Jul 10, 2006

Good Heavens, What's That? A Post?

You might have noticed that I haven't blogged yet today, and now that I am you can note by the time stamp that it's rather late for me.

I don't have an excuse to offer, except that I've been taken ill by some sort of intestinal parasite that has turned my insides to a sort of yellowish liquid. My bet is that I've got worms from eating too many raw cookie dough lumps at work.

Anyway.

It's been an interesting day, aggravation-wise. Mostly because I'm dealing with computers on a daily basis, and the rest of the way because Vulgar Wizard, my boss, is on vacation, and it's never nice to have your workforce lose 1/3 of it's horsepower, especially when that horse is the one in the driver's seat. So to speak.

It's difficult when you're a purveyour of metaphors and you're trying to make an interesting one but you go just a little too far in the connections and you end up just being confusing. I think I was trying to go somewhere with the whole horsepower/engine/driver's seat thing, but...pfui.

And before I forget, VW asked me to post this for her: Reason #2 That VW Shouldn't Go On Vacation. When VW is home hanging curtains in her new home, lightning is prone to strike the telephone/electric pole right outside her house and turn the transformer there into a huge firework, raining blue fire onto her front yard and turning off power for miles around, thereby preventing her from all connection with the outside world as well as turning off the A/C.

So anyway.

I get home to find out that my DirecTv system decided to go hare-brained, too. One receiver does nothing but turn off by itself, the second one receives about half the channels it should and tells me that it's searching for the sattelite signal on the other half of the channels.

I hate technology.

That's why I love my pipes.

You see, pipes don't plug in. They don't require batteries, or earphones. They're not Bluetooth compatible, and I can't get email on them. I can't even enter patient information on one.

And the funniest part of it is that not only can they not do all the above things, they also require a pretty fair investment in time, money, and attention to operate properly. A good pipe is not cheap, and when you own and smoke one you find that you have to tamp the tobacco as you smoke, and sometimes keep it lit if it's particularly damp. The tobacco, that is, not the pipe. It doesn't even load itself; you have to put in tobacco every time you want to use it, and carry fire with you, too, and a tamp. And then there's the whole thing of trying to find just the right tobacco you might like, and then when you've got a few favourites you've got to decide which you want to smoke each time.

While you smoke it you've got to tend it, or it'll go out, or smoke too hot if you smoke fast. And you've got to have about an hour or so to spend with it, or you're wasting your time and effort. And when you're done you can't throw it away. I mean, you could, but you wouldn't want to, and if you really want to, throw it my way. You have to knock the dottle out of it, and clean it with a pipe cleaner or four, and then you can store it. And every twenty bowls or so you have to take it apart and give it a good inside-and-out cleaning, and every forty or so you have to have a special tool to ream down the cake that accumulates in the bowl.

And irregardless of all that doing, I love them. I love the artistry, the craftsmanship, the love that goes into making pipes. I love that a pipe is as personal as a good suit or your new car. I love the comfort of holding my warm pipe, maintaining the coal like a careful fireman on a steam train. I love puffing in questions and blowing out philosophy. I love the patterns the smoke makes in the still air, and I love the feel of the bit clenched carefully in my teeth.

And darn it, I love the work that it requires to smoke one. I love that you can't just pick one up and smoke it, you've got to LEARN how to smoke it, and then it takes time to really get good at it. I love that it's archaic, and bad for me, and that it smells so good in the room but I can't smell it because of King James' Curse.*

In short, I'm just eat up, and am teaching you guys bad habits, like smoking pipes and picking your nose in public, so I guess you'd just better move along. Go on, get off my front porch, you little monkeys.


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* In 1604, King James I of England called smoking "A custom loathsome to the eye, hateful to the nose, harmful to the brain, dangerous to the lungs, and in the black, stinking fume thereof, nearest resembling the horrible Stygian smoke of the pit that is bottomless." Bastard. Because he cursed tobacco, tobacco cursed him, so that a smoker of tobacco cannot smell his or her own pipe. *shrug* Sounds reasonable to me.

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