PERHAPS CHEAP BROWN ROPE

Last week the actor who played Bilbo Baggins passed away. And I've noticed that many pipe smokers on the internet are heartbroken. Which is a little insane. Because he smoked a pipe. Sad! Sniff. Yeah, no, I would be more affected if Rowan Atkinson, who played Inspector Maigret, croaked. And even then, I didn't find out that Rowan Atkinson played the fictional French detective until very recently. I find that I cannot identify in any way with any part of the Lord Of The Rings mythos other than the balrog.

Who, as you well know, was smoking. Not a pipe smoker.

I've never identified with Bilbo, any of the Hobbits, or the Elves. And Gandalf is a fundamentally problematic and tribulatory character I just can't get into.
I find the entire tale cycle to be overwrought and overrated poofle.

One can certainly enjoy a pipe without being ridiculous.

Here are the four most recent pipe drawings.



Please note: these aren't Hobbit pipes.
Real pipes. Not fictional crap.


I am incredibly glad that pipes do not feature prominently in either the Starwars OR the Startrek universes. The last thing the world needs is more fandweebs buying cutesy-poo pipes for when they dress up.

Real pipes, real people, and real tobacco.
Fruit-loop tobacco is for idiots.

[Please note: Had Hobbits actually existed and smoked pipes, they should probably have been English-made briars, and something commonly available like Prince Albert or Half and Half. Not what was sold as "Hobbit's Weed", which was far too sweet and candy-flavoured for any adult.]


Guys, how about play-acting that you're Albert Einstein or President Gerald Ford instead? Or maybe William Cuthbert Faulkner.

Not Sherlock "snooty dickwad" Holmes.

Godzilla was a pipesmoker.

Just so you know.



NOTE: Data and Leonard Nimoy did on occasion smoke a pipe. Leonard Nimoy apparently liked Kramer's English Blend, which is no longer available. But it was a standard mild very middle of the road product, not overloaded with Latakia, and had a touch of Cavendish to give it a sweetness. A decent standard mixture. There are many products in that category, both Danish-made and American. So you can easily find something similar for those days when you want to dress up with your pointy ears and make the Levite blessing hand gesture.

TOBACCO INDEX


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FACEBOOK GONE MAD

Recently I kept telling Facebook to hide ads. For some reason a number of 'sponsored' things ended up in my feed that needed axing.


Multiples of the following. Burial plots. Cremation services. Erectile dysfunction. Diet aids. Plastic surgery. Games. Religion. Healthcare services. Weird food products. Hernia mesh lawsuits. A skin care site entirely in Hindi. Automotive collision repair and paint services.
Real estate services. Alaskan king crabs.
Americans United for Law and Order (a Tucker Carlson and Fox News fanboy rightwing Trumpite crypto-racist police organization angry that confederate statues are being pulled down and Garrett Rolfe in Atlanta has been charged with murder).

Pet grooming services.

Mike Pence.


For the record, I am not dead yet, and as far as I know there is nothing wrong with my penis. I am not overweight by a long shot. My looks are satisfactory (when I look in the mirror I do not recoil). I do not play computer games. I live in San Francisco, we have crabs here.
I am perfectly happy with what little religion I have, and am not looking for anymore, kindly bugger off you trolls. Already got insurance and primary care services. Weird food I can make myself, don't need to subscribe. Never had a hernia OR a mesh. My skin is fine in Hindi and many other languages. No car. And no real estate.


Confederate statues need to be melted down for scrap metal, the police departments in a large part of this country are filled with bigots, bullies, psychopaths, dumb-asses, and criminals in uniform, and Garrett Rolfe can fry. Him and his entire damned family.
A.U.L.O. can get stuffed.


Pet grooming? If I had a cat I could lick it myself, thank you.


Mike Pence? Reported it as "offensive" content.
Yeah, screw Mike Pence too.




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THE VAMPIRE'S VICTIM

File this under "now I know how the Czarevich must've felt" or "tell us something about yourself", or even "super powers you didn't know you had". And all of the other day I may have freaked other people the heck out. Because of clopidogrel. See, I have been taking clopidogrel (plavix) now for almost a year and a half, under doctor's orders. If you've had a coronary stent put in, clopidogrel prevents it from clotting over. Fairly standard, except that various things (timing, delays, pandemic) interfered with the weaning off after one full year.

