white women, especially in Marin, should sometimes be avoided. Life is too short. And, thanks to modern technology, I now know everything about her dreary priggish life, and her absent man friend.
As does everybody else on the bus.
Twenty plus minutes of pathetic bitchy pretentious entitlement.
While she didn't mention embarrassing physical data about what goes on between her and the man-interest, she revealed everything else.

After all of that I wish her ill.
Her cell phone stuck ... somewhere.

I know several people who rely on cell-phones for nearly every aspect of their waking lives, even a few who could not go one single hour without checking their messages, e-mails, twitter, and Facebook.
Many of them are conversationally impaired.
Hold on, someone just messaged me.
They're saying "shut up".


One person who does not walk around with his cell-phone probably should: Little White Nipple Dude. In order to change the subject from one of his usual excrutiating conversational trains I mentioned the gympie gympie tree, which grows in Australia. Also known as nettle tree, and "guardian of the rainforest". The leaves are covered with microscopic hairs filled with poison, which break off in the skin of whoever accidentally touches it and causes unbelievable pain. Pain so horrendous it keeps the victim from sleeping for days, last for weeks, and recurs periodically for years.

From Wikipedia: "Moroidin, a bicyclic octapeptide containing an unusual C-N linkage between tryptophan and histidine, was first isolated from the leaves and stalks of Dendrocnide moroides, and subsequently shown to be the principal compound responsible for the long duration of the stings."

To indicate exactly how unpleasant this plant is, I mentioned that one man used the leaves as toilet paper while out in the wilds, and ended up blowing his brains out.


Little White Nipple Dude then said:


"Good thing he didn't use it to wipe the gunk off his penis"


Okay. A dozen people who either don't know you or don't want to know you heard you saying that, loudly, in public. I'm probably not the only one who is wondering how arse pain so intense it made someone blow his brains out could be considered less horrible because at least it wasn't penis or scrotal pain that made him blow his brains out. How is that possibly better?
Do you ever listen to yourself?

Elliminative organ agony that drives a person to suicide is, in every way, precisely as bad as regenerative organ agony with the same result.
Please don't even try to explain why one is worse.

I mentioned leaves used for a cleansing act in the wilds.
You went directly and loudly to gunk on the penis.

Why penis? And gunk? Huh?

I'd like to know what goes on in your mind.

So that it can be stopped.



Every year his parents take him on vacations to foreign places, probably because even though he is an adult they don't trust him out of their sight for more than a day. But, given that these places are always in the parts of the world where English is not the native language, there is also the likelihood that they are hoping he will go on shore leave by himself and end up hopelessly, permanently, lost.



There's a needy and entitled middle aged Marinite white woman out there with his name on it. In the fullness of time they will meet, they must.
They belong to each other.




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ENDLESS FASCINATION

When I came home my apartment mate was in bed. An entire day of watching Extreme Cheapskates on the telly had pooped her out.
As I was preparing my meal, she told me all about it.

While I ate I got to listen to road kill dumplings (squirrel), mixed leftovers from next door stew, and tunafish salad made with canned catfood ("I just saved thirty cents!"). Plus the guests getting sick from the hors oeuvres.
Thank you, my dear, that made my wonton noodle soup "special".
I have Aspergers. She has Aspergers. Worse than I do.
Some things aren't dinner table suitable.
I am far more aware of that.
But she's sweet.

Both of us are mild, and fully functional.

[Her boyfriend has Aspergers too. He thinks she's "neurotypical". Poor little innocent wuss!
But then, he's the lizard king of Asperger. She's also Cantonese American, so a fascination with white people and what they eat and their manifestations of pinchfistedness, must be factored in. She's analytical in that regard. He's an unknowing labrat.]


See, if you really want to see Aspergers in action, possibly the best and worst example is Little White Nipple Dude. He was at my place of work recently, and festered my entire break with more discussions of little white nipples. Plus details of a date on which long ago he asked a girl, she didn't show, he destroyed the beautiful single perfect rose, and smoked a cigar. She had her chance. She blew it. Then he told me about his gangster image in high school, and how people believed that he had pull, and could get things done. But mostly he talked about little white nipples.

He also did that back in early September, and though a few of us knew what he was on about for nearly an hour, many of the people who came in during that time did not realize that Dunhill butane for lighters comes with an adaptor for older models. The adaptor is the "little white nipple".
They simply thought that he was a monumental perv.

Which, as it turns out, he is.
Although harmless.

Feet.


PODIATRIST, ASTRONAUT, NUCLEAR PHYSICIST, DOCTOR OF DIVINITY, EX-MARINE, MARTIAL ARTIST, AND BRAIN SURGEON

One of the lounge members mentioned that his son had gone to highschool with Little White Nipple Dude. Who at that time tried to sweet talk girls by offering to paint their toenails. And, in the more than two decades since then, he has been spotted at shoe emporia trying to catch glimpses of ladies' bare feet. Or offering helpful shoe suggestions.

