A LUGGAGE PARADIGM

A few years ago I switched from smoking full Latakia blends to flakes and Virginia-Perique mixtures. As befits a somewhat older man, though that was not the reason. I finally re-experimented with some of the Rattrays products, after an hiatus of decades, and realized what I had been missing.

For much of my life I thoroughly enjoyed full Orientals, because they were deliciously reeky, and triggered so many non-smoking yutzes. Nowadays these would send the entire city of Berkeley into palpitations, and possibly apoplectic rage, but the appeal of something which can be enjoyed quietly alone and smells so delightfully old-fashioned pleases me more now.
I live in San Francisco, and avoid Berkeley (because it's toxic).
People are too clean and pure there.
In SF, we stink.

What also disturbs some people is an accoutrement.
A very snazzy Hello Kitty backpack.

Yowza!!

It holds enough pipes and tobacco that I can brave the heathen wastelands of Marin on my working days, and need not fear that I will be without certain comforts. Four to six briars, pouches and tins of tobacco, cleaners, tampers, matches, an extra bottle of hot sauce if necessary, and other things.

There are people who do not understand the concept.
Mostly humourless cretins, and I avoid them.

Me and my stylish accessory are very happy.
Thank you for asking.





Current tastes: Hong Kong milk tea, baked Portuguese chicken rice, coffee with cardamom in the morning and early evening, running script calligraphy, whisky and whiskey, and sometimes things coloured pink.
No goths, piercings, or tattoos.





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MOST FRIGHTENING ACCESSORY

What is totally totemic, and brings a smile to the haggard face of every cigar-smoking middle-aged dingus? What, in fact, tells them that all is well with the world, and even though their wife left them because they are dreary sexist spread-gut pigs with body odour and a lack of tact, they have made some good decisions in life?

If I had to hazard a guess, it would be seeing a dashing middle-aged pipe-smoker happily shouldering a lovely Hello Kitty backpack filled with pipes, tobacco, pipe cleaners, tampers, and wooden stick matches pilfered from a place where one may light up.

Plenty goodies!

To the best of my knowledge there is only one such person in the entire San Francisco Bay Area, which is where that scene may be most likely observed.

I like bringing joy to shrivelled little hearts.


A few years ago I purchased the accessory detailed above, because there is no reason why a backpack should not radiate hostility toward potential thieves at bus stops or in coffee shops. "Take me", it seems to say, "and you will be marked for life". Or at least for the next two or three hours, while the legitimate owner hunts you down and kills you.

It's very useful on working days.


PINK GOTH PSYCHO FURBALL TYKE

There is only ONE other person I have seen with the exact same backpack. She's about three feet tall at best, of Cantonese extraction, and wanders up Sacramento Street in Chinatown with her mommy and her little brother when school is out.

No, I'm never going to introduce myself, nor explain to her that my own backpack is exactly the same as hers. Primarily because little girls need to feel unique. It might inspire her to stupendous rage and ultra-violence if she found out that an adult owned a backpack featuring Hello Kitty.
And, precisely like hers, stylishly white, pink, and black.
Those colours speak of dark things, secret things.
Things a grown-up should not know.

Like half a dozen fine briar pipes, two or three fine tobacco choices, pipe cleaners, etcetera.

And probably too much social exposure to cigar smokers.

See description above.

I also own a soft leather pipe-carrying case with room for several items as well as a pouch, but I rarely, almost never, use it. Reason being that it seems too femmy, like a man-purse.

On days off, when I head into C'town for snackies and milk tea, there will be pipes along with tobacco in my coat, and a little tube containing fluffy cleaners and a tamper jutting out of the top right hand pocket.


I flatter myself by assuming that Hello Kitty would never associate with cigar smokers, but would share a fondness for snackies and milk tea.
Though probably not the same pipe tobacco.
Maybe something Latakia instead.
Possibly Bengal Slices.
Balkan funk.

TOBACCO INDEX


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IT'S AN IRONIC GESTALT, YOU SHINY-PATED DINGO!

