ACTIVE KIDNEYS AND OTHER THINGS

Pipe club met today. Only eight people, but I was up to my elbows. though I did manage to clean three big pipes of good makes the size of which said that the previous owner had a miniscule manhood and was desperate to compensate. Big BIG pipes, tiny TINY manhood. People like that should really smoke mango passionfruit chocolate cavendish so that the rest of us know to stay the heck away. Look, if you were smoking those pipes in public I should be embarassed to be anywhere near you. If you smoked that tobacco in public I would be nowhere in sight.

"Oh I just love the smell of your tobacco, it reminds me of my granddad!"

Lady, your granddad was a ruddy pervert. He probably loved Clan.

On the other hand, my pipetobacco brings an Oxford man to mind. See, it's civilized. Would go well with a spot of sherry. While reading a very literate murder mystery. After tea time.

If the author was masculine, probably a Balkan blend. If she was a lady, more than likely a nice aged Virginia or a refined flake. With just a wee bit of Perique.
Ogden's Gold Block, if they're undecided.
This is just a theory.


Perhaps the pipe club would be interested in me giving a little lecture about this. Lord knows, we've happily heard about steamship races, Scottish distilleries, the Boer War, gold panning in the Sierras, small automobiles, curry, kidney stones, boat building ...

Shortly after I finished lunch miss A.A. came by to see me. We talked about Seiko watches, delightful black market Chinese cigarettes with a dried tangerine peel frangrance flavour capsule, and various things like that. So that was enjoyable. Mr. Y. was also there. My pipe expertise was needed, What kind of pipe is this? Is it Danish? Indeed, it's a Stanwell Golden Sovereign, characteristic shape, one or two letters of the stamping are still visible. And both of those GBDs are extraordinairy.


Most of the working day I was zipped to the gills on caffeine. Two cups of coffee before leaving home, about six or seven cups of tea and some more coffee while at work.
I'm home now, with a cup of coffee within arms reach.
Probably crashing soon.


Coffee, as you know, is a very efficient diuretic.
Tea far less so.



==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================

UP PICKED PIECES

It's probably time that they make another Lord Of The Rings movie. Which will stimulate the youth and persuade them to acquire long churchwarden pipes, usually crappy smokers made of fruitwoods from Eastern Europe. In which they will "enjoy" something called Hobbits Weed, which per the ancient recipe from a pipe store in Denver was one quarter Danish Vanilla, one quarter Very Cherry, and half Black Cavendish Aromatic. Which I have never sampled, but I've heard from people with simplistic taste and sensibilities that it was exquisite and assuredly what everyone huffed in Middle Earth back during the Renaissance.
Gandalf himself. Yessiree.

The most Gandalfian pipe I own is a Plainsman, made by the Civic Company, which sticks out a bit, and looks somewhat like the 'Bing's Favourite' that Savinelli makes. Smooth natural finish with a canted egg bowl, elegant, of indeterminate age. It does not require me to have a third hand when reading, unlike the true Gandalf style pipe, which is a silly affectation for people who enjoy their pipe performatively.

Plainsman pipes were decent pieces. The brand is now no longer available. They had been made in London till the late sixties, when manufacturing was moved to Wessex, and they sort of disappeared from the horizon.

Wessex, as everyone knows, is a jungly region next to Middle Earth.
Orcs and various species of corpse eaters live there.

The local pipe club met yesterday. Not a large number this time, as Bernard was attending a wedding on the East Coast -- which is a horrible excuse, because those are a dime a dozen, most marriages don't even last a decade and statistically there must be at least two or three of those linkages for every man, woman, and child, in the country, why just look at Elizabeth Taylor and Marilyn Monroe, so there will be plenty more for him to attend -- and the bridge troll had something going on lord only knows what probably art or food related and connected to his wife. Calvin didn't show up either.

But Neil was there. He's making an effort to be active again after his medical events of the past few months, and it was good to see him up and kicking. He did not have much energy, though, and he's still down over the passing of his cat, who had been a long-time companion with whom he'd sit out in the garden in the morning having a cup of tea and a smoke while keeping a wary eye on the coyote on the other side of the stream. The coyote has been absent lately too, obviously because the prospect of breakfast (the cat) is no longer there.

Even though I never met the cat, I feel sorry for Neil. When you've known an animal for so many years, you fold around its personality as it does yours, and it's a close part of your life. A companion. A friend. An agent of familiar chaos.

Neil was smoking a lovely Dunhill bent bulldog from way back before the war. Excellent tobacco. Certainly not anything like Hobbits Weed. Which was shite.



You know, after every work week I am more deranged than usual. Not enough sleep, achy twitchy burning legs, and too much caffeine for cold sober sanity. It's probably good that I spend quite time offending no one but myself afterwards.



==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================

GREEN SPECKLED

None of the disgusting fellows in the back came in costumed or naked. Very disappointing. Neither did the members of the pipe club. Which disappointed me, as I'm always in favour of theatre, drama, and embarrassing decisions by other people. I myself naturally don't do any of that stuff. Which is why I do not own any extrovertly bad taste briars, and don't have to brazen it out. Good pipes, good tobacco. Sound decisions.

And of course pâté. A sufficiency of. So from my point of view, in that regard the pipe club meeting was a splendid success. And both Neil and Bernard were there. Neil has been a bit poorly of late, and Bernard is often travelling in ghastly parts of the world as well as exotic refugee camps. So it was almost miraculous to have both of them present.