While shaving I cut an ingrown hair bump. It was still bleeding eight hours later. Because, of course, one moves ones neck. Repeatedly.
So it looked like I was friends with a chain saw.


"Man combats EVIL by bleeding at it!"

Or:

"Neighborhood horrified by bio-hazard!"


Yeah, um. Normally when I nick myself while shaving I stick a scrap of bumwad on it, worst case scenario, a band aid.

Clopidogrel is an anti-platelet medication. Platelets are necessary for coagulation. And we'll have none of that. Which means I can bleed like topsy. Oh boy can I bleed!


No wonder people were looking at me funny.

Fortunately my apartment mate is not easily fazed, and has over the years come to expect eccentric and disturbing things from me. She isn't a queasy sort. and she ascribes much to my being a Caucasian, and therefore extremely likely to be unpredictable and odd.

She was born when her mom was nearly 50, so she's seen things.


The good thing is that the blood moved sideways, not down.
So I never got any on my clothes.



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BEAT THEM FIERCELY

Yesterday California Governor Gavin Newsom issued an order requiring everyone to wear a mask in public. Effective immediately.
And about damned time.

In a twenty block walk to do various errands I saw over two hundred cretins not wearing masks. Can we shoot these people, governor?


"I have it on good word that it's considered self defense."


For weeks now I have considered people without masks to be a personal threat. That includes the idiots who do not cover their nose, as they are, unfortunately, not likely to be mouth breathers.
Though they may be Republicans.

Unfortunately I threw out the pepperspray that used to be in the book shelf with the Dutch language poetry. Figured I wasn't going to use it.


Part of the problem here is that while I have no issue with Republicans dying horribly, they walk among us.



Which means that on their way to the howling pit they might be a-symptomatic for one or two weeks, spreading infection to the rest of us. Same goes for naked people, joggers, bicyclists, skate boarders, yuppies, people walking their dogs, the willfully ignorant, misguided, and mis-informed (healthfreaks, antivaxxers, naturopathists, Floridans, QAnons, Scientologists, and Christian nut-balls), and far-right whackjobs.


Non-mask wearers should be smacked down.
Clubbed if necessary.
Brutally.



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THERE ARE CORPSES EVERYWHERE!

Conversations with the turkey vulture tend to get out of hand very fast. Presently he is advocating that my apartment mate should not exercise so much, because it toughens her up. The fat content is "acceptable". And he says he's "just a sweet innocent turkey vulture", we should trust him. He cannot understand why the head roomie (ms. Bruin, a teddy bear) doesn't trust him. Why?!? Unfair!

He does not understand the ursine mind.

When I came back from my first walk and smoke, he was bitterly disappointed that I did not bring back a cadaver. Surely this neighborhood was just littered with them? Have I looked hard enough?

Yes, we've "spoken" to him.
He's stubborn.

My apartment mate is at home today. Of course this imposes limits on my actions -- can't even try to smoke indoors, or fry up some chili paste snacks -- and means that the small critters are more noisy and rambunctious.



[It is the time when she feels 'bloated' and grumpy. Like a lot of women she wants fried chicken, and blames all men worldwide for facts of nature. Her nose is more sensitive at these moments, too. Smoke is horrid.]

When I go over the hill to Chinatown later, where the Walgreens is still functioning, I shall take two pipes with me.

On Tuesday when I was there I got some siu mai (燒賣), lo mai baau (糯米飽, and wo tip (鍋貼). Plus veggies.

It's not the same as it used to be. Things are tough. Many of my favourite places will not survive this pandemic, and naturally I worry about the people that run them. How will they survive? How will they eat?


Of course, that goes for everybody I know. But for people who have trouble with the English language it's a particular problem, and while as a society we may be more conscious of racism toward the black community, our bigotry regarding people of Chinese ancestry is greater than at any time in the last two decades. So for them, simply making ends meet and staying housed, fed, and employed, has become more difficult.

Not everybody, of course. Perhaps not even most.
But one asshole can ruin an entire day.

