My first date with The Happy Hookah

Here it was, my greatly-anticipated first date with that dusky mistress, Narghile, and alas, I had some ... ahem ... performance issues. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

I have always held a fascination with eastern culture, probably cultivated in part by my father's own love for all things oriental. As a child, I grew up in an environment frequently seasoned with asian influences. My father was a volunteer English instructor for Project L.I.F.T. in New Orleans (an English as a second language program), and the majority of his students in the early to mid-seventies were Vietnamese expatriates with whom my family frequently interacted with on a social level. A sizeable part of my early years were formed in the company of almond-eyed, smiling faces with whom I shared perhaps 20 words of common language. I ate at their tables and played with their children - but more importantly, I learned at an early age that there are cultures alien from mine, with their own etiquette, morés and social structures that deserve equal respect and consideration as our own. As a result, I have always enjoyed seeking out those aspects of different cultures that are available to me in my everyday world, and enjoy exposing my own family to them, as well. With few exceptions, I have found that people from around the world are eager to share their culture, and my respectful inquiries have always been met with enthusiastic replies ... and instant friends.

As a child, I remember being mesmerized by the rings of smoke my Grandfather would blow for me as he would pull on the hose of his hookah. He was a smoker, and could almost always be found with a cigarette in his hand as he sat at the breakfast table, reading the Times Picayune in the predawn hours - before the rest of the household would rise and begin making demands on his time. I would pad-foot down the hall, roused by the single light in the kitchen and be lovingly, but disapprovingly greeted in his gruff manner by "look at the head on that nickel! Go back to bed boy, it's too early!" I always stayed though, mindful of the quiet he so loved and would refuse his offers of toast or juice, knowing that to make them for me would be an intrusion on his only personal time when the house was full of family. The only request I can remember making, was for him to get rid of the stinky cigarrettes and bring out the mysterious and fascinating hookah instead. Unrepentant, as most smokers are, he would refuse to stub out his cigarette, but usually promised to bring down the porcelain-vased contraption later in the day for me to see. In the downstairs living room, he would later sit in his recliner, ornate hose held only slightly away from his mouth as he formed a silent "O" with his mouth that would roll in on its smoky self as it sailed toward the high ceiling. The hookah would gurgle and glow as he would pull, his eyes focused on some distant memory as he performed the ritual at my request. Unlike the acrid, stinging smell of cigarrette smoke, the mu'essel in the bowl of the hookah always filled the room with the pleasant odors of fruit and honey.

When my grandfather passed away and I was asked if there was anything of his that I wanted, his hookah that factored so highly in my memories was the first thing to come to mind. Alas, it had already been appropriated by my Great Aunt for her collection of ornate bottles. I saw it not too long ago, when family business brought me back to New Orleans. It sat in the window, looking sad and shrunken compared to my vivid and doubtless exaggerated childhood memories. It's hose was brittle and cracked, and the whole pipe just looked diminished. Somewhat dejected, I decided not ask for it then, but promised myself that I would purchase one of my own someday.

There has been a resurgence of interest in the hookah that has been growing for the last few years. Perhaps it is its exotic nature, or its claimed (but unproven, I should point out) reduction in health risks as compared to other tobacco use, that has seen a sudden rise in popularity on college campuses, and in cafés and clubs dedicated to its use. As a result, I have seen them with increasing frequency in the import shops that are usually tucked in remote corners of shopping malls. Among the incense burners and olive-wood carvings, onyx animal figures and assorted cloisine items gathering dust, there will be one or two poorly-made and ridiculously over-priced hookah pipes. Regardless, I dutifully look them over, wanting them - then walking away dissatisfied.

A recent stop at an unfamiliar cigar shop on the other side of town greeted me with a long-forgotten, but instantly recognizable smell. In the back, seated in the smoking lounge was an arabic gentleman on a sofa pulling contentedly on the hose of a massive hookah pipe. I was drawn immediately by the sweet scent of honey and strawberries that curled up invitingly from the top of its 3 foot height in wisps of dense smoke. Waiting for him to acknowledge me, I immediate set to innundating him with a barrage of questions of when/where/why/how, and was rewarded with a recommendation of a shop in the next town; where not only could you rent a hookah as one of the regular menu items in the café, but you could also purchase one of your own for much less than the decorative-only models I had been teased with for years at the imported-junk shops.