Nick was also there. He has been described variously as an elderly hobbit, the troll under to bridge, and an impossibly hot hot hot old fellow why heavens I need to stick my tongue in his ear! That young lady got thrown out of the bar minutes later, by the way. I ascribe her passion to the fine tobacco he was smoking at the time. Virginias, touch of perique. I smoke very similar blends, but so far I have not aroused any reactions of that type.
Possibly my ears aren't sexy enough.
I am not alone in that flaw.
Nick is unique.


The experience did not leave any lasting trauma.

All active members were present. In addition to meaty products there was single malt Scotch. Myself, I was high as a kite on caffeine, having been drinking tea since I got in hours earlier.

Let me also clarify, even though it probably hasn't even crossed your mind, that none of us in the pipe club is a beastly old fart. We are all young and vibrant. Including the three gentlemen previously mentioned, who are all retired.


And despite liking them, it is a jolly good thing that none of them ran the Bay to Breakers. also, if they were to hypthetically in fits of insanity do so, they would be wearing sensible clothes. The very first picture of the race I saw today featured two untrim middle aged dudes in the buff, seen from behind. One of them has a back tattoo all the way down to the sunset. Now I am severely traumatized.

No one in the building was dressed in any way that might raise an eyebrow. Well, other than Bill snoring in the back room, wearing shorts and exposing his rather educational legs. But we're used to that. It is Marin, after all. And high seventies.

I asked one of the members to be sure to bring along the Charatan with the horribly green-speckled mouthpiece which I had seen at the previous meeting. It needs a bit of buffing.
He had smoked it outside during inclement weather.
So it's quite oxidized.




==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================

DALLIANCES

The April get-together was a blast. Several more people showed up than I expected, with varying levels of depth and investigative curiosity in our little depraved hobby. All of us had tales of encountering Nurse Ratchets. Martin recounted a call from a professional from his hospital who asked him what his "personal wellness goals" were. He told her that his main goal was staying alive, for the time being, and he was doing that. And no, he didn't wish to attend any cessation therapy sessions, but he was interested in getting CAT scans to see what years of indulgence might have done to his lungs.

They called back a few day later and informed him that the hospital didn't really worry about pipe smokers, it was the habitual cigarette smokers who were their target. And they were okay with him being a stubborn old coot. More or less. Sort of.

My own experience was a previous regular care physician who was convinced that with enough encouragement and perhaps nicotine patches I would stop indulging in tobacco.
And thus not die of smoking related infirmities and obvious insanity.
Surely, as a pipesmoker, I was on the road to ruin.


One of the members, who is in his eighties, suggested inviting one or two of the medical profession to a meeting, so they could meet aged pipesmokers enjoying life, and hear how pipes, fine tobacco, and stinking a bit, could fit into a modern with-it lifestyle. Calm people down while pepping them up. And if they smoked certain heavy aromatics their sex lives would improve, the opposite gender would fling themselves at them. He himself smokes civilized Virginia-Perique products, and leads a quiet life with his spouse of many years. He was incredibly proud of his daughter, and one of his grandsons likes the same kind of pipe tobacco. Of which the Germans and Danes are making splendid versions.

Conclusion: Perhaps the antismoking brigade should visit Holland, Germany, and Denmark. They'll learn to be less opinionated, and how to pronouce 'Gouda', 'Scheveningen', and 'persoonlijke vrijheden' properly.

Heroes were also mentioned, such as Pipestud in Texas and JimInks. Both are well-known in the community, and stellar pillars. Also Marty Pulvers, whom many of us know personally. Naturally Dunhill's (now under the Peterson line-up) Royal Yacht mixture was mentioned, that being the only blot on the first-mentioned gentleman's escutcheon, which is inexplicable and can make grown men burst into tears before going out back to hurl. Pipestud loves it.
We are all perverts in our own unique ways. Though only a few of us are Texans.

Cox's Bazar, Yangon, and Rome were talked about. Bernard was upset that his relatives had pulled an intervention: no more international travel for the time being, at least until the world is a bit less likely to play with fire. He's probably already planning to break curfew.

One of the ladies present was pleased that I spoke well of the products that Bob Runowski had a hand in. These are solid old fashioned Burley blends that harken back to a golden age of American pipesmoking, enjoyed by men of gravitas and consistency. Newly popular in some circles, with a small but keen fanclub. She thoroughly enjoys two of them.

Several of us also went into detail about the reek of Financial District sewers, where each intersection has four different repellent odours, and the entire area is, generally speaking, inutterable. That discussion lasted for at least half and hour.

The San Francisco Financial District is the beating heart of America's commercial pulse. You can smell the spirit of Yankee enterprise, it flows in steaming abundance underfoot.


Whiskey, wine, cheese, deli meats, cookies, pastry, champagne. Plus pâté, of which I ate most. Washed down with two mugs of strong tea. Pu erh.


By the way: there were two tins of Cornell & Diehl's latest release of Palmetto Balkan on the table. The owners of which were mighty chuffed at being able to score them, and generously letting the other members sample. It's mighty good stuff.
I have eight tins from four years ago.



==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================

WHY WOULD ANYONE DO THAT?

Some people display peculiarities that are, more or less, green flags. Some don't. One of the members of the pipe club loves nothing more than waffling on about panning for gold in the Sierra foothills, which since he retired two or three years ago has taken up a lot of his time. It's a connection with history and his inner Gandalf. I myself prefer to watch paint dry.
Which is fascinating oh boy.