TOBACCO INDEX


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A DEFICIENCY OF STANDARDS

Among my real-world friends there is only ONE person of whom I can think who loves herring. Virtual world and social media do contain numerous others, but here in SF it's only one. Who isn't even Netherlandish.
Proving that you don't have to be Dutch or a penguin.
A very sad state of affairs.

I ascribe this to the culturally impoverished upbringing of America's children.They dwell in poor benighted savagery, snapping at passing cheese burgers for sustenance.


By "herring" is meant the tender and almost raw first year fish, as preferred in Amsterdam, NOT the ghastly pickled "mops" of further east, nor the inedible overcooked fish of England, and certainly not the terrifying fermented thing of Scandinavia.

[A very light salt cure after all guts except the pancreas have been removed will leave the flesh translucent, buttery, and worthy of sushi or sashimi treatment, instead of opaque, cooked, and indigestible. It will frighten most Americans. The secret is the pancreatic enzymes.]

Perfect for breakfast, lunch, or dinner, and fit subject for painting, poetry, and song.


It's not available locally. We are not the culinary metropole we pride ourselves on being here in SF, but a mere provincial outpost at the utmost edge of the known world, with a few decent dishes.

Tierra Del Fuego with bells.


My disappointment is boundless.
You folks are incorrigible.




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MEN LIKE ME

Some of the social media groups to which I belong are coteries of pipe smoking individuals. Not all of the members are men, of course, and I'm thinking in particular of Mary in South Carolina, who has developed interestingly as an aficionado of good briar, some decent tobacco, photographer of great talent, and crazy cat lady.
But most are.

As a general rule, we are not teenagers anymore. Also, many of us have neatly trimmed facial hair, and like a spot of tea. This does not hold for all pipe smokers worldwide, but is more or less the case with the groups in which I am active.

Beer and whiskey in moderation, spectacles, and dog men.

Libraries, museums, research labs.


So far, I have not encountered a single one of the ladies at the pharmacy where I pick up my refills there, but I'm sure it's only a matter of time. Might be a long wait, though, as they are all Chinese (the pharmacy is located in Chinatown), and the number of spry Cantonese females who are fond of briar and tobacco is small. Leastways not a significant demographic.
Sadly, all of them have told me to quit smoking, it's bad for me.


嘜先生，戒煙，吸煙好危害健康吖!
['mak sin-saang, kaai yin, gap-yin hou ngai hoi kin-hong aaaaaah'!]


It is likely that many of my fellow pipe smokers have had that hollered at them by female persons and individuals in lab coats.
Even miss Mary in South Carolina.

We remain calm, phlegmatic (冷靜 'laan jing'; 安寧啲 'ngon-ning di'), and stubborn.

The firm of Sommer in Paris, founded around the middle of the nineteenth century, ceased manufacturing in 1935, though they were still an active enterprise up to the eighties. Not only is this lovely pipe older than me, it is also pre-war. Acquired it second hand years ago, and it's been a sheer joy to smoke since then.

Smoking is not healthy, and also has an adverse impact on society: 吸煙有危害，重有會對社會產生不良嘅影響 ('gap yin yau ngai hoi, jong yau wui deui se wui chaan saang pat leung ge ying heung'). Plus it kills puppies and butterflies, harms lambs and children, lessens your sexual appeal, causes ailments of a degenerate nature, night sweats, and incontinence, makes you drop your food, and if you smoke, all righteous Vegans and Christians will shy away from you as if you have the plague.


In all honesty, some of that doesn't sound too bad. Being shunned by Vegans and Christians seems effing awesome, in fact. And after a good meal, for instance bitter melon omelette over rice with hot sauce and a hot cup of Hong Kong Milk Tea (港式奶茶 ('gong sik naai cha'), a nice bowlful of Red Virginias with three percent Perique and an equivalent measure of Kentucky firecured leaf is sheer heaven. Trust me on that. Bliss.
Oral orgasm. Induces profound reverie.

Which Vegans and Christian would ruin.
Totally.

Adolph Hitler was Vegan and Christian.
As was Charlie Manson.
And Pol Pot.

TOBACCO INDEX


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GO BACK TO KANSAS, DOROTHY!