This probably also explains how he claimed to be a podiatrist. Which was aeons before he manifested himself as an astronaut, nuclear physicist, doctor of divinity, ex-marine, martial artist, and brain surgeon.

He has never offered to paint any body's rocket, reactor, bible tract, guts, random broken body part, or skull. An omission, I'm sure. Sometimes it feels like he is drilling into all those things, especially the last one.
Even more when he's ranting about little white nipples.


When I was eating my lunch, he tried to engage me in conversation. So for the benefit of random strangers I got him onto the subject of Dunhill butane. Firstly because I am an evil sonofabitch, and secondly, I wished to get him off the subject of the love-rival's finger he had snipped off with a cigar cutter as well as any other fanciful elements to his imaginary love life. I have heard more than enough about the wife and the fourteen year old daughter he did not yet have until a year and a half ago. And whatever weird dates he had.
I relish other folk's pauses in conversation when they start listening to in-depth disquisitions about little white nipples. Some of which wobble.
Some fit better than others, and some don't feel right.

This is NOT a can of Dunhill butane!

I'm just sitting here looking pained.
Eating a sandwich.
Quietly.


It's not just Aspergers. It's a lack of social skills, obliviousness, obsession, neurosis, paracosm, mythomania, and a fantasy prone personality.
What some people might describe as full-blown batshit.


With feet and nipples.




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NOT VISIBLE TO UNASSISTED EYE

This day is strange. It is raining right now in San Francisco, and there is thunder and lightening. Yet the apartment still feels too warm, and I am presently wearing only zesty boxer shorts, you should see me.

Actually, you shouldn't. I am actually a fairly modest man, my exhibitionist tendencies are a private affair, and I'm afraid that only the stuffed animals have seen me thus these past few years.

They are usually properly horrified, and have expressed the opinion that human beings are on the whole rather repulsive, unlike their own fine fuzzy selves when naked.

Still. Thunder, lightening, rain.
Since before seven o'clock.
Intermittent squalls.


Our banana slug president blames the Chinese, Rush Limbaugh opines that it's a liberal plot, and Alex Jones is convinced it's an evil conspiracy to impose a global government by the Bilderbergers and lizard people.


I'll take 'the Chinese' for a thousand dollars, Mr. Trebek.


I heard one of those Chinese people go on and on today about little white nipples. He sounded halfway insane, even if you factored in that what he actually meant was the adapter that made a standard can of butane suitable for an old-style Dunhill lighter. The little white nipple.
Everybody else calls it the little white nipple too.
It's not just him.
But never mind that. Normal people do NOT spend over forty five minutes hectoring another person about little white nipples. Thanks to that fine exemplar of obsessed Chinese manly consumerhood, I still have the phrase "little white nipples" stuck in my head.
I myself, as a Caucasian male, have relatively small white nipples, though they used to be even bitsier. The only person who has seen them in several years is my apartment mate, presently in her room asleep with the window open. She has no interest in my little white nipples.
Unlike her queer fellow tribesman.

The nice little white nipples.

Of which there are two.

Rather pinkish.


Time for strawberry ice cream.



UPDATE AS OF 10:26 PM

There is no strawberry ice cream! Nor any Rocky Road, or Cookie Dough! She ate all of it! What's left is a triple chocolate, which is delicious but a bit heavy. That Chinese woman must have had it for dinner, no wonder she's so exhausted. And on second thought, she does have a thing for some little white nipples, because her boyfriend is white, but I do not know how his little white nipples compare to my little white nipples. They are probably better. He is younger, more boyish, and immature.

I have never in my entire life talked about nipples for more than ten minutes.
White or otherwise.



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AN UNPLEASANT REEK OF RANCID VANILLIN

Badger puttered around with pipes and cigars today, much like he does three other days of the week while at work. And got zipped to the eyebrows on Pu-Erh tea. Which is also a regular occurrence.
Work involves fine cheroots, pipe restoration, and a selection of choice smokeables. There were no degenerate Habsburgs in the vicinity, and the man with an imaginary wife and fifteen year old daughter was also absent.
I suspect that he will be avoiding us rather much for a while.
Someone asked him questions about his "family".
A person who has known him for years.
And never knew of those two.
This upset him.

Consequently, he's off his game.


THE PHANTASMATIST

He's harmless, but a bit of a burden. In his slightly over forty years on this planet he's been a marine, a jet fighter pilot, a green beret, a doctor of comparative religion, a podiatrist, a brain surgeon, a nuclear physicist, a research chemist, a computer engineer, a martial artist, a neurologist, a prize winning photographer, and several other highly impressive things.
It is only in the last half year that he has started mentioning his darling wife and teenage daughter.

The sad thing is that those two entirely imaginary people obviously love him very much.

There are times when I envy him his rich inner life.