A few others are much more connected to the modern world, and have experiences that are somewhat more shareable. A high school music teacher. A person who wishes to visit every country in the world before he passes on (quick, invent more countries!). Three people of wildly different Netherlandish background, because Cheeseheads are a wildly diverse bunch. And, as of yesterday, three more members, one of whom is in the medical field, and I have no clue what the other two are into because I did not get to talk with them.

But what is clear is that we need more chairs.

We're okay on pipe cleaners, though. The gentleman who only came for the free pipe cleaners moved to the desert nearly ten years ago. I also like free pipe cleaners, but it wouldn't prompt me into being a social being on a Sunday. I sparkle irrespective of pipe cleaners. Bernard, Martin, and Neil probably don't go anywhere without them. I have not carefully observed anyone else's pipe cleaner habits and peculiarities.

Pipe cleaners are essential to civilized life.

We tempt space aliens with our pipe cleaners. If the intergalactic federation ever contacts us, it will be because of pipe cleaners. They're a priceless invention. Kudos, humans!
War, no. Pipe cleaners, yes.

Several Latakia blends were mentioned. We also talked about our first tobaccos. Good lord we smoked some awful shite back then. Royal Theodorus Niemeijer Scottish Mixture.

After everyone left I found a glass jar filled with something black that had not been put away. No, I didn't bother opening it up to smell, as it was quite clearly BCA. Which is Green River Burley cooked till it darkens, with sugar and vanilla added. The bane of existence. What hobbits smoke. As well as the abusers of farm animals.

It had not been evident in the air during the meeting, perhaps it was left to torment me.


Beatings should probably continue till my morale improves.



==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================

A HUMMING SOUND

Neither Neil nor Nick was present, and consequently missed out on a splendid social event. The first was feeling poorly, the second was at his wife's painting exhibition lendind moral support during her sparkle time. She paint's very well, and deserves the attention. He's a pipesmoker, and probably snuck out to quietly fume while comuning with nature or an infestation. Just a guess.

Nick likes Vapers (Virginia and Perique blends), and I was keen to see what he thought of a tobacco I put on the table for testing. Which had twenty percent Perique. Which is nice, but too much for my liking, although I once did come up with a concoction containing ten percent for a friend. Four to eight percent is quite enough, and really makes its presence felt.

Still, a dozen gentlemen showed up for the meeting, despite the constant rain outside, gloomy absence of sunlight, and noisy old farts in the backroom arguing about politics, pornographic matters, and dentists in Thailand.

The latter crowd was far enough away that we could safely ignore them and their patriotic magaite spew. There were beverages and edibles. And I think they all enjoyed themselves. Plus decently timed old man bladders which prevented pile-ups at the bathroom.
Which is something to fear.

There was preening, ruffling, and a discreet amount of strutting. Mentions of classic shapes and brands. Nothing outrageous, but murmurs of appreciation. Some mention of panning for gold up in the Sierras, geology, the commissary on base, crossing the equator, and distant lands some of them had in common. Unlike the putrid rightwingers in the backroom; no loud voices, no foul language. Altogether a very enjoyable meeting of the local pipe club.

I had brought my longest Canadian and quietly ponced around with it while doing needful things, nothing flashy or egotrippy, just looking like one of the background characters in a Tennessee Williams play during the fifties.

In fact, I often feel like I'm in a stage show featuring big egos, eccentricity, insanity, and white trash behaviour, but that's mostly because of the fellows in the backroom, with whom I largely do not speak anymore.


So it was refreshing to have civilized people in house.



==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================

BUT LET US NOT SPEAK OF THAT

In addition to screaming rowdy pissants in one part of the building, there were a number of quite well-behaved gentlemen at the other end. Members of the local pipe club had a social get-together involving very moderate drinking and a selection of lovely meat products while discussing tobacco and an aortic stent which one of the members is having installed later in the month, among other things. On the whole we're all getting older. Even though we like to think of ourselves as vibrant and energetic exceptionally clean cut teenagers.

Spiritually I am young and hale and hearty.
Not past fifty in the slightest!


And I think I speak for the other members present in that respect.

Though we may not look it. I doubt that any of us ever resembled staggering he-men or highschool jocks, being more into textual athletics and fact-based studies than feel-good track and field nonsense. I was probably the most sporty person there, seeing as I was wearing a football sweatshirt for a yeshiva which I never attended with a college football squad that actually doesn't exist. And as far as I'm aware all nearly ten thousand current bocherim in the body are into Mishnah Gemarah Talmud Torah.
They probably wouldn't know a pigskin from Adam.
Imagine a library filled with people.

Difference between pipe club members and regular Americans when stepping into a library is that pipe club members would exclaim "oh hey, books" and happily scatter all over the place, whereas everybody else would groan "oh crap, books", then hold their heads down and run for the exit. Most yeshivot, as you can well imagine, have books coming out the hoo-hah.
Sfarim to the rafters. Megilas, megilatum, dixit Ecclesientes, omnia megilas.

There was charcuterie, and fromage. Distillates and hot coffee. Several open tins of tobacco. Lively conversation that never once reached the loudness level of the sports morons at the other end of the builing. They go up to eleven.


Among the subjects we touched upon: Legends (an excellent pipe mixture formerly available from McClellands, recipe by Fred Hanna), Scott in Mexico who smokes both good tobacco and something indescribably nasty in his Sasienis and Dunhills, John O. in Georgia whose selfies aften feature his bespectacled visage partially hidden behind a massive beard, a large Castello, and clouds of smoke (Doblone D'Oro), Neil's fondness for Comoy Blue Ribands, Adrian who used to use a Dunhill or Dupont lighter to obscure the fright-warning on tobacco tins in the photographs that he posted, and of course the good old days. When you could smoke everywhere, and doctors lit up after surgery.