As I get older I realize that I am not the big asshole I thought I was, other people are. Sure, I'm still an asshole, but the maskless Real Housewife of San Francisco type yakking on her cell phone while letting her dog poo on the pavement right in front of a neighbor's doorway, and not picking up after the beast, truly qualifies as a gigantic monument to assholery. Put down your damned Starbucks bev, pick up after your animal, wear your damned mask, and stop yakking on your cellular device. Oh, and kindly piss off too.


For some reason I dreamed last night that I was petting a raccoon who was happily watching trashy soaps on teevee while eating potato chips.
It was a very realistic dream -- as my dreams these days are, courtesy of blood pressure medication -- and I could even smell the baco-cheese flavour of his snacks. That might have just been me.

Many years ago there were more raccoons in this neighborhood. As a non-building owner, I am not involved with putting out the bins for garbage pick-up, so naturally I disapprove of the modern bins, because they are too tall, difficult to open, and so raccoon unfriendly.

I also despise joggers. Who also refuse to wear masks. Because they're being healthy! And it's only us unhealthy people who will get sick and die horribly from the disease laden droplets, so who cares?
Just those "boomers".

That first cup of coffee in the morning, followed by a pipe smoke and a walk, are enough to get the juices flowing again, but it takes a few hours after that for the milk of human tolerance to make its presence known.

I'm now ready for the second cup of coffee.

Another pipe in an hour or so.

And maybe chips.




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NUMBERS ARE YOUR FRIENDS

It's not surprising that I see so many people not wearing masks. They think it won't affect them. Most infected people do not have serious enough symptoms to be inconvenienced, and few need to be hospitalized.

People still play the lottery knowing that the chances are astronomically small.

You have a greater chance of Covid 10 death than of winning the lottery.


"I’ve been briefed on every contingency you can possibly imagine. Many contingencies. A lot of a lot of positive. Different numbers. All different numbers. Very large numbers. And some small numbers too, by the way."

------Dingus McNasty( * )


Many Americans are dumber than dirt when it comes to mathematics. We rank consistently far below the other industrial countries, somewhere near Kazakhstan. Consistently ahead of Israel and Malaysia, though.




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FIFTEEN OF THEM

The other day someone said that something I did was "spectacularly pretentious" and "avant garde". Sniff. That's the most BEAUTIFUL thing anybody has ever said about the stuff I do. You know, the shiznit.

It is the polar opposite of "okay boomer".

I am profoundly moved.



A GAME OF EXISTENTIAL DESPAIR AND ANGST

Meantime, someone else didn't want to see all those depressing social media posts, and planted a list of questions.

* Favourite nut: Pecan pie.
* Steak: Pork belly stewed with salt vegs.
* Italian or Chinese: Why not both?
* Coke or Dr Pepper: Neither.
* How many tattoos: None.
* Ever hit a deer: No.
* Rode in a ambulance: No.
* Last text: None.
* Favourite season: A time of cholera.
* Broken Bones: Whose?
* Favourite colour: Torn among burnt umber, raw Sienna, and yellow ochre, though cerulean blue would be a close second, as well as several shades of green. The first three pigments are great fun, but you can't go very far with blue and green.
* Sunrise or Sunset : Teatime is the nicest time of day.
* Ocean or Mountain: Peat-bog.
* Dogs or cats: Both.
* Favourite Flower: I'm sorry, that's such a Southern thing.


Feel free to post your own answers in the comments, if you feel so inclined, or create your own list.


Disclaimer: I do not often eat nuts EXCEPT in pie or pastry. Or curry gravy with coconut cream. The peanut is not a nut but a legume. Haven't had a steak in years, but stewed pork belly is better. Also, I can't stand tattoos. Childish skin doodles.

When my appendix ruptured I could of ridden in an ambulance. But it would've taken twenty minutes to get here, then dropped me at SF General Hospital, where my being sane, sentient, and not bleeding, would've put me last in line and I'd have probably died, because in all likelihood the diagnosis would have been "middle aged hysteric with heartburn, give him an antacid". Followed by a huge bill to "decedents address of record", which would've been several hundred for the ambulance and several thousand for "treatment". The taxi arrived at the door in less than five minutes and got me to the emergency room of SFCH in record time, where they had me on the table lickety split. I have a cute little scar now.

I don't text. To the best of my knowledge I have not broken anyone's bones recently. The beauties of the four seasons are stereotypical and largely unexciting. There are lovely seasonal moments, that could almost exist separate in time and place.
Not much of a sunrise or sunset person. Early morning, well after dawn, can be quite lovely. Tea time really is the nicest time of day.


