Tuesday, August 30, 2022


Over the years I've subscribed to a number of smoking pipe pages and groups. The people most likely to irritate me there are, of course, the ones with strange and pretentious fake names and affectations, for whom smoking a pipe is merely a prop in their exciting identity. One of whom I used to know. Whom I haven't seen since he blew through his trust fund after dropping out of college. The local community has forgotten about him at this point, along with the albino space man, and bib overalls guy.

The person whom I sort of miss was the writer of gay detective pornography set in the Great Depression. Hard and gritty Noir, featuring a hero who smoked big BIG pipes. Big BIG pipes. BIG pipes. Like the writer himself. Who spoiled the effect by huffing cherry cavendish.

[Out of politeness I tried reading one of his tales once. Gave up after a few pages. Just as badly written as The DaVinci Code, but much better researched. The Bridges Of Madison County, written for sadomasochistic gangster fetish freaks.]

Trustfund guy had built his image on illustrious ancestry, fictitious membership in European nobility, and eccentric wardrobe choices appropriate to a nineteen thirties upper class twit.
He liked English mixtures because he believed them far more ruling class than Virginia blends (so so shopkeeper!) or Burleys (those horrid colonials).

[English mixtures are called that because they were often imported from Britain, where they had been invented. They have a significant inclusion of smoky Syrian leaf (Latakia) over Virginias (flue cured) and Orientals (small leaf resinous tobacco from Greece or Turkey).]
Being appalled at reality is something I can understand. But the real world is something one has to deal with, and one's coping mechanisms have to be a bit more practical.

Oh, and there's nothing wrong with Virginias and Burleys.
Some of them do make the world much nicer.
Great with a spot of tea.

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