Tuesday, November 28, 2017


"American scientists have found that breakfast is the most important pizza of the day" (P.M.). Wherefore only derelict parents would deny a reasonable request, irrespective of any toppings other than corn and tuna, which only Middle Eastern weirdoes eat, though ham and pineapple need to go hand in hand with irony, a keenness for which many Americans lack.

Yes, I am on my first cup of coffee as I write this. Synapses dormant since the Seventies ..... ermm, since late last night, are firing wildly, randomly, and rapidly. You don't want to stand too close.

I really should not be up so early. Last night I wandered out with pipe and tobacco, and ended up at the local karaoke bar where people ghastly sing. One drink on the counter to stake my spot, occasionally visited, but mostly outside in the portico with my smoke, the howls distantly behind me, quiet sidewalks left and right, and occasionally a cable car rumbling past.

Cold crisp air.

"I'm finally wearing clean underwear. But I haven't had a shower yet."

Sometimes a man is happy to be invisible. A few overheard scraps were sparklesome. But the details of the Olympic pool were boring, and given how rarely she bathed one would not want to share the same water.

There are women who automatically mention that a pipe reminds them of their granddad or a favourite uncle. Others are too busy talking about their underwear to notice. I am really okay with that.

I felt like asking at what point underwear goes from being clean to being else. Other than the obvious. And assuming that brassieres are different in that regard than lower items. Is it a judgment call? Or a stage which when arrived at automatically assigns the garment to another chapter?
A process? Could one quantify it?

But sensibly one hesitates to approach women whose social skills include explanations of their recent nether garment history. Past experience indicates that other issues may crop up.

Also, such details are on a need to know basis.
Let us assume that I do not have it.

I'll just lean against this pillar here, watching the mice scurrying along the edges and in the shadows during the quiet moments between cigarette-smoking loonies and their underwear discussions.
I have a pipe, and good tobacco.
Life is alright.


On the third tin of Greg Pease's Montgomery this year, a blend with a nice balance between blonde Virginia and red, and a subtle addition of fire-cured Kentucky. In the right pipe it shines, though the span is wide. Last night's billiard was a narrow bore, but the squatty pot on Sunday morning was considerably wider, and the big Barling later in the day sang too.
So it's not a matter of dimension. Age of the briar is a factor.
Oddly, not quite so divine in the black blast Dunhill.
I'll have to repeat that today or tomorrow.
It may have been anomalous.

I'll open another tin of it this week.

[UPDATE as of 3:16 PM, November 28: Montgomery is also excellent in the Loewe.
Later today we'll try some in a Peterson System Standard 307.]

The remarks about pizza come from a FB conversation in Switzerland, inspired by a small girl who was facing disappointment. My sympathy is, naturally, with the small girl. Because as a single man the concept of pizza for breakfast appeals to me. It sounds right and good, and is a sound choice altogether. A good breakfast starts the day right.


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