I don't have any pets.


Don't ask a Dutchman what his favourite flower is. The answer would probably confuse you, and if you're American you probably don't know enough to talk intelligently on the subject.



Did I ever mention how silly I think tattoos are? Here you have a beautiful body that Mother Nature and millions of years of evolution gave you, and you go and mess it up with dumb-ass graffiti.
What are you, stupid?




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A LOVE OF WILDLIFE

As you may have gathered, I am much fonder of turkey vultures than of my fellow humans. Marvelous plumage, likes kipping on his back. And is not likely to be an unbearable blister. Yesterday evening on the bus home some horrid blonde person demanded I relinquish my place on an otherwise nearly empty Golden Gate Transit bus, because "I'm disabled, I need that seat!" And I suppose that being hideously unpleasant IS a disability. Besides, she was not wearing a mask, though that is required to board the bus, and I didn't want to be near enough to her to catch her cooties. Other than her very obvious love of cheese-covered bacon for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, there was no evidence that she had a disability.
This was the second time I've encountered her.
And already I wish her ill.

Some people should be categorized as bio-hazard.

Four days at work, three days off.

Avoid suburbanites.


It is much harder to enjoy my pipe at work than it used to be, because of masks. Which most people in Southern Marin stolidly refuse to wear in public, because it interferes with their fabulous lives.

Never-the-less I did smoke several times over the weekend while there, and thoroughly enjoyed doing so. On Monday I encountered a young fellow who was introducing his lady friend to the past-time. She will probably ending up thoroughly enjoying the Luxury Navy Flake, because of the ritual of breaking apart the slices as well as the calm thoughtfulness of the smoke. He's still in the bold flavour realm of Latakia and Turkish, but he has in the half year since we first met developed well. He's one of us now.

Myself, I tend strongly toward Virginia & Perique blends. Though for many years bold Balkan blends were my preferred stinko leaves.


As I see it, the only problems with turkey vultures as companions is that they have a horrible diet, minds with almost chicken-like blinkers and tunnel vision, and in the wild they poo on their feet to keep them cool. That rather limits their applicability as social companions, but they're not that much different from many of my fellow human beings.

Oh yeah, they don't wear masks, can't smoke a pipe (but would probably love cigars), and would want everything covered in bacon bits, cheese, and pickled Jalapeño slices. I vastly prefer sambal, a bit of fermented fish product, and will want a pipe and a cup of milk tea afterwards.

THE FABULOUS AND MAJESTIC TURKEY VULTURE

Turkey vultures are more likeable than suburbanites.
Or Polk Street techno-yuppie pedestrians.

It would be rather pointless for a turkey vulture to wear a mask; their nostrils are set too far back from the tips of their noses for the fabric to reach. It's a tragic evolutionary twist that makes it hard for a turkey vulture to ever be truly anonymous. How sad!

But otherwise it's got everything going for it.
Conversationally more gifted than a slug.
More socially polished too.
Plumage!

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STAY ON THE FEED

Sometimes social media converges. Some of my blog-readers are also "on my feed". Which is a sentence that a generation ago wouldn't have made any sense whatsoever.



Proper social distancing is one cadaver length away. Which is what all those whiny-ass special entitled maskless (white) folks on the public street need to understand, as well as the lardo on the number thirty back from Marin.
In her case, it would also be "one cadaver width". )

["I need that seat! I'm disabled!" "Oh sorry, I thought you were just unpleasant. Poor thang."]

And those barriers at counters? In case "the salad" becomes violent -- an increasingly likely prospect -- they'll protect you.

Many of my fellow citizens are dumbasses.



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DISAGREEABLE OLD MAN

All opinions are NOT equally valid. Some are crap. Like the flat earth "theory". Complete and utter unacceptable horsepucky that needs to be slapped down whenever it raises its stupid head.
Precisely like the anti-vax nonsense.

There are tonnes of other examples of people who need to shut up.


You know these people. We all do.


Tolerance must be limited.