I easily talked by brother-in-law into taking a trip to check out the recommended shops, as he was displaced by a bridal-shower taking place at his house, where he is the token male. He even readily agreed to do the driving. Unfortunately, at each of the shops in which we stopped, all the reasonably-priced hookahs had been snapped up by the growing local market, leaving only the high-end, expensive models that even the shop-keepers suggested were not in my best interests. However, the hook was set, and I turned to the internet to satiate my sudden obsession. A quick google-search turned up so many options that I was truly surprised that it hadn't occurred to me to search it out that way before. Ultimately, I ordered a two-hose unit, social creature that I am, so I could easily share my newfound interest with my like-minded friends.

A day later I received the standard courtesy email informing me that my order had shipped and would arrive in a few days to somebody living around 500-600 miles from me! A quick check showed that I had slipped on my zip code by a single, but very important digit, and UPS was winging my package to a far southwest Texas town - population 59. Needless to say, I was mildly distressed at the thought of my prize propping open the door of a milk-barn somewhere just north of Mexico. A desperate call to UPS resulted in a rerouting order that will get the package to me ... eventually. In the meanwhile, the locally-depleted shops have since restocked their shelves with all manner of products for lovers of all things hookah. Having the patience of a five-year-old on Christmas Eve, I went ahead and bought myself one of the lovely pipes on display to enjoy while I waited.

Eagerly, I brought my prize home, and following as best I could the directions I'd read online, set up my hookah for its maiden voyage - only to immediately break the detachable bowl. Yet one more trip to buy a replacement, and I was finally ready to light the pipe and partake of the sweet smoke. Despite my adjustments and occasional tweaks to the setup, I could never really get the rich, thick smoke I was expecting. Flavor was nice, starting out with banana, but was thin and watery compared to the copious amounts of strong smoke I was accustomed to from my cigars. I could tell that there was supposed to be more, but my setup was somehow wrong, so I decided to try the mint. Results were slightly better, eventually coaxing more smoke from my hookah, but still nowhere near what I was expecting.

At this point, I'm going to tackle this issue two ways:
1. I'm going to solicit advice from one or more of the online Hookah forums, and
2. I'm going to go "rent" a hookah at one of the little cafés, to take note of the proper setup and perhaps get a more accurate set of expectations from my own pipe.

I'll let you know how it turns out.

[Update: After receiving some suggestions and reading the excellent information to be found at HookahCulture.com, I've determined that I need to make a few adjustments to both my setup and my expectations. Since the tobacco mixture doesn't so much burn as it "cooks," the smoke will be thinner than that of a cigar. Oh, and my wife really likes the way the Double Apple flavor smells, too - enough so, that she had no problems whatsoever with my smoking in the living room the other night. That is ... until I dropped some hot coals on the carpet.]

[Update #2: My two-hose Hookah from Caravansarai Imports finally arrived after a very convoluted route caused by an incorrect zip code (my fault).

I was immediately dismayed when I saw the box. Despite multiple bright red labels all over the box stating "FRAGILE: Handle with Care - Glass," the package looked like it had been used for football practice and was even partially open.

Remarkably, the base was intact, as were most of the parts. However, the metal tube that extends down into the base from the shaft was bent almost 90° and broken almost completely through.

Even if there were no damage, I would've been unhappy with the quality of the pipe itself. In several places the chrome (or similar) plating was missing, exposing the raw copper-colored metal underneath. Welds are rough throughout, and appear incomplete on the hose grommets.

Sigh ...

I sent an email Wednesday evening to Caravansarai Imports detailing the damage and my general dissatisfaction, but have yet to get a reply. ]

The Twisted Ballad of Farmer Bill

(Guitar-pickin' tune not unlike "Hot Rod Lincoln")

Well, you pays your nickel and you takes your chances,
and I'm not one for wild romances,
But I've gotta admit this gal still does something for me.

When she takes out her teeth
and her faded glass eye,
and pulls the false leg from the stump of her thigh,
man, I get excited by all the possibilities.

She rattles when she breathes,
so she don't talk well,
and the hooks on her hands have a funny smell,
but I can tell exactly what she's trying to say.

By the look in her eye
and the twitch in her hips
I can see the kiss there behind the foam on her lips
as she gurgles out her love for me every day.

Well, love is blind
(and in her case half-true
with her real eye brown and her false one blue)
But I can see past all the scars and the holes in her face.

Way back when
I can remember a time
before her fateful dance with the farm combine
When all her limbs were attached and in the right place.

