The Last Pot of Nineteen Fifty Pu-erh

Halleluiah, I'm back. At least for now. No, I haven't abandoned you, but I have suffered a technology mutiny. My wireless connection at home is no more. If you own Jane Addiction's "Been Caught Stealin'," nows a good time to give it a listen.

But more importantly, Vani and The Ron will be in Israel for the next coupla weeks, during which time I've agreed to take care of Sampson aka Sammy aka Rudy aka Rude Boy Tabby, and what better way for me and him to bond then for me to do my thing with the blog. So, matzoltov to Tel Aviv, catnip to Sammy, and well, fuck, I don't need any special cheer.

I might need some special cheering up, but I'll save that for later. Just know that though women are trecherous, my madness for them rarely stops (in time). That said, Sammy is much worse shape than I am. That is one sad pussy. But me, I've always got more than one game going at a time, so if one goes tilt it's nothin' but a little eggggo, know what I'm sayin'?

Yes, this particular entry is just me stroking myself in public. Hey, somebody's gotta do it, little goat that I am. Chuckle. Ah, that did make me smile. Women still suck though. But before I grouse all night about that, and believe me I can, here are wiser words than I can craft at the moment. And yes, they're from a chick (no, not the tea house girl, but from a paisan in the land of the lost whose compass works better than mine) received a few weeks ago, but they never fail to remind me that all is well:

Last night after I saw you I went to my meeting. It is a meeting where we write for 25 minutes then share about what we wrote or just get current on what’s happening for us today. During the writing I hit upon the root of a tree that I thought I had yanked out years ago, and it sent me into such emotional upheaval that I had to leave the room for a few minutes to cry heavily.

I already had an appointment scheduled afterwards, and we had agreed to meet at Samovar. I arrived 30 minutes early, dazed and still teary eyed. I ordered a tea soup and white tea. Of course, I couldn’t help looking at the pu-erhs. On the 1950, it was noted that "this is the last batch," and I noticed that the price had jumped significantly. I decided to practice shopping therapy and asked to purchase a quantity. Have you noticed the price for 150g of 1950? Yeah, I was willing to spend. I was feeling QUITE emotional!

After Rick called a manager, who informed him that there was no more that could be sold (NO MORE!?!), he brought out the last pot of 1950 and placed it before me.

THE LAST POT OF NINETEEN FIFTY PU-ERH.

I saved the leaves and will enjoy them again for breakfast. I have brought with me to work my tiny elephant tea pot. I have brought my camera to take pictures that will be attached next time. I have also brought one of the pu-erh cups you gave me for my birthday. What else can hold this magnificent elixir? What present is more appropriate? Whose cup more worthy?

This morning, Lorna Mabunda, I share with you the last infusions of 1950 Vintage Extra Aged Pu-erh.

Aw shucks. Just when I think I'm out, they pull me back in. I love wenches er women. Meanwhile, stay tuned for comments on trannies, my prediction for the next superpower contender, a meditation on my new found personal life optimism (yes, I said optimism and I've got a whole box load of it though I'm not quite sure where I set it down), a grouse about the workplace, and all the usual shenanigans.