Moist & Dry vs. Dry & Moist

Alright, kiddoes, after too long of a break, I've got a little surprise for you all that will make your weeks of agonizingly lonely me-less life bearable again. Not only did I go through another experiment, I also tested the products, and will be reviewing them in this post. "My Goodness, an experiment AND a review, all in one post? You must be magic!" I hear you exclaiming. Yes, my pets, I am, indeed, magic. Now, assume The Position, so that I may once again enlighten you in the art of Rolling Your Own Clove Cigarettes.

So, we've had some trouble with our cigarettes, which I won't go over, because it gets old. However, if you're a new-comer, please read through Experiment 1 and its failure, as well as Experiment the 2nd and its failure. Sure, they've all failed so far, but I honed my methodology until this, Experiment Numero Tres (that means 3), and there are important things for you to learn about in those older posts, like rolling techniques we simply won't go through here.

Now for the theory. The previous DIY kreteks failed because they were too moist and drew like a pencil, or too dry, and gave me a sore throat and crack-lung. Those that were too moist used a moist tobacco and fresh, finely-ground cloves, while those that were too dry used a dry tobacco with crushed cloves, which were dryer than the finely ground cloves. The theories we will be exploring in this third experiment will be a moist tobacco with a dry clove, and also (as an added bonus), a dry tobacco with a moist clove. Theoretically, this would bypass the problems encountered before, but which one will be the winner? Stay tuned to find out!

So, the first part of this experiment will be the moist tobacco with the dry clove preparation. Since I ran out of the Bali Shag we used in the first experiment, I went out and discovered that the Tobacconist's shop was out, so I purchased a pouch of Drum tobacco, instead. It is comparably moist, while having a bit more of a robust flavour than the Bali Golden Shag, which is quite mild. Now, for the cloves, I decided to go with store-bought ground cloves. The home-ground cloves were too moist, and those crushed with mortar and pestle came out a bit chunky. So, store-bought. Now, these store-bought ground cloves are very dry, and very finely ground. Powdery, even. They don't smell as strong as the freshly-ground ones, but what the hell. Subtle can be nice, too. For this batch, I used a handful of tobacco and 2 tablespoons of the ground cloves, then forced the mixture, kicking and screaming, into the empty cigarette tubes using the Rizla rolling machine. For instructions on how to use these things, go back to Experiment the First, where I take you step by step through the process.


The second batch tests out the dry tobacco and moist cloves theory. So, I went back to the American Spirit tobacco, pictured at right, and ground up some whole cloves in my tiny blender. A regular sized-blender should work also, as would a coffee grinder or food processor type thing. Any electrical choppy/blendy thing. You know, with a motor, and sharp blades that go round and round really fast, the kind of thing you should NEVER EVER put your fingers in. Well, except you in the corner. You should totally put your hand in there, just to show everyone else what happens.* Really, I'm sure you'll be fine; it's a valuable life lesson. Keep grinding the whole cloves until they've been chopped into tiny tiny pieces, and the whole mess looks kind of like the sample I've prepared, seen at left. It's finely ground, but moist, and so kind of sticky, and the aroma is unbelievably strong and wonderful. For this second batch, I used about a handful of the tobacco, and only about a teaspoon and a half of the cloves, because they're so strong. Then, into the filter tubes with the whole mess, using the Rizla machine again.

So, I promised a review of these beautiful smokables, and you shall have it. I smoked both of these blends over a period of two weeks, and they actually both held up rather well to scrutiny. The moist tobacco/dry cloves blend was a little light on clove flavour, and took slightly more effort to draw than a regular cigarette, but it was entirely bearable. The second batch, with the dry tobacco/moist cloves mix was better than the first batch in my opinion, since the clove flavour was much more pronounced, and I like that sort of thing. The dry tobacco did dry out my throat a bit, but the moist cloves prevented it from becoming a problem. The Perfect Kretek is not here yet, but this is very promising. The key, I think, is to establish a blend of 1:3 or 1:4 moist:dry tobacco and then use the moist fresh-ground cloves for the flavouring. This is what I shall attempt to perfect over the next few days, and an update shall be posted once I've got it down pat. Until then, my little cherrybombs, keep experimenting!

Post Script - If any of you have anything to say, such as success stories, Epic Failzzes, tips for your fellows, or pleas for aide, comment comment comment. I can't help you (or ridicule you) if you don't talk to me.


*DISCLAIMER: Do not actually put your hands (or any other soft fleshy part) in a blender. I don't care how pretty the spinning blades look, it's a stupid idea and if you do such things, it's your own damned fault you end up hand-less, you damned fool.

Tobacco Means Tobacco, You Pricks!

All work and no play makes my blog a very dull read. So it's a good thing that DIY anything is a pleasant mixture of work and play, eh? However, it never does to fall into a routine, for nothing kills the fiery passion of lusty clove-smokin' brigands quite like the same old, same old of real life. So, today, my scurvy curs, you get to take a break, as I give you: Storytime!

Once upon a week or so ago, your Statuesque and Erudite muse went questing for DIY supplies. Along the way she, that is to say, I, decided that what I really needed was a nice cigarette case in which to carry my creations around, instead of the semi-crushed empty packs that spoke only of hopeless longing and despair. I thought about it for a moment, and decided that the best place to find supplies and also a decent selection of cig cases would be in the Village, spanning from about West 4th Street all along St. Mark's Place.

