ATTENTION: CB Pipe Tobacco Review Bombing Run Version 2.0

[cbr310]

1. Alligator Gar
2. JustTroItIn - Strong
3. Branzig- Strong
4. Tobias Lutz
5. LandonColby
6. Lostmason
7. Bluenoser
8. BryBuySC - Strong
9. GWBowman - Strong
10. MrMotoyoshi - Strong
11. Chris0673 - Mild
12. Horsefeathers - Strong
13. cbr310-mild

[cbr310]

[QUOTE=NeverBend;35487]Story number 0 (zero) - mine doesn't count. Yours should be waaay shorter than mine but I hope that you'll indulge me for writing the long version.

A Day in Milan - A smoker's story

It was 1986 and it was the only time that my brother and I travelled together. When you go to Italy, for any any reason, you’d be foolish not to spend time taking in this magnificent country. So it was understood, whether we went together or alone that we added time and expected to have a blast along with work. He spoke the language and I butchered it but in Italy that doesn’t matter.

We imported pipes and I smoked them avidly but we travelled with cigars. It was inevitable that a customs guard would drop and damage the pipes and spill the tobacco. I prefer my Dunhill #965 without a topping of Eau de Dirt. Cigars hid well in shoes and in Europe, if found, they never interested customs. Besides, we always had a lot of pipes to carry home and our personal stock could cloud the issue. Once the cigars were gone, there’s nothing left to carry around, but while we were travelling they were precious. You’d understand this if you ever wanted to buy a cigar in Italy in 1986.

Our trips always started with Gino in Milan and then we’d go with him to spend a day with Gigi at his home and workshop.

On this trip, the next day was ours and we headed off, on foot, from Gino’s store at 32 Via Vitruvio for another of my brother’s meandering, “I know where we are” walks. It’s a good two miles but it took a couple of hours only made easier by our Te Amo Toro Maduros from our freshly stocked travel stash. He was always trying to prove that he knew Milan or Rome better than me and he usually proved the opposite. When we arrived I was a bit surly having barely started our second, very precious, cigar.

In 1986 the dining hall of the Monastery of Santa Maria delle Grazie had just begun it’s massive restoration and it’s humble facade gave no clue to the wonder inside, The Last Supper by Leonardo da Vinci. Once we were convinced that bringing the lit stogies inside might not be viewed favorably our priority became finding a suitable place to hide them awaiting our return. No stub left behind and these were barely started.

The back of the dining hall building looked nothing like a church. It’s brick construction looked more like a garden apartment and it had a small courtyard with a tree that had to two large branches that divided into a ‘Y’ at about eye level.

I slipped my cigar onto the mortar between two bricks on the ledge of a window that was just above my head and urged my brother to do the same but he knew better and he chose the ‘Y’ of the tree. If you weren’t seven feet tall you’d never be able to see my cigar but my brother’s butt was in plain sight.

We’re talking smoking here, not art, but there was no one except us in the dining hall to admire The Last Supper for twenty minutes before people started to arrive and it was sublime. I almost clubbed a Dutch dick who kept leaning over the scaffolding to see if he could touch the painting.

As we turned into the courtyard horror struck. A genuine, first issue, Italian bum with soiled pants that Mussolini must have been shot in was right in front of the tree, eyeballing the curious black stick cradled in the ‘Y’ of the branches.

I have no idea what the hell my brother yelled at this guy, other than ‘it’s mine’, but he was pissed.

The bum picked up the cigar.

I ran to the window and the brick ledge and reached up.

Bingo, no worries. It’s all good.

By now my brother and the bum were speaking rapid fire in Italian and then, with a flourish, the bum slipped the entire cigar into his mouth, rolled it around and produced it dripping with saliva. He extended the soaked stogie towards my brother and in clear Italian said, “Per favore, si fuma si” (please, you smoke it).

We took my route back to Gino’s store and made it in half the time. The rest of that cigar is one of the best smokes I’ve ever had.[/lol I love it! Didnt even have to say i told you so!!

[cbr310]

So my piping started back in late 2014. I bought my first pipe, a Dr Grabow savoy smooth. Im so excited and rush home to put otc blend in it and fire it up. I wasnt on the internet and had no clue about the crazy amount of baccy available. So Im firing up my pipe and my wife comes home, comes downstairs takes 1 look and busts out laughing! She asked "what the hell are you doing you look like a complete jackass!" I dont even smoke cigarettes. I told her I have a new hobby, but never realized how awesome and addictive it would become.(not addicted nicotine wise just fun) My friends all chuckled at the sight of me with the pipe in my mouth, and one even tried it. Now She just shakes her head when I take a picture and post it up on here. Guess I really have no funny story cause I dont know a single person that smokes a pipe beside myself, but just thought I share something. Really glad I found this place and made some friends that I would love to meet in person some day.