So I would say it was a good meeting. Not disturbed too much by the people at the other end of the building, who were all senile Republican dunderheads, very loudly having orgasms and soiling their tight tight TIGHT diapers when the local team won.



==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================

SOMETHING UNDER PRESSURE

Make no mistake: I am very fond of my apartment mate. But she's on the spectrum. So am I. But her more so. Which means that I just listened to twenty minutes of something that went wrong several weeks ago (which I had already heard before, I remembered all the details) in full detail. Which was not pursuant anthing at all. Now she's on about the most common car colours. And a pink custom paint job.

Everytime I get home from work I'm a bit bushed and need time to recover. This isn't helping, especially because at work today during a break in the game I got to hear about someone's problematic prostate, which had required medical intervention -- it's surprising how many of those people have prostate issues, maybe it's political -- and please understand that I do not regard prostatatic thingy as a diverting subject of conversation, ever, but I had only myself to blame, because for entertainment purposes I've been timing the old fellows when they rush to the loo. Three minutes. Sometimes it's five. Or ten.

If you want to know more about the prostate, and how it's your friend, do visit the Wikipedia article about it. It's quite fascinating, you'll love it. Especially the bit about fibrous tissue, and enodscopic view angles.


Or you could invite me to your next boyscout meet, and I'll tell the little fellows all about it. With family-viewing suitable diagrams and schematics. Bright attractive colours!

Remarkably, the fellows over in the North-East corner (pipe club) did not discuss prostateries at all. Instead, the absence of cold cuts, fancy cheeses, and pâté was mentioned. Neil, who normally gets those for us, is in the hospital with heart valve issues.
We all hope he recovers and will be back soon.
That has nothing to do with pâté.

The condition of their prostates is unknown to me. I have not asked. They have not out of the blue volunteered any information. I know more about their pipes than their prostates. One of them likes Dublins and sleek billiards, another has a thing for Oom Pauls, and Nick has some Rhodesians of which he's very fond.

I think there were equal numbers of Balkan lovers and VaPer huffers.
Not a single aromatic. That lack was not keenly felt.


There was brief mention of dermoid cysts.
We shall speak no more about it.




==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================

SEETHED CRUSTIES

At the recent pipe club meeting I had to mention certain crucial truths to a friend regarding cleaning up used pipes. Among others, do NOT erase or diminish the brand stamping, what had been a rather nice Dunhill is now merely a good bang-arounder and cannot be admired. Same for that sandblast which now has a smooth rim, the GBD with a lovely new stain job, and a few others. Also, unless the interior is thoroughly messed-up, 're-caking' with carbon goo, while perhaps aesthetically pleasing, is not necessary nor desireable.
Plus pâté is gob's gift to a Dutchman I saw it first bitch.

Actually, I believe I was the only one who actually saw it. I drank in its visual totality, and appreciated its gestalt. It was delicious. Yeah, okay, it looked like a log of supermarket Braunschweiger, and was unprepossessing, but pâté, man, good.

Bernard, Neil, and Joel were also there, Mike showed up briefly, and a few others.

Conversations were animated and pipes were smoked.
Shallow philosophical questions got discussed.
The world's problems weren't solved.


One of the pipes I had with me was a lovely squatty Comoy bent bulldog which a friend had given me nearly a year ago. I'm fortunate that a few of my friends recognize certain shapes as ones that I will cream in my scanty lace panties over and generously part with. Now get that image out of your head, it's unseemly. Think crows and blinky things instead.

It is uncertain, and actually not at all likely, that we're all on the same page regarding pâté, Italian meat products, or smoked fishy substances. But I think we can all agree on cheese. Just as we can all agree that certain aromatic tobacco mixtures are good gob almighty what is that ghastly dreck and why am I now thinking of tattooed and pierced gentlemen who live in their mom's basement outside in her yard smoking their extrovert cheap Danish freehands and reading Kierkegaard? Precisely like the goobers from Spinal Tap? Or making ten page long comments on the staggering imagery of Gandalf and Frodo, and speculating that Smaug was a pipe smoker too?

Boys, if Smaug was a pipesmoker, he favoured classic products like MM 965, Balkan Sobranie, or Marcovitch. Not that horrid fruity garbage that, apparently, Gandalf and Frodo liked. So in a way he's actually the hero of the tale. Very likely not a hoarder of gold, but a book collector. He's been horribly misrepresented. Tolkien was a criminal.


There was an entire bottle of wine left over, which will probably be sipped a little and used in cooking, because a pork stew with anchovies frazzled at the bottom of the pan then seethed with wine is very good. Great over rice stick noodles. I'm just saying. Garlic and ginger.

What's left of the pâté is breakfast.




==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================

EXCLUSIVE DEFINITION

It being the meeting of the pipe club today, I felt like I was being run ragged. They are nice fellows, but they all want to talk, and they all are desirous of the oddest things. And, being pipesmokers, they are neurotic. Less than a quorum showed up, and the president of the club was missing in traffic. There were no snacks or bottles of liquor. A grievous oversight. They are innocent lads, and do not know how to buy cold cuts and pâté. Or cheese.
It's so complicated. Fortunately I brought lunch (which I did NOT offer to share).
And I was high as a kite on cups of tea.

Plus, preemptively, a painkiller. I had set up the tables and felt my right leg starting to act up.