A beautiful girl
any man would want
And plenty men told her at her restaurant
She was a full-time waitress and a part-time cheatin' heart.

She found a rich man
gonna get a new life
hit the big city and quit being the wife
of a poor dirt farmer who couldn't bear to part.

She came to tell me
while I worked the field
I begged and pleaded- she refused to yield
Pulled the ring off her finger and threw it on the combine's floor.

She turned to go,
but then she slipped
The ring on the floor sent her on a trip
With a horrified glance she tumbled out the door.

Well, the old combine's
an unforgiving thing
and she'd never would have fell if it weren't for the ring
Still, I can't help but wonder at the irony of it all.

She got chewed up
when she fell in
The machine jerked and seized with a mighty din
and there wasn't very much left of her after the fall.

She lost her hands
she lost a leg
She got cracked and whipped like a scrambled egg
But I didn't panic, and no, I didn't grieve.

Her eye was gone
and her looks gone, too
I told myself, "if she pulls through,
I can console myself with the fact that she'll never leave."

I love more now
than I loved her then
when I had to compete with her side boyfriends
because I know I have her all to myself.

She doesn't cheat
and she'll never stray
She just sits there drooling at me everyday
and I keep all her old parts in jars up on the shelf.

Well there's my story
and the story of my wife
For better or for worse, we're together for life.
But don't you go and start to pity me.

I have a little secret
if the truth be told
I kept it from my wife, but it was hard to hold.
(pause - music stops)
(spoken)I've always had a "thing" for amputees.

(music slowly fades to maniacal laughter. Large farm equipment can be heard faintly in the background.)

Body Modification

I've taken the plunge.

After much careful consideration - weighing the pros and cons of what some may consider to be a radical alteration to an otherwise nondescript body part - I have elected to untertake a painful and personal procedure.

This is just for me. While there may be some evidence to the trained eye, most people will never know the secret hidden beneath my clothing.

But I'll know ...
Just walking down a hallway at my office will bring interesting new sensations of pressure and presence of which only I will be aware. Like having a tooth pulled, my thoughts will frequently turn to the unique newness of sensation radiating outward from its source. Pleasure and pain- twin mistresses petulant as pouting children - will tug at my sleeve, insatiable in their desire for my attention, rarely allowing my thoughts to drift far from their influence.

My birth certificate - that document that sought to quantify, label and declare will no longer hold the whole truth of me. Indeed, a crucial evidence of my arrival attested in that document will no longer be correct.

This is no mere cosmetic change I am undertaking. My modifications will go deeper than skin, reaching into very bone and sinew - an evolution of my body parts into a new form never before known by me. My own mother wouldn't recognize them as mine ...

What is this dark secret? Why would I undertake such a change? (Why won't I just get to the point?)

From birth, I've been very flat-footed. My birth certificate clearly shows to longish, flat blobs with toes, where otherwise I'd have properly-formed feet. I'm sure this was quite endearing to my mother, but it makes for quickly-tired legs, among other complaints.

I've recently been measured for orthotics to try an introduce an arch in my feet to combat the improper alignment of my feet, knees, hips and back that have been causing me an increasing level of pain as I have aged. This can be compared to orthodontic braces for teeth, to correct for improper alignment that may cause problems otherwise unrelated to teeth. In my case, trying to align bones in my feet that have been settled in their current position for nearly 36 years is likely to cause a fair amount of discomfort, and my enthusiasm for proper alignment will most likely be severely curbed by the sensation of walking with a golf ball in each shoe. Each day, I am to increase my self-inflicted torture duration by a half-hour until I finally reach the point of being able to tolerate constant contact with my slowly evolving feet.

So perhaps the next time someone suggests to me that I "get bent," I'll be able to tell them that "I already am, thank you."

Birth Announcement

I'd like to take a moment to congratulate my friends Dianne and Andy on the birth of their new son, Kevin. It's been a long and eventful pregnancy, full of uncertainty and questions, as well as a renewed and strengthened faith in God to meet their needs. There have been tears and triumphs, longing and learning - and much prayer. Many complications have to date kept Kevin and his parents apart, but at long last, all the preparation and anticipation has come to fruition.

You see, Kevin was born a few years ago in Guatemala.
Yesterday, he became their son.

