THAT DISTANT HOWLING

So far, I seem to be the only one buying Steamworks at the local tobacco emporium. Which is fine by me. I know there are smokers who would certainly like it, but what with California's discriminatory tobacco taxes, coupled with their natural cheapskateness and fear of new things, it looks like over the next few months I'll end up with most of what's available.
Which is fine by me. It's mighty good stuff. And it grows on you.
It's also a limited edition. There won't be any more.


As you would expect, I am selfish and selective about the people with whom I share tobacco. Having similar preferences in certain smokeables indicates a like mind, and a likeable set of tastes and standards. Especially when it comes to such specialized categories. Anyone who habitually huffs aromatic blends, for instance, is probably not someone with whom I would associate much, nor a person whom I would ask for tobacco recommendations or about nearly anything else.


"Which books are you reading nowadays, oh person who smells like fairy dust bubble bath?"


Probably romance authors. There is an entire series of swoony love books set in the last days, in which a shy young Christian virgin is waiting for her man to come home from the war during the tribulations while fire is raining from the sky and the river is running blood. Imagine the sound of trumpets. Smells like cherries jubilee with an undertone of watermelon. I'm not surprised they banned flavoured tobacco in California, it leads to weird perversions

Hairy tattooed frat boys with strap-on fairie wings.

While John-boy is prancing through the wildflowers enjoying his strawberry melba 'Legends' Cavendish by 'House of Paine, Inc', Priscilla and I will go through the tin of C&D Steamworks in the abandoned library with the collected Faulkner plus the Ambonese Curiosity Cabinet by Georg Eberhard Rumphius. We take turns bringing in a thermos of tea. This will take several days. We've disabled the smoke detector, just in case, and made sure the doors are locked, so that that *&%$ing fruitloop aficionado can't come in and we won't be disturbed.

You know, there's just something about the smell of candied tobaccos that remind me of low-tide in Perth Amboy. Where I've never been.

Unfortunately, I don't know a woman named Priscilla with unique good taste, and there is no abandoned library in whose half-lit recesses we smoke our pipes while ignoring the zombie outside howling because he ran out of bubble gum shreds to burn.
No, it doesn't keep away mosquitoes, John-boy.
It attracts vermin.

TOBACCO INDEX


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