A reader accuses me of being Hello Kitty obsessed. Which is a foul lie. Rather than obsessed, I am happily ambivalent about the cretinous little feline, and use her iconography to score points and irritate some people. Like, for instance, the pompous bald-headed dog-freak in Marin County who thinks he's so funny.

Simple minds are easily swayed.

Partly, this is because I use a snazzy Hello Kitty backpack to carry all my smoking requisites (briar pipes, tobacco blends, tampers, matches, cleaners) whenever I make the arduous trek to the wild lands north of the Golden Gate Bridge, partly because of the ease with which I can illustrate the paradigm of ickiness.

Here are all the Hello Kitty images I have done.

Does that say obsessive?

I think not!


If anything, it positively screams rational balance, and a sensitive middle-aged Dutch American soul that appreciates pipes, cigars, art, literature, and furthermore, a gentleman who is a good listener and remarkably trim, given that the overwhelming majority of people in my age-group veer towards overweightness and have made some incredibly bad choices in their lives (like moving to Marin, for instance).

I have sparkling eyes (behind reading specs), a neat goatee and moustache combination, and warm gentle hands.
Quite the opposite of an IT physique!

Good lord, I've read Proust!

I totally radiate sanity!


Animals like me. They can smell the goodness within.

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HELLO KITTY NEEDS TO SMOKE NOW

This blogger unhappily admits to personal flaws. No, shan't detail them, because you might start noticing, and it would become an obsession that would gradually eat away at your esteem for me.
Sadly, I am not as perfect as I dearly hope you think I am.
But one flaw I do not have is a brutal tongue.

I am an exemplar of passive aggressive discretion.

That's one of the reasons I blog.


Overheard comment:


"It was one of those things where you think Chinese people are the most insensitive shits you've ever seen."


Sometimes I agree with the person who said that.
There are times when that opinion is valid.
As are many of her other opinions.

But no matter how insensitive Chinese people -- especially snooty Chinese Americans -- can be, they don't hold a candle to perfectly average prosperous Caucasians smoking cigars. Such as the very dear people I see several times a week when I babysit the entitled classes of Marin County.

Who are on the whole rather self-satisfied, cocksure, and iggerunt.


They gave me hell about my Hello Kitty pursy, the insensitive clods.


Look, if I were a woman, between fifteen and let us say forty, with a Hello Kitty mini-backpack, there might be reason to doubt my sanity. Women with a Hello Kitty fetish are pulling a little girlie attitude, and may be quite silly. Probably unbearably so.

Little girls with a Hello Kitty bag, or anything Hello Kitty, are normal, and often entirely unaware of the possible ickiness of the item.

Little boys with Hello Kitty have issues.


But a lean middle-aged man with a pink and black Hello Kitty mini-backpack is the veritable glorious paradigm of self-assured manliness. You do NOT diss him. Not if you want peace and quiet everlasting.



The Chinese person that Savage Kitten (my apartment mate) referred to was "a short frog-like person" whom she worked with years ago. One of those snotty types who did everything better, owned everything better, knew everything better, and and regularly pissed on everyone else's joys, because she was a better taste higher class person.

The kind of person, in other words, who knows the best brandnames, but not one iota of actual quality. Like the people who demand Remy Martin, truck around Louis Vuitton, and spew the words Davidoff, Dunhill, Prada, and Hermes, with a smug proprietary air.
But begrudge the waiters at a restaurant a decent tip.

People like that always do everything better.
They also own things that are better.
And they ARE much better.
Sneeringly.


I myself don't know very many of that type, what with being white and rather oblivious to some immigrants' ridiculous pretensions. But my apartment mate, being a locally-born person of sterling Chinese ancestry, seems particularly aware of them.
She's thin-skinned about snooty types.
And is better than she realizes.
Far, far better.


I dare not ever introduce her to the Marin cigar-smokers; she'd rip their insensitive guts out. Or bash them about the head.
With MY backpack.

She doesn't like dipwads either.

Or Hello Kitty.



