Tuesday, January 23, 2018


Other than the three briars which I worked on at home I did no pipe restoration work last week. Other things got in the way, so all of that has been postponed to the coming work week. But on the plus side, the gang of loud and dissolute cigar smokers normally in the lounge was largely absent, because they headed to Vegas for the game, strippers, and sharing rooms.
So I look forward to them sharing embarrassing videos.
Which they will then be embarrassed about.
Cigar smokers have no restraint.

I finally got to try Greg Pease's Renaissance, of which there was a re-issue when some more Syrian Latakia was found. Which was absolutely divine.
It's not a Lat bomb, but more of a delightful Balkan, and reminded me of both Drucquer's Blend 805 as well as one of my own concoctions.
Which I shall bring in for Tom to try next Monday.

Other tobaccos I smoked the past fortnight, while at work, in Chinatown after snacks and milk tea, wandering around my neighborhood late at night or lurking in the portico of the karaoke bar, and surreptitiously lighting one up after midnight while the apartment mate is fast asleep in her room and not consciously smelling anything:
Laurel Heights, by Greg Pease.
Telegraph Hill, by Greg Pease.
Gawith's Saint James.
Luxury Bullseye.

And one of my own mixtures, mostly Virginias, a little Burley, 4% Perique.
Which I shall light up later today after a lunch snack.
One of the old Canadians awaits it.


The recipe dates from two years ago, and I mentioned to Tom that it's a blend of which I love the room note, but as the person on the mouth end of the pipe I don't get to just smell that. Ideally I would tempt some fine young thing or things into smoking it in my vicinity when I'm not in a place where my sense of smell has been deadened by cigars before noon.

A very precise perversion, I'm afraid.

"Come hither, younger person, I have tobacco! Here, smoke this between five and approximately twenty five feet away from me, slowly and silently while reading.
I shall circle around you breathing deeply.
Through my nose!"

Yeah, no. Propositioning anyone like that would definitely get me locked up. Irrespective of their gender, age, or reading preferences. Because, as we all know, tobacco is EVIL. Unlike Marijuana, which California has recently legalized. That's grown by little green men in the Amazon Rainforest, who recycle everything and hug dolphins.

The five and approximately twenty five feet distance is to allow the smoke to interact with the air, which causes chemical changes and yields that lovely fragrance which everyone remembers from when their father came home in the evening, or on weekends when an uncle came to visit .....
Classrooms, study session, the distant sounds of puttering about, the click of chess pieces, crickets in the courtyard on summer nights .....
It's a remembrance device.

You will naturally understand that the smell -- putrid reek -- of medicinal or recreational drug use does not do anything for me. There are no good memories with which I can associate that, weed quite frankly stinks, and the behaviour of stoned people is anything but endearing.
Pot heads act like dingoes.
And smell worse.

Actually, I'll bring in the blend of which Renaissance reminded me all of the coming week at work -- Thursday through Monday -- because I wish Martin and Neal to try it too, as I am keen to hear their reviews. I think they'll like it.
I'll probably be able to finish the pipes I started working on nine days ago.
Stems and a bit of polish.
It's cake.


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