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NATURE'S LITTLE CRACKHEAD

Heaven is coming home, fixing dinner (grilled sausage, gravy with Sriracha, lime, and panjuices, with toasted cheesy bread) and arguing with a turkey vulture. Who shares everything we eat here, but still claims the no one ever feeds him. He's kind of rotund. A very well fed creature.
Stuffed.


Looking around the teevee room I note that there four containers of cookies, AND a bag of shortbread, courtesy of a friend. Turkey vultures just LOVE shortbread. Or, as we call them, "buttery corpses". Just like the sausage is "tubular American". Because turkey vultures are convinced that they're carrion eaters. This turkey vulture like his hot stimulating beverage and biscuit, however.

THE ALERT TURKEY VULTURE

A hot stimulating beverage ("brown juice") is just like meth to a stuffed bird.

One must, perforce, be circumspect about the morning coffee.

He's a bit hard to handle at that time.

While I'm still waking up.




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PRESENTLY IMPERFECT

According to Buzzfeed, social arbiter and internet source of all wisdom extraordinaire, I am somewhat "underprivileged. This is the result of taking one of their tests, which are not to be taken seriously.
Here: How Privileged are You?.


Cite:
You live with 22 out of 100 points of privilege.
You're underprivileged. The world is not a fair or ideal place and you know that because you grew up with several identities that the world is not kind to. You had a lot of challenges to overcome simply to get on a level playing field with most people in the world. It is not your job to educate the world about its injustices, but if you choose to, go ahead and send them this quiz. Hopefully it will help.
End cite.


Eh? That's a load of crap. I'm white, and of Northern European Protestant derivation. What probably skewed the results were all the questions about accent, income levels, and religious hatred.
The first and the last are the direct result of having ended up in a provincial Dutch town when I was a child, where being an American of a creed the locals did not know put me 'in Dutch' with the natives. Many of whom in consequence did not recognize me as human.

Being an American, as well as Anglican (sort of), were grievous sins.
Personal omissions, despicable life style choices.


When the parents of one or two classmates said that I spoke such beautiful Dutch, like a native of Het Gooi, that didn't help either. Most of the kids at school spoke absolutely shitty Dutch with horrid caveman accents and diction -- "ooh, argh" -- and probably proudly still do.

My English was always excellent; we spoke it at home.
Which many local people refused to believe.
Americans can't speak English.

My accent in English is slightly uppercrustian, Oxford Cambridge, and in Dutch it's Den Haagian. Which makes people think I'm arrogant. Which I probably am. In Cantonese if I sound like anything at all, it's Kowloon in hue. Movie Cantonese. Tsim Sha Tsui dockworker.

[In German, Yiddish, and Malay, I sound like a Dutchman. A 'Double Dutchman' Okay?]


I'd never describe myself as "underprivileged".
Perhaps "less than fully actualized".




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THIS TWIDDLING LIFE

At the time when I returned to the United States I had severe artistic pretensions, and fancied myself talented. That fell by the wayside soon enough, as I encountered people who clearly had more skill and genius than myself, of which there are so many that it's discouraging, and all of them had portfolios of their works that they would gladly show off and talk about. To almost anybody.

My first portfolio was in the basement of an apartment building in Piedmont, and because of the rains developed mold and mildew.
Believe me, it stank.

I threw it out.


Fast forward several years. My calligraphy in Chinese is not especially bad. And my drawings using the paint programme on the computer betray a neurotic obsessiveness.

As you can see:

RECENT DRAWINGS OF BRIAR TOBACCO PIPES

While it's easy to mistake neurosis for talent, that would be an error.

I've taken a few figure drawing classes, and I was trained as a draughtsman. Those are skills which I am convinced everybody can master. Colour matching, such as in several of the examples above, takes a little practice, and can be somewhat casually done if light and shading are used; the colour may be dulled by half-light or washed out a bit by the glare of the sun through the window. You'll have to wing it.

You'll note that the window is clearly to my right.
The highlights are all in the same spot.

瞓

'To sleep' in Cantonese.

When all is said and done, my greatest 'talent', and perhaps my only one, is sleeping. I am very good at taking naps.



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THERE ARE ALWAYS FIVE

It is easy, and tempting, to remember the gold-drenched past. Even if the present is actually rather decent. Yes, I know, it often may not seem so. Pandemic, race riots, financial meltdown and all that. But if you are reading this, you are probably still alive, and not too encumbered.