Please note that I do not always carry my Hello Kitty 'pursy. It's useful for when I head over to Marin four days a week, because it is the perfect size for half-a-dozen briar pipes, a supply of pipe-tobacco, tampers and other tools, plus pipe-cleaners and matches.  On the days when I'm off, I leave it at home, because I do NOT want single women to assume that I'm a grandpa and have a little urchin I pick up from school everyday because her mommy works.

There was the time I spoke to four very nice young ladies from the Mandarin-speaking part of the world, who wanted a recommendation for a good Cantonese restaurant. Even when I showed them the box of cigars I was delivering to the Oxxy, they remained unconvinced that I was a bachelor. Because, of course, the box of Padron 1926 Series 80th Anniversary Maduro Torpedos was IN the Hello Kitty backpack. Sadly, that may have nixed my chances of further conversation.


Whenever I'm wandering around San Francisco with pipe and tobacco, there is no need for a full-day's worth of smoking supplies. One or two briars in the same pocket as the pouch of broken flake is perfect.

AN ANATHEMATIC AFTER-THOUGHT

More than anything else, the following is perverse:

Hello Kitty® Day

Back by popular demand, the Giants are proud to welcome you to AT&T Park to join them in celebrating Hello Kitty Day! On this particular day, various pre-game and in-game components will be themed around the global pop icon Hello Kitty, providing a family-fun atmosphere that Giants and Sanrio fans of all ages can enjoy! Your Special Event ticket package includes a ticket to the Sunday game versus the Rockies and a collector's-edition "World Champion" Hello Kitty/Giants-themed Gnome, only available with the purchase of this Special Event ticket! Please stay tuned to sfgiants.com/specialevents, as additional details will be announced closer to the date.

[SOURCE: http://sanfrancisco.giants.mlb.com/sf/ticketing/group_special_events.jsp#hellokitty .]

No, I shan't be there. The idea of surrounding myself with teenage girls of all ages and several genders united by their squealing love for a fictitious feline is a little bit daunting.

Please forgive my lack of enthusiasm.

Sports are stupid.

No.



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YOU AND YOUR LITTLE NICK NICK EYEBALLS!

On my way home the other day I deftly avoided the idiot with a big plump marijuana cigarette and a defective lighter -- being easily nauseated by the reek of cannabis, and despising all drug-use to boot, you can understand that though I obviously had a functioning lighter (the evidence being the lit cigar in my mouth) there was no imperative on my part to help the shmoo further down the path of "therapeutic" wreck and ruin -- and nearly bumped into a very large black woman, of probably around five hundred pounds or so, heading in the opposite direction.

Small vessels get out of the way of large tankers.
Always. Basic harbour rules.

It has something to do with distances, the ability to break, and turning radius. Plus, of course, Newton's laws of motion.


"Force equals mass times acceleration."


What this means is that it takes more energy for a very large object to either decelerate OR change direction than a smaller quicker middle-aged man with a cigar.


Large black women should not have Hello Kitty tattooed on their right breast. Also their left breast. Either breast. Anywhere.
It just isn't a good idea.


My life flashed before my eyes.
Massive Kitty looked murderous.
As well as mighty unstable.

Thank you, Sir Isaac Newton.



It strikes me that I am damned lucky to have a small Chinese American woman as an apartment mate, rather than a gigantic football player. Not only do I despise sports, but smaller people are usually more graceful, and less likely to break my collection of pottery objects. These quarters are filled with handmade ceramics, mostly bowls and vases of relatively simple classic shape, with interesting glazes. Nothing garish, none of that weird crap with the tie-dye bleeding sunburst effect. Mostly blues and greens. Some earthy-browns. Some yellows.

My oldest pieces are two brush-jars that Richard Iseger in Tilburg made for me when we were both in school. Pale blue glazes. His fine eye was, now that I think about it, a formative influence.

My father's tastes in art were also formative.

As was the Avery Brundage collection.

Fine-eyed people are a blessing.


My apartment mate, who is a good friend I have known for years, also has a fine eye. For a long time now she has been neurotic about period and costume jewelry. She will insist that it was my persnickityness that educated her, but I must firmly poo-poo that assertion.
Some people have an eye. It just needs to be liberated.

