8606. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, #167

167. SWARMING

I found that if you did

one thing, and did it

thoroughly and well, it

would   - or could  -

usually suffice. There's

nothing that feels better

than 'quality'  -  which is

why some people, those

who have it, will gladly

spend 175 thousand

dollars on, say, a car

that's richly appointed,

fine with perfectly

stitched leather seats

and nicely bound

instruments and

steering wheel, with

a paint job of grave

and deep lustre and

clearcoat, let alone

the engine and the

running gear and

powertrain as well.

Those are the two items

first to go  -  the huge

downward compromise

of Quality and Integrity

that starts with that step

backwards. Initial loss.

I always thought that the

entire story of 'America'  -

the colonies and the

founding of the workings

of the nation, and the

general, Andrew Jacksonesque

crazy essence of the country,

had to with the 'rabble'

rising up and, yes, getting

their way and accepting a

paucity of 'quality.' Once

that begins, all other things

fall away. Tradition and

learning are thought to

be extraneous. Lineage

and breeding become

anarchic. People shout

and get sloppy, grow

beastly in their attributes.

You start getting

acceptances of crap  -

Hyundais and Kias of

the mind  -  lookalike

derivatives of no real

value other than

pretense and that

they're cheap. Nothing

about worth or value

or durability. Shoddiness

begins bleeding through

and everything starts to

be 'of the instant' and

'now!' It's a huge, 'I

want it!' moment.

-

I found that, upon arriving

in NYC, it would be easy

to be swiftly overwhelmed,

taken over by circumstances.

It happened to lots  - that's

where the prevalence of

drugs, violence, and sex

too,  came from. You just

get lost, falling to pieces

-  to death, even. I put

the plug in all that, and

and quickly and with

certainty. The confusion

stemmed (stems), from

simply too much. The

people who get beyond

themselves are the

smaller-minded, who

cannot cope, who crack

and buckle, whose faux

edge of 'superiority' gets

seen for what it is  -  a

prison veneer of using

big words to sound wise.

Its equivalent in real life:

Bombast. Posing. Violence.

Crudity. Disregard. You

have to pick your few,

and select them carefully,

and then dedicate. Dedicate

to them. It's a slowness, it's

a factor of Quality and

Worth. The thing I really

liked about that, immediately,

is how it allows you to 'own'

time. Time itself stops, for

once you begin to focus

instead on 'Quality' the

factor of time becomes

meaningless.

-

There was a period of years

when I smoked a pipe. Latakia

tobacco blends, big-time stuff.

None of that cherry-blend or

'Sail' brand pipe tobacco for

me. Custom mixes and blends.

Eventually I gave it up, mostly

because of my teeth, believe

that (a pipe hanging there takes

a toll), and the miserable expense.

The rest, I didn't care  -  the

pipe was a timeless, quality,

enterprise. If done right, really

done, each pipe-load is packed

perfectly, cradled and patted,

just touched with flame and

fire enough to smolder itself

on, steadily, with smooth and

easy draw, no liquid seep, no

or crappy juices. It's not easy.

A real pipe guy will take

sometimes 15 minutes, 

before lighting, just to 

properly load a pipe for

smoking  - and a well-loaded

and properly lit pipe can 

last an hour. In Avenel, on 

Leesville Avenue, right 

next to what is now

16-20 Lessville, known as

A&A Engine Repair, or 

something, there used to

be a small building (it's

long gone, and its location

is now a driveway for a

large condo or apartment

development) that was

'Joe Kump, Fine Pipes.'

I went there often; Joe 

was an old guy, probably 

70 then, and he made 

briarwood pipes. The

very finest briarwood

pipes ever seen. He prided 
himself, in fact, on the 
special briarwoods he
imported and used. The 
shop was small, but filled
with carved pipes, the 
briarwood roots everywhere, 
a few small, wood-boring
machines, for the stems and
tips. It was always quiet in 
there, always still. I never 
knew much else about him  
-  where he lived, family (I 
think he had a son or two). 
Just a wonderful old guy. I 
immediately emulated him. He

was meticulous to a fault, a 

true craftsman, a wise 

old man, and a tedious, 

devoted and timeless 

worker for 'Quality'. This

was all back about 1968,

and I don't know what 

he sold in numbers 

or dollars, nor to whom, 

but he stayed in business, 

right there, until death. I
used to stop in whenever I
hit Avenel. And then, one 
time, he was gone, and 
another time time so was the 
vacant building. There was never

a finer exemplar, to me, 

of the idea of time/non-time,

quality, dedication, and 

quiet, solid work. He'd make 

me, probably 3 a year,

a pipe that he'd stamp, 

for me, sort of as a 

model-name, his little 

ID pressed into the back 

of the stem, the words

'Student Prince', which 

is the name he gave

the pipe model I'd buy  

-  it was a straight

shank, just slightly 

bowed stem, with a

short, rounded bowl. 

Less capacity, sort of

a shorter smoke. And 

it was light. I loved

them. Back then, as 

I recall, maybe 18 bucks.

I have a few around 

here still. Pipes get

saturated after a while;

there's a lot of moisture 

involved in the burning.

You have to retire them, 

or let them set, really 

dry out. So it's good 

to have 5 or 6. I don't

smoke anything anymore,

and that's been a long 

time, like 40-plus years,

but if I could, I would.

Pipe-smoking slows 

everything down, stops 

the world, brings forth

a quality factor too easily

forgotten. A 'deliberateness

of one', I'll call it. The

world needs more of that.

We're getting too used to

swarming.