Whereya smoking today
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In the woods, down beside the abandoned bridge over the Christina River, about 3/4 mile from the office:
A Nat Sherman -- all cedary and sweet.
In this photo you can see Motorcycle Hands -- that's where the back of your hand gets bronzed while your finger ends and thumb, which hide beneath your grips, do not.
A Nat Sherman -- all cedary and sweet.
In this photo you can see Motorcycle Hands -- that's where the back of your hand gets bronzed while your finger ends and thumb, which hide beneath your grips, do not.
“It has been a source of great pain to me to have met with so many among [my] opponents who had not the liberality to distinguish between political and social opposition; who transferred at once to the person, the hatred they bore to his political opinions.” —Thomas Jefferson (1808)
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Life is too short to smoke bad cigars!!!
Oh when the Blues, Oh when the Blues, Oh when the Blues go marching in!
Thirty years here in Dull-Aware, we have never once been able to do this. By June, each afternoon would be thick, hot, unbreathable. Now that global warming has us in it's dire grasp, afternoons are absolutely perfect. It is San Diego weather. 58 degrees this morning busted record cool. Yesterday, I not only rode to work with a denim jacket on, I rode home with a denim jacket on. As I write this, it's a perfect 75. Sat in the yard. Listened to birdsong. Tickled the pup. Listened to Bearswatter chat about the neighbor who just lost his job and a bunch of other stuff. Smoked a pleasant Nat Sherman. Sipped at a Modelo Especial. Fine stuff. Once it had burnt to the nub, I stood up, stuck out my hand to help her up, and held her hand while she chatted some more bunch of stuff. Now I am back at the puter screen, while she's firing up some baby backs. Fine stuff.