Quite undeservedly, she lauds my little nick nick eyeballs.



The other great advantage to having a small Chinese American woman as an apartment mate is that I need never fear for my life -- which would be a constant if there were a five hundred pound person of either gender rolling through a cramped living space -- or my sanity. Trust me, the presence of a Hello Kitty tattoo on any part of another person's body is a cause for worry. It does not suggest sane and well-balanced, but rather points to a streak of stark raving batshit a mile wide.
Do sane people get Hello Kitty tattoos?
I rather think not.

Frequent exposure to that nasty creature causes bleeding from the orifices and leads to screaming dementia.

Hello Kitty is a curse.
Frightful anathema.
Quite loathsome.
Icky pussy!

*      *      *      *      *

Except, of course, for my Hello Kitty backpack! Which is a stylish item of the perfect size for half-a-dozen briar pipes, two or three tins of pipe-tobacco, tampers and pipe-cleaners, and other necessities for the civilized smoker.

No more perfect man-purse can be imagined.

An accessory in the very best of taste.
Black checkered mini pack.
The height of hip.



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HELLO KITTY BACKPACK

This blogger is now the proud possessor of an item of just the right size. That being a Hello Kitty backpack, suitable for carrying up to eight briars, three or four pipe tobaccos, a big bundle of cleaners (mixed: standard, bristly, and the tapered German jobbies that have both hard and absorbent cotton, and make your pipe a happy camper), plus two tampers, matches, and a small paperback book (trashy fiction). And a cigar sleeve.
I am, in fact, equipped to take on the wilderness.
Or Marin county; a wasteland.

There's even a side-pocket for water.
In case I get dehydrated.
In Marin.


So far the responses have been overwhelmingly positive. Most people appreciate the gestalt, and instantly grasp the bifurcated message.


Thus: 'What do you think when you see a middle-aged fellow with a Hello Kitty pursey? You think either he's a friendly old sort, good with kiddies and little animals, OR he's batshit crazy and packing a piece. But you just don't know.'


Please understand that a Hello Kitty backpack on a middle-aged male radiates self-confidence and maturity.
Bucket loads of it.

Conceivably it is also quite unlikely that anyone would steal this attractive item. Other than a three-foot tall person, that is, but I can easily outrun the little criminal. And at that age her nails aren't hard enough or sharpened, so she can't do much damage.

The contents of the bag will establish my innocence; would a six year old carry around a supply of smoking equipment and fine Virginians?

No, I really don't think so.
That's my man purse.
Now back off.

I feel empowered.


TOBACCO INDEX


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SEEKING FASHION ADVICE AND READER INSIGHT

Several years ago I posted very nasty things about Erinmore flake on this blog. While simultaneously admitting that smoking that strange product with its absurd fruity topping in my pipe was, in fact, a secret vice.
Shan't go into detail, as this post is not about tobacco.

[The curious reader can refresh his or her memory by reading these essays: bad date, and shameful indiscretion.]


In like fashion, I have said some truly horrendous things about Hello Kitty. All of which may be read by clicking on the label appended below this post; doing so will pull up every mention of that repulsive marketing icon ever on my blog, most recent piece first. I encourage you to do so, as it illustrates my loathing and abhorrence of the cat in detail, as well as all the silly twits who fall for that commercial tat.

The Jansport bag in which I carry pipes and tobacco when out of the house for extended periods is getting a little old, the zippers are starting to fail, and it smells a bit.

I am one step away from purchasing a Hello Kitty backpack.

I've seen little Chinese kids with Hello Kitty backpacks, and it looks so darling. Very cute, very cute. Admittedly, for a six or seven year old it's a perfect style statement, especially if she's wearing bold colours and has bouncy hair. Though horribly inappropriate for an adult of any age.

But heck, it would be an ironic gesture. And no one would steal it.
As long as it's sturdy and serves the purpose, why not?
Pipes, tobaccos, cleaners, and a book.
An ideal man-purse.

Hello Kitty backpacks are the Erinmore Flake of accessories.

What do you think?
Should I?



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