[Branzig]

OK, here is my submission. Sorry if this goes a bit long... Grab a pipe and read up boys and girls

Story No. 2: A Hobby Becomes A Passion

For as long as I have been using tobacco, I have had an infatuation with these silly smoking vessels that we all know as pipes. I don't know what is about it. I mean, it is just a hunk of wood with some holes drilled into it and some rubber added to the end. You have a bowl, an airway, and a stem to smoke with. So simple. But still...something about them.

I started smoking cigarettes at 13, like most kids, to look cool. Eventually, cigarettes became more of a friend than a fashion trend for me. When I was upset, they settled me. When I was happy, they escalated my being. When I was stressed, they relieved me. Before I knew it, my 1-4 cigarettes a day habit became a pack or so a day instead. I was in school to be a writer, and started to work for some media and music publications, mainly writing reviews. I was going through 1-2 packs a day writing for these guys, so I wanted to take up the pipe because of the room note and to cut back on my cigarette habit. It was around this time I picked up my first Dr. Grabow. A Golden Duke. It was a junk pipe that gurgled, smoked wet, and burned hot. I don't know why or how many bowls I smoked through that pipe, but I loved it. I loved everything about it. I have always wanted a pipe. I wanted to be a writer. Twain, Hemingway, Lewis, Dr. Seuss, Hunter S. Thompson...all amazing writers, all pipe smokers. I was living my dream. Smoking a pipe and writing. I smoked the hell out of that little Grabow, all the way up until one of my idiot "friends" defiled her with some contraband...then the Duke was retired.

Years went by and my path in life changed dramatically. My dreams and aspirations of becoming a professional writer went on the back burner (they are still simmering back there) and I started my current career. Kids were born, rings were exchanged, vows were made. Time dried up and so did my tobacco use. Cigarettes were a thing of the past now and I had gone through a pretty intense cigar phase that was quickly vanishing as well. However, the pipe always stuck around. At this point I had maybe 3 little Grabows and a LHS that my friend had found and given me. The LHS was disgusting, so I never smoked it. I figured it was a lost cause. I did some research about it and found out a lot about LHS pipes...and their age. I am a history buff, so the thought of smoking and having an old pipe really fascinated me. Who smoked it? Where had the pipe been? What happened while that pipe was clinched in someone's mouth...All these things just fascinated me. I began searching vociferously for ways to make this LHS smoke worthy again. Along the way, I found a lot of awful information, but I struggled through it and got the pipe to where it at least was smoke worthy...and what a sweet smoker she is.

That little junker LHS started something that I haven't been able to get away from since. I have become somewhat obsessed with restoring and bringing new life to these old relics. I spend countless hours of my own free time (which I have little of I mind you) researching pipes, their makers, their construction, where they were primarily sold and of course buying them up. My idea of "me time" is sitting down with some OxiClean, Magic erasers, and Micro sanding pads to hand clean stems for a couple hours. Sanding down a pipe to bare briar and re-staining it. The first smoke. Probably the most rewarding part of my hobby now is being able to pass the knowledge I have acquired on to others. Nothing makes me happier than knowing I helped out a fellow enthusiast with their own personal project. The thanks from others is all I need to keep on trucking. Preserving history and helping out others is what is all about to me, and of course, having a nice smoker at the end of it all is a plus as well

[NeverBend]

So my piping started back in late 2014. I bought my first pipe, a Dr Grabow savoy smooth. Im so excited and rush home to put otc blend in it and fire it up. I wasnt on the internet and had no clue about the crazy amount of baccy available. So Im firing up my pipe and my wife comes home, comes downstairs takes 1 look and busts out laughing! She asked "what the hell are you doing you look like a complete jackass!" I dont even smoke cigarettes. I told her I have a new hobby, but never realized how awesome and addictive it would become.(not addicted nicotine wise just fun) My friends all chuckled at the sight of me with the pipe in my mouth, and one even tried it. Now She just shakes her head when I take a picture and post it up on here. Guess I really have no funny story cause I dont know a single person that smokes a pipe beside myself, but just thought I share something. Really glad I found this place and made some friends that I would love to meet in person some day.

Hi Matt,

Your story is Number 1. @Branzig was observant and kind enough to reserve this number for you by leapfrogging.

Excellent start Matt and Brandon, well done. Someone's gonna win a Barling!

[NeverBend]

The Barling Londoner Pot is broken. My fault. It's the first pipe I've ever dropped and broken. I was carrying it outside to ream and clean it when my hand spasmed and the tenon snapped when it hit the floor.

Therefore, I'm replacing the Londoner 1/8th bent pot with a BB&S Rallye #5579 canadian. It's a Barling made pipe (actually the Londoner is a BB&S too) from ~1970. It's from the same collection as the other two prizes and it's the same shape as the LUTZ first prize.

[LandonColby]

I guess I'll toss in a little number. I love the idea of sharing stories, and more so that there are some being shared!

