Monday, January 01, 2018


Last night was an excellent time to 'people-watch'. As well as to listen in on their conversations. The initial inklings of this -- an unhappy young man wailing that he wanted to go home, his inebriated girl friend insisting that she wished to go somewhere else -- weren't precisely promising, but the individuals comforting the fellow who discovered that he was developing baldness were extremely charming, albeit obsessively rubbing it in.
He'll never be able to forget that his scalp is on lopsided now.
But at least he has plenty of hair on his back.
So deliciously savage!

Personally, I do not wish to think about hairy backs, finding such things, as well as the mental images thereof, to be rather repulsive. Apparently Robin Williams had a dense pelt from nape to arse, but I shan't bother searching for any confirmation of that. I vastly prefer imagining naked females instead of naked males, precisely because women do not have hairy backs.

Lopsided scalp guy should pull his lower dermis over his head.
Perhaps become a turtle.

Obviously I did not see his back. Because the last day of December is too cold for spontaneous displays of naked flesh. Which you wouldn't know from all the young ladies showing off their cleavages and curvy gams.
Little dark cocktail dresses everywhere!

Still. Half an hour listening to his friends describing his widow's peak in graphic terms while I smoked my pipe. I look like a harmless old dude, and I'm good at keeping a straight face, so they probably did not realize that I was paying keen attention.

That stretch of sidewalk was well-populated, with many jolly youngsters feeling the happy glow of vodka.

Other things overheard while smoking:

"He's a frightful pervert, but mostly harmless."

"My knees are freezing, no, don't kiss them."

"It wasn't see-through till I spilled."

"Pity about the paint-job on her."

"Just pizza, it won't burn."

Sporadically I had to assure passing men that it really was tobacco, it wasn't cherry flavoured, no, I didn't smoke weed and wasn't planning to, it's nice of you to say I rock that pipe, I am not Harrison Ford thank you, mostly red Virginia and perhaps a little dark, pressed with Perique.
Usually the male of the species expresses an interest in pipes.
Because females, as everyone knows, don't smoke.


The final smoke yesterday was Fillmore, from Greg Pease. Which is a thickish flake that rubs out nicely, and if sipped slowly is very rewarding. This tin was opened on Saturday, when the Regency Flake was nearly done. Pease's flaky products are not as densely compressed as McClelland's, and consequently a lot easier to enjoy.
This fine blend recalls a previous era.

I am not sure what he means when he says "in the Scottish tradition".
Normal people associate that with boiled sheep guts.
This is much much better.

The first smoke today was a San Cristobal 'Elegancia'. It's a Churchill cigar (7.0"x50), composed of good Nicaraguan filler and binder leaf enrobed in an Ecuadorean Connecticut wrapper, that smokes smoothly and very evenly down for the better part of an hour, perfect for a long soak in the tub.

My apartment mate is home today, so I couldn't light up a pipe in the teevee room, and it would be rather rude to firmly sneck her door and open all the windows so I could smoke and stink with her around.
She might object. As would her teddy bear.
Ms. Bruin does not like my smells.

Cigars are far better for when you're taking a bath. The Elegancia, at seven inches, is perfect. The aesthetically appealing wrapper yields a pleasant soft and creamy finish to the medium spice of a firm Nicaraguan body.
I would describe it as a right capitalist bastard cigar.
You need a tailored suit for this.
And a pinky ring.

I was wet and naked.

That also works.

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