Since becoming a father myself, I have developed a particular weakness of sentiment with regards to the relationship of children and their parents. Sometimes I rage at their plight, when I read stories such as the recent tradgedy in Russia, but a much more common emotion for me is getting just a bit misty-eyed at the thought of these new beginnings. Today is no exception, and I know that both Dianne and Andy have worked hard to prepare themselves and their home for their long-awaited new arrival.

Little Kevin will finally meet his parents in about two weeks, when they travel to Guatemala to arrange his visa to come home to the United States.

In the meanwhile, let me encourage you to read Dianne's ongoing journals recording her transformation from hopeful to expecting to parent.

The Burden of Information

Among the duties I perform at the office where I am employed, I serve as the ersatz computer technician and maintenance drudge. When there are software updates, I get called upon to make sure all the systems in the shop are loaded up with the latest and occasionally greatest programs. The same can be said for my relentless quest to keep all our virus and spyware protections up to date and functioning properly and mercilessly against the daily onslought we face.

I put a particular focus on the several computers within my immediate reach and check them almost daily. My newest office-mate, LucasFan, has inherited the computer left by the previous Elder-Statesman who occupied that seat. For some reason, and despite all the measures I use to innoculate it, it is more susceptible to viruses than Blubrik. Constant browser-hijack attempts and spyware installations keep me on my toes as well. I suspect that the Elder-Statesman had opened a door I just can't seem to shut back before Napster become synonymous with the promise of a police raid.

LucasFan is a devoted user of AOL Messenger and can be frequently found (to my employer's increasing chagrin) furtively tapping away details of his day and whatever other missives seem important to convey to his wife, who similarly keeps up a constant chatter in reply. As his most immediate superior (snicker), I've suggested that it's OK, provided it doesn't become a distraction to the tasks at hand. I'm hardly in a position to suppress his IM use, lest I put myself in a position of utter hypocrisy. My own contact list reads like a phone book, and for some of my friends - even local ones - it's my principal form of communication.

However, one very significant way in which we differ in our instant-messaging use, is that I never leave my conversations up on the screen for the world to see when I leave my desk - even for a minute. Every time I get up from my computer to refill my coffee cup or to equalize the coffee pressure on the other side of personal filtration system, I close all the open message windows. This serves to protect me from anyone's impression, however correct, that I spent too much time online, as well as protecting any information I may have sent or received from becoming immediately public. (Yes, I'm aware that my messages are most-likely being logged on some server somewhere - but those people don't much care about the pitiful details of my daily existence.)

My newest office-mate doesn't take such precautions. Frequently, when I need to access his computer directly in his absence, or during my usual morning viral spot-checks on all the computers in my office, there will be his AOL Messenger window, open wide and inviting, with the complete transcript of his daily chatter from the time he clocks in, until the moment he leaves for home. Initially, my reaction was a quick and mildly-disapproving clucking of my tongue followed by an immediate shutting down of the messenger window. His business is his business, and nobody needs to see it, myself included. I was protecting my fellow employee from his sloppy security practices.

Have you ever noticed how you can instantly pick out your own name out of a long blur of words? I have- and there in the middle of the computer screen one day recently, was mine. Curious, as any reasonable person might be, I quickly scanned the context of my reference and found myself suddenly unhappy about it. In fairness to LucasFan, they weren't his words that bothered me, but rather those of his wife, who reacted childishly and and jealously when she found out that a design idea that she really liked was not her husband's idea, but mine. Truly, in context, it's a small thing. In the comfortable context of presumed privacy we have all said things about other people that we would never utter in public, whether out of courtesy or fear of reprisal, and I recognize that this was most-likely the case in this situation. More recently, there have been other revelations about LucasFan's private life and troubles laid bare and splashed across the screen that have given me pause and evoked a sense of sympathy tempered by embarrassment on his behalf that he would leave such sensitive information literally plastered on the front of his monitor. While I may have proprietary notions about the computers on my desk, they aren't exclusively mine, and I'm aware that anyone in the shop may use them in my absence, and I theirs. That's how it's always been in the office, and it keeps secrets and innapropriate material to a minimum.

However, some secrets are better kept than spread, and I for one don't want the burden of someone else's personal information added to my baggage. I think I'll excercise my authority (snicker again) and have a little chat with him this morning about company policy and privacy rights.

Lest anyone get the impression that my office-mate is some sort of deviant or a member of a terrorist sleeper-cell based on the above post, nothing so interesting as that was made public on his computer screen. His disclosures were all benign, but personal in nature, and I prefer that they remain private and unknown, especially by me.