TEA, BLONDE LEAF, AND CHEAP CANDY

Badger had several cups of tea throughout the day, and also discovered the bowl of cheap chocolates. Selectively raiding said bowl provided a nice boost of sugar and theobromine. Plus, one might argue, valuable anti-oxidants. So it was a healthy time, despite the nicotine and caffeine coursing through the system.
Badger only smoked three pipes, however, rather than the four he had planned.

Badger considers that he might wander around Nob Hill after dinner enjoying the fog which rolled in, while having a final bowl.
Perhaps there will be raccoons.


The Badger enjoys clean tobacco, not the horrid stuff popularly known as Hobbit Weed, which consists of two parts BCA, one part Lane's Very Cherry, and one part Sutliff 1M. Both the first and the last of those components are Vanilla concoctions, so you can imagine how it smells, and also what Mr. Badger thinks of such an abysmal cocktail.

Sutliff's 1M is made from Virginia, Burley, and Green River Black Cavendish (which is a cooked Burley tobacco), with the addition of what is unbelievably described as a "subtle hint" of Vanilla.

There's nothing subtle about it.


Mr. Badger's present favourite blend consists of Virginias and a little air-cured leaf etcetera, discretely jazzed up with a dose of Perique, quite unsuitable for Hobbits; it lacks 4-Hydroxy-3-methoxybenzaldehyde.

An old-fashioned blend, no added goop.
With a natural room note.
And good taste.


Tolkien, in case you were wondering, smoked mostly Capstan Medium Navy Cut (a flake, now made by MacBaren's, and though no longer the same, it is an altogether respectable product), sometimes Ogden's Gold Block (Virginia with a minor amount of Burley, and a mildly perfumy top-dressing, pressed together), possibly Dutch-style Burley broken flakes, possibly Three Nuns (spun-cut mostly Virginia discs with a little Perique, now also made by MacBaren's, but without any Perique as far as I can tell), and probably quite a few other things as the mood struck. Almost any decent medium flake would have been plenty Tolkienesque. What he did NOT smoke was Black Cavendish Aromatic, or any of the tooty frooty spagnum that appeals to Hobbit and Gandalf wannabees.

Why DO so many people smoke ghastly perfumed dreck?
Is it just stupidity and bad taste?
Or perversion?

TOBACCO INDEX


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INTERFACIAL POETRY

This blogger realizes that he is a short man. Well, average. Because her breast were at eye level I did not realize at first that her face glowed with a self-satisfied dullness, vacuity, and ugliness of spirit, though what came out of her mouth for several minutes grated the ears and hurt the soul.

She was a tall woman, with high heels.

And breasts.


No, I did not interface with the mammaries. Nor, actually, with the woman herself. I am extraordinarily fond of the opposite gender, but faced with certain obstacles my social urges take a hindseat.
I do not interface well with dingos.


Conversations yesterday covered the following, in no particular order:

Fermenting cigar tobacco, Monty Python, Nice, a gentleman with a rich inner life (imaginary wife, fifteen year-old daughter, and career as a jet-fighter pilot / brain surgeon / podiatrist / ex-marine), Cuba, meat balls, The Wellhausen Hypothesis, Anglo-Saxon verse, Tuna, what is chip-dip good for, vanilla, Donald Trump, somebody's son (Wesley), Houses of Ill Repute (great name for a band, btw), blinking lights, Port wine, poor students and the cheapest pipe tobacco, rabbinic beards, credit cards that wives do not know about, Ecuadorian wrapper (Connecticut seed broadleaf, grown in mist-shrouded valleys), iambic pentameter, caesuras ("cesuur" in Dutch, zijnde een rust na een lange versregel, meestens aangegeven door een puntkomma achteraan), usages of the semicolon, metal alloys like paktong (白銅) and nickel silver, cheese, hummus, boogers, ashtrays, trousers, computers, and type faces.

Remarkably, breasts were not discussed at all.

This may have been an oversight.


I feel reasonably certain that I could have imparted subtlety and intellectual vigour to a conversation about breasts, but unfortunately the subject did not come up even once, and other than registering that a particular person was endowed with them, I did not think about breasts at all yesterday.

In the grand scheme of things, breasts are relatively minor.

They have their place and most men approve of them.

But past the teenage years they fade.

They're nice, though.

Breasts.



UNNECESSARY AFTERWORD

Cigar leaf for the pipe needs to be steamed ("cooked") to mellow it out. It is best to use well-aged tobacco, with a large admixture of wrapper, as long filler may be too heavy even after processing. The first light will be slightly rough, verging on sharpness, but it will soon settle into an earthy resinous smoke with an undertone of sweetness. The tobacco should render down to a pale grey ash of medium grit, and whatever you smoke in that pipe next will initially have a faint cheroot-like ghosting.
It can be very rewarding.


Breasts come in a variety of hues and dimensions, largely within a fairly narrow set of parameters and specifications. Their ambient temperature renders them warm to the touch.

The nicer the personality, the more favourably they may be received.

I should like to discuss them at some point.




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