I'm more and more often outing myself as a pipe smoker. It's not PC or particularly cool, but neither am I and I enjoy the hell of of both it and Edith Piaf. Sue me.
Last weekend I went to the pipe show. Man, it's a gas and I love the kindness outcasts always show, (I remember bikers before the yuppies stole that, I remember "alternative" when that meant the Jesus and Mary Chain and stated clearly who you were with your Wax Trax 7"s, Before Pop-Punk numbed the whole thing and turned it into the same pop shit about your haircut over your talent, I mean Bob Mould can write a fucking song and, sorry, most often the flavor of the month sucks at it- See also; Plain White T's, Maroon 5, and The Fray).
Never the less there's this crazy trend I keep smelling as I get old enough to notice it where there's these guys with $600 pipes wandering around proud of them. This relates to below post in that we always celebrate the wrong thing. These guys sit around and talk about some minutiae of aroma and perique and, as great and friendly as they all are, I'm annoyed.
You have no right to even subtly disparage those of us with lesser valued pipes or mandolins when we are the true lovers who invest in making our own and learning what they are for and how to use them. I am proud of my shabby paraphernalia and worn articles-I earned them.
And though I can't stay on task tonight to save my life there is something beneath this post that has one question and then one more beneath it:
Why are these things I love and prioritize so easily disregarded? I have spent way to long on uncared for skills and books and generally unrespected pursuits. I tell myself that I love only earned things when that cannot be true. I hide in my humble things and my arrogance about them, in my love of the old, unloved and forgotten and even in this post from the big question below:
Why don't you love me?