Number 3 - Brotherly Love

As with all things, the effects of time are inevitable. It's toll on my family is still in it's adolescence and I see us all drifting farther from each other, in both distance and heart.
But as any good guys or gals we try and set aside time every so often or when we can afford it, to get together and pretend as if nothing has changed over the years.

It was October, and for all the Colby boys that meant one thing...Elk season. The one time of year when the family back home in Minnesota, and the free birds that moved to California both travel to Colorado to set up camp, smoke good leaf, drink too many beers, and freeze their nuts off.
I grabbed a couple of tins, my beat around briars, and a couple handfuls of cigars, enough to satisfy both mine and my brother's appetite for a week or so. After making the 13 hour drive to Eagle and setting up camp in a complete white out blizzard, my eight other cousin's and uncles and I were puffing away on various cigars and passing around a bottle of Wiser's Canadian Whiskey with a salt shaker to do honkers in honor of the passing of my father's brother. Man, was it good to all be back together again.
The sun rose the following morning to reveal a crisp clear day with the high sitting right around 10 or 15 degrees...perfect day to track an elk. I lit my pipe and grabbed my rifle. Tipped my hat to my brother who was trying to light his cigar in the light breeze and headed off towards the treeline. Right away I found a nice set of tracks that I followed for nearly a mile, they took me straight up a ridge but when they dropped off to the left down into the gorge I decided to plant my ass in the snow and wait. It was a perfect spot, the trees gave way to a clearing that over looked the entire valley down below me and the sun shining off of last night's snow lit the whole place up like a blanket of diamonds and there was nothing except me and complete, dead silence. I lit a fresh pipe and settled into the snow up to my chest and with a large pine at my back, I waited. An hour and a half went by and still no movement. Before I knew it I was nodding off and then it all went black.
I woke up later to my brother giving me a shake and asking if I was alright, "yes, yes I'm fine" I replied. When my eyes adjusted I could see the sun just peeping through the trees on the far side of the valley, I was absolutely chilled and bitter cold. My brother produced a couple hand warmers and a silver flask and told me how he came looking for me out of worry when the sun started to drop, I left a clear trail up into the trees so I was easy to find. We sat there for at least another hour sharing the whiskey and laughing when I finally asked what had been plaguing my mind recently. "Do you think we are drifting apart?" He gave a slow, single nod while staring off into the ground showing that he understood. Then he looked at me and said "No. Only off to sleep". He gave a grin and slapped me on the shoulder and we headed back to camp.

I lost that pipe in the snow, as it must've fell out of my mouth when I dozed off. But it didn't bug me in the least because of the moment I shared that day with my brother. Since that day we have never been closer. I guess it's safe to say that sometimes pipe dreams do come true.

[BryGuySC]

The Barling Londoner Pot is broken. My fault. It's the first pipe I've ever dropped and broken. I was carrying it outside to ream and clean it when my hand spasmed and the tenon snapped when it hit the floor.

Therefore, I'm replacing the Londoner 1/8th bent pot with a BB&S Rallye #5579 canadian. It's a Barling made pipe (actually the Londoner is a BB&S too) from ~1970. It's from the same collection as the other two prizes and it's the same shape as the LUTZ first prize.

Oh, No! That is always a horrible, slow-motion-inducing event!

[NeverBend]

Oh, No! That is always a horrible, slow-motion-inducing event!

Yes, exactly.

Thanks to all the story posters, they're fabulous! Keep them coming.

Quick tobacconist story to keep the juices flowing.

Story Zero ^ 2 (Zero Squared) Clueless

He was born Bob Clue so you know everyone called him Bob Clueless but not to his face because he was a bear of a man. Sharp dresser and hair always just so, he'd have looked more at home next to Tony Soprano than selling wares to smoke shops.

He spent most of his time brown nosing bigger volume accounts and the smaller ones generally saw him at the RTDA trade show. He wasn't missed.

Even at the RTDA, where he relentlessly sucked on his scotch, he still sucked up to his big accounts and none was bigger than Malcolm Calderon. The RTDA was in New York City as it often was in those days, Malcolm's home town.

"Malcolm, hey, great to see you. When you gonna let me show you how this town really cooks!", Clue bumped his elbow against Malcolm's arm.

"We'll see. How's the show going for you? Doing well?"

Even as they spoke Clue's eyes swept the floor of the main ballroom looking for notable accounts when he stopped and pointed towards a woman sitting cross-legged on a stool.

"Holy Sh*t Malcolm!", Clue gestured towards the woman.

"How'd you like to shimmy up between those legs?"

Malcolm looked at the woman and then at Clue, "I do Bob, every night. That's my wife."

True story told to me by Malcolm. Names were changed.

[LandonColby]

Hahaha! Great story, Pete!
I must say, I am fascinated by your writing. There is a particular tone, a certain articulation that makes the words effortless to swallow. Very easy to read anything you put forth.