So tea, an alledgedly Italian sandwich, keffir, and what's left of my work stash of chocolate (soon to be refilled) which they do not know about. The crusty old fart who is turning eighty this year, and is absolutely convinced that there is a nano-chip in the vaccine, used to have a work stash also -- which they didn't know about either -- but he's given up on that.
His self-indulgences aren't what they used to be.

Chocolate, by the way, is cheaper by the two pound container.
But as I hinted, that's privy information.

In any case, they all had a fine time.

The usual rowdy crowd remained in the backroom all day and did not bother us. At the time when we were about ready to lock up I hollered in there that "gentlemen, Trump supporters, and libertarian scum" had to leave. There was only one gentleman in there, but all of them obediently departed. He's also the only one who has a wife. Which surprises me not.

The bus back to civilization was plowing through dense fog well before we got to the bridge. We were enveloped entirely in pale greys when we got to the city. There is currently not so much visibility outside. Buildings two blocks away fade into purple blue above street level.

It should be quite lovely early tomorrow morning when I go for a walk around the block and the first pipe of the day. The silver does not lift till well past eight or nine.



==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================

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.



==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================

PASTY AND FREEZING

Several years ago I strongly suggested to the pipe club that on Bay To Breakers (a yearly running event across the breadth of the city) they should contribute to the zaniness (nudity, funny costumes, beer) by participating as a team. The Naked Puffs. Running. Naked. With pipes. Surprisingly, there was pushback. One member opined that, as I was the person who suggested it, I should lead and they would follow.

I demured, explaining that I was always scheduled to work on Sundays, kindly think of my as the vicar of this parish, but I would be there in spirit encouraging them. Trot trot.
If I am not here at my usual post, it would quite upset the applecart.
And cause a revolution, what is the world coming to?
It's quite unthinkable, tell you what.

Besides, I look ugly running naked in the fog, and would scare the little children. You lot, on the other hand ...
I have been told that I am a veritable Adonis, and must run. It won't be the same without me.

Bay To Breakers was today. So was the meeting of the pipe club. The full quorum did not show up, so some of them must have been running. Jolly good, and bravo. Kudos.
Show the world what it's like to be a naked pipesmoker!
The children deserve to know!

I attended the meeting. I did not run. But I chided them for their laziness.
Did I already mention the applecart? I have an excuse. They don't.

You are all letting the side down. We expect better.


Also, a chap from Kansas City was visiting, new pipe smoker. Talked him through the history of pipes since Adam, answered several questions about briar, burl growth, famous brands, and stuff like that. So I don't really know what the lads all discussed, though Bernard, as an Afrikaner, authoritatively talked smack about the President's nonsense about South Africa and those claims of a genocide. This was before Kansas City came in, and while I was stuffing my face with excellent pâté and charcootered items.

Now that I think about it, none of us are young enough to get up and get naked at five o'clock in the morning. Cold winds, darkness, fog, and just generally nasty at that hour.
They should reschedule the race entirely so us old codgers can join.
Everyone's looking forward to that. Trust me.



==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================

FEVERED PIPE DREAMS

During the day I filled two bowls with a well-made tobacco that epitomizes rank perversion. Which I smoked. And thoroughly enjoyed. At one point Hecky demanded that I get the hell away from him with that nasty stuff. The refined urinal cake odour was, he opined, vile and nasty. Utterly repugnant, and I was a big meanie.

Well, I also convinced two of the members of the pipe club, which met today, to try the stuff.
So there was a constant almost subconscious hint of it at the edge of perception.
Hecky may have felt under siege.

Yeah, there is now a faint ghosting in both pipes. It will probably take half a dozen smokes each to remove that. It's worth the sacrifice, and I fondly remember the time when there was a faint whorehouse funk to one of my bowls (lasted for three more smokes), as well as the evening when Curtis was convinced that some criminal was huffing a fruity aromatic in his nice clean virginal cocktail lounge the horror the horror.

Also, I know that the gentler sex rather like the smell. Which is odd.
It's a product that seems to make strange things happen.
Almost a supernatural bane or curse.
Bad aura tobacco.

Bern reminisced about Spain, West Africa, and that Flamenco dancer. Charles went on and on about eating silkworms. Neil sat in his corner looking miserable and depressed, Christian gibbered about the sacred precinct, and almost as if by magic small bottles of Habanero chili hotsauce appeared on the table. Much fine liver pâté was consumed. Along with cheese. Prostates, cataracts, and thyroids were discussed. Along with surgical management.
Plus floods. Eruptions. Emergency barriers. Magma flows.

Someone confused Murphy with a taxi driver.

The Mallard was smoked too.

On the bus back to the city there were an awful lot of confused foreigners. Apparently you can urinate against the bus, but not on the bus. Irrespective of the vehicle's direction.
That perfumed pipe tobacco must have somehow caused all this.
I shall not mention that belief to Hecky.
Because he would agree.


It was a good meeting. Around a dozen members.
Most of them quite sober. Most of the time.



==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================

STIMULATING THOUGHTS ABOUT CHEMISTRY

"So it's agreed then? In June we all make Molotov Cocktails." No one voiced disagreement as they were all far too busy talking over each other and sharing opinions, or pouring wine and swilling Scotch. Sadly, there were no bready substances for the charcuterie, which would have sopped up some of the excess and slowed absorption. And I was probably the most attentive member seeing as I was drinking coffee instead of hitting the booze. The resident Dutchman has to stay alert. It's how we ended up brutally exploiting the world for so long while maintaining a pretence of being liberal humanists and ever so civilized.

