Saturday, November 18, 2017

SOFT WHITE MUCK BETWEEN THE EARS

If it seems like I am always living in the past, it is because I am. Yesterday morning was quite delightful. After a full and restful night's sleep, I got up early, had coffee, and as soon as my apartment mate left I lit up a pipe.
The tobacco, as you might guess, came from the past. A tin purchased in 2005, finally opened two weeks ago. Something that would make many more men jealous than women. In some aspects the equivalent of a trophy blonde, but in all ways a much wiser choice of companion.
Absolutely wonderful!

No, shan't mention which splendid blend from an estimable company it was, as there is no need to know. It isn't a blonde twit which needs to be trotted out every single time for others to admire.

Or a cigar with a famous band.


Hypothetically:

"It was a lovely Autumn evening, as I sat enjoying a glass of Bunnahabhain 18 year old, with a Davidoff Salomone delicately smoldering in the crystal ashtray on the table next to my comfortable armchair, in my well appointed living room, and my big breasted young blonde wife playing with the Golden Retriever, her perky nipples sparkling in the last rays of the dying sun ...."

It need not be a Davidoff Salomone, it could very well be a Cohiba Siglo VI, or even a Behike. But everything else remains the same, possibly excepting the time of day.

The perkily boobied blonde baggage is imaginary, just so you know.

Unlike the blonde, the cigars mentioned are multi-dimensional, presenting deep earthy notes, hints of leather, spice, cedar, and a pleasing finish.


Plus I've learned that I should not have a bottle of decent singlemalt near my chair, as I am more likely to use it for cleaning my briar pipes of an evening, while actually swilling tea.



In my callow youth, many young ladies of my ken seemed so much more intelligent, and they were far better read, than most people I know today. Indeed, I am gilding the past, but they probably were brighter, and in those days we were happy with just cheroots from the local factory, dark shag for cigarettes, oude genever, and fine English pipe tobacco.

Plus coffee and tea. Life was an unending cascade of freshly made caffeinated beverages, because the Netherlands drinks coffee at every opportunity, and warm pots of tea are so comforting in a beastly climate. The mind works better and faster when awake, provided there is more to work with than just text-messages and tweets.

Admittedly the people I knew were the Atheneum and Gymnasium crowd, and even then only a limited subset of that, but caffeine, brilliant minds, and tobacco, are a dynamite combination. Add bookstores, and the thrill of discovering new material splendidly written, and you have blast-off.



For a few years I would head over to the cigar bar on a Saturday night to smoke my pipe and enjoy some conversation. But it is very hard to discuss anything except balls when everyone is yowling at the screen and checking their cell-phones, and there are many more people there now, doing precisely and only that.

My apartment mate is a non-smoker, so I will put on a sweater and head out into the cold for a while. This may trigger some people, but all the best characters of literature smoked, and often indoors in front of women and children. Many of them smoked pipes. As did their authors.
Twitter hadn't been invented yet.
Nor tofu either.






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