THOSE THINGS, YOU KNOW, THINGS

While watching a video of a social celebration in which younger people, probably Spanish judging by the music, were dancing together without touching each other, I became aware of the various different ways people carry their breasts. Some women push them forward, aggressively, like a statement, while others seem almost apologetic that those are there. A number of them are conscious of them, almost regretful. As if they fear that they might be crippled by them. Others are baffled; what do I do with these things? Almost like people wondering what to do with their hands, but with double the quandary.

Meanwhile, there's that fast thumpy music informing their constant movement.


I suspect many pipe smokers experience something similar during the first few years, as they figure out how to be themselves despite having a wooden object defining their face and their presence. Where do I put it, how do I hold it, are people looking at it, why do I feel the eyes of the world upon me? Do I look like a silly person?

It's been years since I felt that way. Decades. One can't smoke in public anymore, and social gatherings these days aren't marked by the exquisite fragrance of your tobacco choice OR the brand of cigarette that expresses your unique individuality and adventurous spirit -- and that suave air that says you're a man or woman of the world and know the finer things -- but by something else, almost indefinable, such as your piercings, tattoos, and personal choice of body wash.

At meetings of the local pipe club the preening is rather subdued. Most of us do not have extroverted 'look-at-me' briars, almost none of us huff aromatics which make curvaceous women fall at our knees exclaiming that they LOVE the aroma of our pipe tobacco such as happened in advertising illustrations during the nineteen seventies, and not a single one of us have a Hugh Heffner thing going on. And by now most of us have figured out how to hold it in our mouths or hands so that it's enjoyable but not in the way. We are not conscious of people looking at us. Or being silly.


For some reason none of us have breasts. Or man-boobs.

Which is sad, because the presence of women would definitely add something, and as so few women smoke pipes most of us would be charmed by it. Possibly one or two would go home after the meeting and casually mention to their wives that they'd look quite splendid with a pipe here's a lovely old Dunhill group three billiard with a bruyere finish suitable for some nice soft luxurious flake precisely like Sir Bertrand Russell smoked ooh sexy! Albert Einstein preferred mostly virginia tobaccos with a mild slightly fruity top dressing.
And Gerald Ford smoked plain simply topped drugstore burley blends.
William Faulkner was a medium-full English-Balkan man.
As you would expect.


I imagine that many women take the simplest way out. They borrow their husband, boyfriend, or girlfriend's briar, maybe when he won't be home for a few hours, snag some of his tobacco from an open tin, then sit on the back porch with a cup of coffee enjoying the sunlight and a mystery novel. A few of them probably live alone with smoking equipment from a relative who quit years ago and a supply of tobaccos from the internet (probably Rattrays or Peterson's old Dunhill blends) and light up when they need to really go through that chapter on ommatidia and photo receptor cells.

Which is really a very great pity. We would like to have them over.
I'd love to hear about ommatidia and photo receptor cells.
Not surprisingly I'm fascinated by abstruse subjects.



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