Well, that last isn't a pretence. We actually are. We've never been ruled by an orange puke bucket and his coterie of paranoid numskulls. Just remember that.

When I asked one of the gentlemen present what his overseas relatives were thinking about this clownshow, he informed me that they were half shitting themselves over what the president would do, and half pissing themselves laughing.

This blogger is absolutely in favour of well-functioning eliminative processes.
I'm thinking more of incendiary methods and tactics.
Not biological functions.

Most of the boys agreed with my assessment that violent riots were both a reasonable option under certain circumstances as well as a great likelihood by summer. And that all markings of an attempted Fascist take-over are swinging into place, albeit quite clumsily and amateurish because the cabal are stupid people, raging paranoid egomaniacs, and absolutely incapable of all being on the same page or even concerted co-operation with their fellow dingbats.

It's not subtle. But many people are stupid and credulous.
As well as adulant or fellow travelers.


Other matters that we discussed were Willmer pipes, Carolina Red, Fribourg & Treyer, Kapp & Peterson and green wood dye (not colour-fast), stem materials, the addition of Perique. Plus terpeneols, carotenoids, and tannins. That last in connection with iron acetate, and staining wood. Briar, after curing, is very low in tannins, unlike for instance oak.
So very strong bitter black tea as a pre-coat comes to mind.



==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================

THE GATHERING

Remember, I am not a particularly social person. Which may explain why I am still a pipesmoker, and have remained single since my break-up years ago.
Pipesmoking, as you undoubtedly realize, is not a social activity.
Nor endearing to the fairer sex.
I do not endear.

Today was consequently a little trying. I could easily ignore the rancid old Magaites drooling and gibbering in the back room -- all they need, really, is carrion and a teevee -- but when the gentleman from Shanghai and his adult daughter and son came in we ended up talking for over two hours. A pipesmoker, keenly interested in the environment in which we were. He did not know many pipesmokers in Shanghai, it was mostly a private pursuit. He liked Latakia blends, knew about the Scandinavian Tobacco Group's recent purchase of MacBarens/Sutliff (which means that the spectrum be reduced to a mere fraction (four hundred plus distinctly different products down to about a dozen), was reasonably familiar with the outside world despite not speaking English, somewhat acquainted with zhuan shu (篆書 sealscript) as well the full forms of many characters. A very good thing, as my ability in Mandarin is poor and haphazard; his daughter (a very nice person) was a capable translator when necessary.
He was glad to be there, as I was glad he had discovered the place.

I hope I see him again next year when he visits his daughter again. Shortly after the three of them left, the pipe club members started trickling in. We had not seen each other since two weeks before the inaugeration. We all share much the same opinions about the subsequent actions and appointees. At one point I casually reminded Nick, who is in his eighties, of the time a young lady was so taken by his elfin charm (he's in his eighties, but cute looking with sparkling eyes that reflect his puckish personality) that she hopped onto his lap and stuck her tongue in his ear. Startling, and memorable.

Nick smokes aged Virginias and fine flakes, as do I. Neil, who had provided two nice pâtés, tends to sometimes indulge in those, but usually puffs medium to full Latakia mixtures. We agree on some of the limited edition C&D flakes, as well as Palmetto Balkan, which proves overwhelmingly that Jeremy Reeves is an absolute genius.


Bernard, another gentleman, and I discussed African wildlife. He agrees with me that it's a jolly good thing that honey badgers have neither opposable thumbs nor the ability to form complete sentences. If man had to compete with them, we'd lose.


Altogether about a dozen pipe smokers, several tobaccos, at least two bottles of wine, and good cheese in addition to the pâté.


So it was a succesful pipe club meeting. And the members had a good time.
As did I. But I am not a social person, and am a bit frazzled.
And my right foot is painful and twitching.
Tomorrow will be quieter.


Perhaps a few bland sentences about food. After a few days of being twirling mister charm surrounded by Orcs in the salt flats I probably need that. I really must stress that I am not a very social person. Nor like Gandalf in any way. You might mistakenly assume otherwise.
And I am certainly not a blasted Hobbit.



==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================

IT SMIRKS PERKILY!

One thing I've noticed about commercials is the preponderence of women who sound blonde, middle-class with aspirations or pretensions, well-fed, and perky perky perky!
Doesn't matter what the product. Cars. Clothes. Make-up. Eloctrolytes.

Perhaps that is the ideal woman in suburban America.
Judging by media to which I've been exposed.
The background noises of the day.
Perky! And blonde!

None of whom showed up to the meeting of the local pipe club. Which is their loss, as there was good stuff to smoke, as well as some very nice earthy brandy, of which I did not partake for a variety of reasons. There were also some lovely pipes there, old briar well-shaped and properly maintained.

Plus brie, preserved meats of various types, and a delicious bit of pâté.


Snacks, tobacco, good company. As well as discussions of gold prospecting, ore, amber, carbon rubber, terpeneols, carotenoids, natural sugars and oils crystalizing, engineering.
And diverse other subjects.

About a dozen of of us gathered. I know and like all of them, but I did not participate entirely because I had things to do, and did not wish to unduly burden my co-worker.
And I probably smoked too much, mostly Virginia-Perique blends.


Plus by the end of the afternoon the lack of sleep from the previous night combined with perhaps too much caffeine from all the tea I had drunk throughout the day made me less than rational. Or perhaps super-rational. Transcendent. Inspired.