"One day we will return to our kingdom, Ngastinapura."


It's all a shadow-play, and we, not the images on screen, are the puppets.



The two people pictured above are Bima, one of the Pandawa brothers, and his half-ogre son Gatotkatja, a hero despite his somewhat iffy ancestry (on his mother's side).


Gatotkatja himself has not seen Ngastinapura, and he never will. He was born during the exile, and he dies in battle on the field of Kuruksetra.


The accounts of the great war between kinsmen travelled to Java long before the kingdom of Kediri, where Mpu Sedah and Mpu Panuloh put it into verse, then centuries later travelled to the Netherlands with exiles, half remembered. It was part of the fabric of their lives before the war, still shimmering in their minds long after they left the islands where many of them had been born. The characters of the story existed as memory-ghosts (hersen-schimmen), coming alive with the retelling.

At times they live in each generation. We are all them, they are all of us. We are not granted clear recognition of past events and people we knew then. But there are no permanent boundaries.


The reflection of Ngastinapura is behind us.
And remains a goal ahead.
Always.


I've only seen a few shadow plays, and often I dozed off halfway through. So how they end is "theoretical', and second-hand at best.


Tales have been told.




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THE FUNDAMENTS

Yesterday while re-organizing my bed I found, in addition to clothes that I've never worn, a stack of reference material, bills paid long ago, and a box of pipes. Included in those pipes are two very lovely Comoy London Pride bulldogs, and a pipe which was made by Comoy but stamped 'Forester'. Dang I have a lot of Comoys. Not surprising when you remember that they formerly made pipes for shops up and down the West Coast, as well as all over the Eastern Seaboard and some parts of the MidWest. For decades. So not only Comoy branded, but also under a different flag. Some of the best pipes in the world were made by the firm.

[What, you think my bed is a mess? Of course it is! Why on earth should I maintain it as a welcoming nest-like environment when the chance of some bright young thing deciding to jump my bones is less than zero? Far better that the other half of the bed get used as an office and general store room. I once unearthed an unopened jar of Hyderabadi-style lime pickle there. That was a happy day.]


So I'm sure you can guess which pipe I had in my mouth when I left the house this morning for my post-coffee smoke.

It is very likely that I will leave the house again in a couple of hours, to see if any of the nearby stores carry Indian pickles. Achars, as you probably know, are made with a lot of salt, plus oil to prevent spoilage and air exposure, and sometimes a little vinegar or lime juice. But they rely on salt and oil for keepability. Obviously they are strong flavours, and spices like turmeric and chili are used liberally to make them. A family prides itself on its particular pickles which often are recipes passed down through generations.
A shelf of fine achars is a treasure. Not only hot pickled lime wedges, but also green mango, carrot, green or red chili, and others. Some of these pickles aren't meant to last for years, most cauliflower pickles are best eaten within a few months.

[Mango pickle: amb ka achar. Lime or lemon pickle: nimbu achar. Carrot pickle; gajjari achar. Garlic pickle: lasson achar. Chili pickle: mirch ka achar. Cauliflower pickle: pulgobi achar. Dutch Indonesian mixed pickle: atjar tjampur.]


Yes, I have my own recipes. Fine-tuned over the years. But I am a lazy person nowadays, and simply want a decent achar to go with my spicy slop over noodles with a slice of bread and a dollop of sambal.
Patak's, from England, is a good brand.

Achar is wonderful.

[There's still at least one more pipe somewhere on the bed. It's something I carved a long time ago, sort of in between Charatan and Stanwell in inspiration. Elegant. And I would love to make a drawing of it; but I can't do that until I find it again. There's no more Indian pickle in the bed that I know of, but I did find my Serbian gangster fedora. Not that I ever wear hats.]


Not surprisingly, the last two smokes yesterday were also in Comoy pipes.










One at around seven o'clock, after a strong cup of tea. The other tennish, following another strong cup of tea. Milk and sugar.
Red Virginias, touch of Perique.

[The stuffed creatures are all in a row looking at me reproachfully; they did not appreciate the recent upheavals.]


And there you have it; civilized life requires FOUR things:
Achar, sambal, strong tea, and pipe tobacco.

TOBACCO INDEX


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