How Not to Smoke Your Narghile
Went to a party on Saturday. It was lots of fun. Thanks, J and R, for hosting.
Memorable moments… let’s see… Drank too much white wine and flirted shamelessly with a çok güzel Turkish boy. Joe mesmerized us all with his oud while Mike, the new drummer who recently joined our ensemble, did his magic. He’s cool and he let me wear his hat. I played the spoons because I didn’t feel like bringing my sandouri. Danced a bit. Met another gay Greek. L reiterated to me that he’s reluctant to post comments on my blog. P told me I smelled good, which was nice.
I brought my narghile because J and R ask me to bring it whenever they have a party at their place. The last time they threw a party, I brought it but forgot the tobamel (that special mixture of tobacco, molasses, and fruit/flowers), so I had to improvise with the contents of a single Marlboro cigarette, a little honey, and some dried cranberries. It didn’t work so well.
This time I remembered the rose tobamel, and we had a lovely smooth smoke. J and R were dogsitting J’s boyfriend’s dogs, some breed with a strange multi-syllabic name that I was too drunk to remember. They pretty much kept to themselves, and, fortunately, nobody blew smoke in their faces.
The image Jean-Léon Gérôme’s Arnaut Blowing Smoke in His Dog’s Nose (1882, oil on canvas).