Sometimes I wonder how people put up with me.




==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================

COMPLETELY!

One thing that struck me over the work week (which includes Saturday and Sunday) was that A) there are good sound reasons for not associating with many Republicans, cigar smokers, and Marinites during my days off, and B) if I had listened to the medical opinions of the delusional old bastards in the back room I would be dead now, and going blind.

Let's just say that cayenne-ginger water, manuka honey, apple cider vinegar, special vitamins for eyes, sitting yoga, and avoiding vaccination, are complete and utter horsefeathers.
Same goes for glutenphobia, kombucha, and most, almost all, popular diets.

Most days there are repulsive people on the premises.


I am completely normal.


Okay, I used that phrase ("I am completely normal") in conversation with my apartment mate, who expressed undiplomatic surprise at the intensity of my reaction to the box of cookies falling over, whereupon she said (paraphrased) "the heck you are, you are completely Aspy, no one acts like it's a horrid car crash with fatalities when cookies fall". Which is just wrong. If they don't, they should. Crumbs! Imperfection! And if anyone here is on the spectrum it is her. Whereas I am completely normal.

Today was the meeting of the local pipe club. Who are all normal people. Meanwhile the cigar-huffing rabid old swine in the back room were drooling over tight football buns and spewing loud and venomous disagreement over politics, economics, the medical profession, the media, everybody who disagrees with Trump, modern society, young people these days, climate change, various minorities, and milk bottle white calves visible because the retired member of the judicial branch was present, wearing shorts.

They're basically all on the same page, but instinctively they snarl, snap, and growl. Being foul tempered is their natural state. Which is why their surviving relatives of much younger generations drive them in and push them out of the car with pitchforks and cattle prods.

Because I am completely normal, I do not wear shorts.
I value other people's sensitivities.
And I'm very kind.

The pipe smokers, being creatures of sweetness and light, much like myself, were patiently tolerant of the stinking distemper on the other side of the building. As usual we had cheese, preserved meats, and pâté. Plus sundry bottles. Being an abstemious man I had no liquour, but took satisfaction with the pâté. Of which I had more than anyone else.
Yes, I even toasted with it.

Several members were sadly missing. One of them is currently in Africa, another had sent word that he couldn't attend, and a third may be off in the wilderness shooting or drawing ducks. Two others were simply not there. A pity. Maybe next month.


Did I already mention how normal I am?



==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================

IT'S THE FOG

Rumours of my social sparkle may have been grossly exaggerated. As well as my hail fellow well mettishness and bonhomie. Consider the cat, which ensconces itself in a convenient box so that it rear-end and vital organ areas are safely out of sight, only the head with fangs and the paws with claws are showing. Precisely so. This box is my fortress.

But I will venture forth for pâté, of which there was a tempting sufficiency durin the meeting of the pipe club, most of whom I like rather much. I am fond of pink meat goo.
Pink meat goo is as good a social lubricant as there is.
Look, I'm smiling.


Ten people and two whiskey bottles showed up. Plus several tins of tobacco. One or two of the members look more fragile than they did last month, and I think there was a pick-up truck with Texas plates parked outside. Not that that is germane, he lives locally. There were, sadly, no women. For some reason I cannot fathom we have no women members.

Ladies, if you like fine Virginia Perique mixtures, and pink meat goo, please show yourselves! Come for the meat goo, stay for the fabulous company. Have some flake! Delicious!

It ended with people fading into the fog, which was starting to roll over the coastal hills. It's gotten colder since nightall, by about fifteen to twenty degrees. The road across the bridge was enveloped in white silk which also veiled the view of the city. Some pelicans flapped near the bus, then disappeared into the mists.


Because it's the beginning of the football season, the depraved cigar smoking old gits in the backroom were in high spirits, a perfect rutting frenzy, and loudly insulted each other as they vied for the attention of imaginary females of their species, ruffling their wattles in splendid display. I had earlier told them to behave better than they normally do, no venomous and vehement fighting over politics, go ahead and discuss religion, that's a safe subject and you're all heretics who will burn at the stake anyhow, so nobody will be offended.

They talked politics.


Anyhow, the pipe smokers had a fine time. At the appointed hour I told them that some of them were in danger of turning into pumpkins, and if they stayed much longer I would have to mop up the pumpking guts, please avoid the cheroot crowd on the way out they all have diseases. Unclean, unclean! A few members crossed themselves as they left.

Nick is looking to buy his first Comoy. I suggested that if he didn't want to spring for a Blue Riband, he should look for a London Pride or research some of the Comoy off-brands.
Many of those are also nice. I look forward to seeing what he finds.
He's in his eighties. But still spry and hobbit-like.



==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================

FRUITFUL MEETING

A number of years ago I mentioned that the total absence of a love life of any sort weighed on me. Before that I had had a love life -- which lasted for several very happy years -- and not having anyone to eat dinner with or NOT accompany to the symphony was a bleakness. Friends suggested alleviations and solutions. Most of which if analysed would have meant changes equal to or greater than a sex-change and joining a cult.

Yesterday was the meeting of the local pipe club. Many of the members of which are of my age, roughly, with similar bad habits and tastes. Some of whom are actually in relationships. Two of them are married. No, we did not ask them what their secret was. One of them we couldn't because he and his wife were off somewhere doing something. I'm sure he had told her weeks (even months or years) before of the regularly scheduled meetings, which occur once a month and last for less than three hours. Which we all look forward to, because it is both good and refreshing to share time with people like oneself.
The other married member brought the eaties.

