Meanwhile, in a hotel in the foothills, a writer and his family face unimaginable nightmares: canned luncheon meat and frozen peas are the only supplies till Spring. They've only got three recipes from the nineteen fifties. And no ketchup! Oh, the shivering, the shivering!
Somebody should make a call to Jack Nicholson, we've got a movie for ya.
All of this was prompted by reports that a horrific cold front is coming in which will go below freezing in some areas, and my apartment mate wondering if the grumpy old toad has enough warm underwear and I do know where the extra bedcovers are don't I?
I'm a tough old man. I'll simply wear an extra layer of underwear.
And if need be, two sweaters. Plus gloves.
And that thick coat.
It was gloomish today. Soggy. Other than a few damp old fossils in the backroom grumbling at the teevee because the forty Niners weren't playing, it was relatively quiet, and no one lost their intestinal contents. I spent much of the day cleaning and polishing briar pipes, including a Jobey Canadian, two Savinelli Autographs, two or three English pipes of relatively standard shapes, and a few Danes. The previous owner had relatively clean habits, and may have departed over two decades ago. There was no overarching esthetic sense.
Just haphazardly bought as the whim took him or her.
That happens. Some people end up with favourite shapes, some don't.
Not every pipe smoker is anal or neurotic.
Why, look at me!
Y'all can please stop giggling now.
I can hear you, you know.
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