There was alcohol there. A few bottles.
Single malt Scotch. Rare Bourbon.

As you would expect, I drank plenty of tea. Which is the extent of my indulgence in cheering beverages nowadays. Goes with both Virginia blends and Balkan mixtures. Perhaps not so much with aromatics (only one participant) or Burley concoctions (best with bathtub gin and clear distilates from your cousin Bubba presently in the federal penitentiary we're praying for an early release on good behaviour because he leads the weekly Bible class).

On my days off I usually head into Chinatown for a cup of hot Hong Kong Milk Tea and something to eat. It's an escape from the wider world, and therapeutic.
Also stress-free. Quite enjoyable.

People in Chinatown don't object to my smoking a pipe on the public street, because they either have a dear relative who still smokes or they are that relative, and they mind their own business, or they are tourists from parts of the world where people smell very much worse and do perfectly awful things habitually so a whisp of burning leaves doesn't register.

Plus it's well policed there. Unlike the rest of the city.
Or Berkeley and Oakland.


A dozen pipe smokers attended. And a good time was had. I should have offered the designated drivers a cuppa from my stash, I realize now belatedly.

At one point I explained an unusual product to two others, who committed to trying it some time. The Beast, comprised of 51% Perique (an anaerobically fermented tobacco)that has been soaked rum for a week, augmented by red Virginia Cavendish and black, with a smidge of fire-cured leaf. Supposedly a tweaked version of what Aleister Crowly enjoyed. Seeing as he was a certifiable freak who dabbled in black magic and occult practices, and probably liked ripping the wings off baby daemons, it's a peculiarity. Not likely to be anyone's desert island blend, though it is .... amusing. Normally Perique is only used condimentally, no more than ten percent max, best as three to six percent of a blend. I've smoked a few bowls of it. From an opened sample tin, because I'm not going to purchase any.
I enjoyed it, and it didn't ghost my pipe.

Note: a few years ago I smoked a pipeful of something that was twenty percent Perique, not rum-soaked, which though quite pleasant left my mouth feeling both raw and processed. And two talented blenders have assured me that ten percent max is bullpucky. But they're both eccentric, so let us disregard that.

At one point there were three of us standing around yesterday with Dunhill shellbriars in our mouths; two Balkans, one VaPer. Two fat straight billiards, one bent.

Ecumenical. Or Catholic. Depends on your definition.


The smoker of the aromatic mixture is conservative, as you would expect. Ex-army.


The three tea drinkers are all intelligent and liberal.

Air force and the navy were also there.
As well academia and industry.
No women, sadly.


The Beast, by Cornell & Diehl, is the kind of pipe tobacco you smoke when performing an exorcism. It will remind the daemon of losing its wings. And give it night sweats, much like what Nigel Farage has when he remembers being deservedly assaulted with a milk shake.
Fruity Post-traumatic Stress Disorder.
You should buy a tin.



AFTERWORD: That there were no women in attendance dismays me. This must change. We're all socially polished and on the whole excellent conversationalists.
And we smell good. Plus there is tea, and whisky.
Also cheese and pâté.

TOBACCO INDEX


==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================

CIGAR SMOKERS AND THEIR DISEASED MINDS

Cigar smokers, as I heard today, all remember the first time they got a ( -- blank -- ). Pipe smokers remember their first tobacco. Not because they are sexless, but because they are cleaner-minded, nearly saints. My very first pipe tobacco was Niemeijer's Scottish Mixture.
A month or so later I bought a tin of Niemeijer's Irish Mixture. Basically the same variegated blend of light and dark ribbon, with for the first heather honey and Scotch whisky notes, for the second, Irish whiskey with a touch of citrus. I cannot remember which of those two my father handed me back disdainfully when it was discovered that at fourteen years old I had become a pipesmoker.


"Good pipe tobacco does not smell like a Turkish bathhouse; smoke good tobacco."


Having crossed that bridge, and been outed by the cat, who had found my stash and played with the pipes, I was became blatant about it. I asked for a serious increase in my allowance because good pipe tobacco is not cheap, and within a fairly short period discovered Latakia blends. Whereupon well meaning elderly degenerates would take me aside in coffee shops and whisper conspiratorily that I'd have a lot more friends if instead I smoked Clan.

Two things must now be mentioned: 1): I did not smoke to attract friends (or aged dingbats). 2): Latakia blends are splendid and delicious, whereas Clan (by Theodorus Niemeijer) is nasty aromatic shite that will wreck your pipes, tastebuds, and morals.

So, speaking of first times, today a respected member of the pipe club brought a bottle of grappa to the meeting. Naturally I did not have any -- one of us has to remain cold sober to drive them all out into the snow at the appointed time -- but I did thoroughly enjoy the pâté. Sometimes there is nothing finer than duck organ meat made smooth and oleaginous. Neil also brought a big bag of shortbread, because he knows I like his shortbread very much. One of the other members is currently reading about Jan Pieterszoon Coen -- an accomplished man, much admired -- and I was happy to remind him of what happened in Banda, about which we shall not speak, but it does rather illustrate how we Dutch engage in trade.


At one point one of the attendees said something berserk, but his marbles were always on shaky ground anyway, and sometimes I think he lost it. We are all getting on in years, and not everyone has my gravitas and equitable personality.

All in all I had a very good time. The others did as well.
Sex was not mentioned because we are clean-minded.

Unlike the cigar smokers in the back room.
Who are a bunch of filthy hooligans.
Icky and quite cretinous.



==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================