A bit of background for those of you not from NYC -- the Village is a neighborhood in Manhattan which is split into West and East. West Village, traditionally (as of 10 years ago, anyway), houses well-off young business people, and is a hub of the Gay/Lesbian/Transgender community. Also, many and varied sex-shops. Seriously. You need a bright purple leather teddy with lime green feather trim and peek-a-boo nipple holes? Go to the West Village. The East Village used to have a lot of punk rock kids (I should know, as I was one of them), vagrant artists, tattoo shops, off-beat clothing stores, used record/movie stores, and its crown jewel, CBGB's. That's all gone now, and has been replaced with 'vintage' clothing stores, J-Pop restaurants, and one hell of a lot of hipsters who like the idea of living in a center of Punk Rock subculture, but can't stand the stench. Oh, and CBGB's was killed, and its lesser zombie self reanimated in Las Vegas. Fuckin' gentrification. Gone are the days when you could get an eighth of shit moonshine for under $5 without getting carded, take it to a community garden and get wrecked with some other people with silly hair and angry clothing, then sleep it off in the subway station. Not anymore, 'cause now there's rules and stuff. Oh well, the punk rock scene was at it's best in the late '70s and early '80s anyway. I wasn't involved till the the late '90s, whereupon it went all mainstream. Quicker than you could spit, little Avril Lavigne look-alikes took over, no one bothered making their own clothes, buying them pre-ripped, pre-studded, and pre-filthed, overpriced and funded by mummy and daddy's credit cards. Pathetic.

However, the one thing both West and East Village have in common are headshops, thinly disguised as tobacconists.  Now, these shops come in all sizes and specializations, from the ratty little corner deli with a couple of pipes and some flavoured papers, to the shiny gleaming superstore boasting displays of bongs and intricate hookahs, with two dusty pouches of Top rolling tobacco, just to keep up appearances. I am, of course, excluding the street vendors, who hawk their illicit paraphernalia on a little collapsible table, and chat with customers blatantly about what kind of pot is best, but I'm only excluding them because they're not licensed to sell tobacco. All of these, including the street vendors, do have one thing in common: a small, grubby, hand-written note tacked up somewhere that says, 'for tobacco smoking use only.'

Now that you've got all the essential background information, I can continue my tale. I went to this section of the city in search of a nice cigarette holder. If you don't know what they are, I will tell you; they are metal boxes, shallow, hinged on one side so they open up like a book, with a metal bar or some elastic on the inside, so that the cigarettes you place within won't fall out. They come in different sizes and proportions, some long, some short, some thicker, some shallower. Plain or ornate, with silly decals or pretentious paintings. An old Altoids tin works also, and is more customizable, but sometimes it's nice to buy yourself something nice, which is precisely what I wanted to do on this particular occasion.

I approached the bored and rude art school dropout at the first store I came upon, which I thought showed great promise. This was one of the larger stores, that sold fifty different kinds of bongs, had a dizzying rainbow of hookahs, and a virtual menagerie of bowls shaped like dragons and piglets and unicorns. I inquired after their cigarette holders, whereupon the pretentious almost-human sighed, put down her Sharpie (with which she was painting her nails), and pulled a strange cedar box out from under the counter. 'What is this?' I asked, perplexed. 'A cigarette holder?' she contemptuously replied. 'But it only holds one cigarette, what the hell use is that to me?' I rejoindered. 'Ohh, you're talking about tobacco cigarettes, not tobacco cigarettes, right? Yeah, we don't have anything for your type here.' I happily imagined the glass menagerie coming to life and mauling her slowly as I exited the shop, certain that the next store wouldn't be quite so stupid.

The next store over, a smaller shop with not as large a variety of bongs and bowls, and with the added bonus of carrying hookah tobacco, was staffed by an Indian man who, at the moment of my entrance, was busy flirting with some tourist ladies. I looked around the shop, peered into the glass cabinets, and waited patiently to catch his eye, so that he'd maybe do his goddamned job and help out a valid customer. Alas, no luck. I interjected, across the inane prattling of those Ohio bimbos 'Hey, do you have any cigarette cases? To hold cigarettes?' whereupon he looked up, sighed, and handed me the same thing the talentless graphic designer had, a little painted joint hider. He even commenced to explain that, 'It is made of cedar, police dogs no smell, sniff sniff, you tobacco is safe, you no go jail. Good? Fifteen dollah.' When I tried to explain what I was actually after, his countenance went blank, and he shrugged as if confused, saying he'd never heard of such a thing. I left, once again, amidst daydreams of pain and destruction.

This kept on happening all throughout the East Village, and into a good part of the West Village as well. Large and small shops alike just automatically assumed that when I said 'tobacco' or 'cigarettes' I really meant 'tobacco' and 'cigarettes.' The italics, if you haven't realized by now, means marijuana. They all seemed confused and slightly put out when I finally got the point across that no, I did NOT mean marijuana, pot, weed, reefer, grass, or The Gange. I eventually just went home, empty handed and a hair away from immanentizing the eschaton.

A day or two later, I went to a tobacconist's on 14th Street, almost exactly between the West and East Village territories, since I did actually need to get some tobacco and a few other supplies (which are, as yet, a secret to you, my little ducklings), and what did mine eyes behold? A glass-fronted, well-lit, artfully-arranged cabinet, presenting an enchanting variety of cigarette cases. Entranced and hardly believing that this vision before me was more than stress-induced hallucination, I perused. I eventually chose one case, longer than wide, with an antiqued picture of a young lady in a white bonnet. It's nicer than it sounds. Elated, I purchased my parcels, and skipped off homeward. The very next day I passed by a flea market, and stopped to peruse its wares. Third table down, I found another glorious cigarette holder, square shaped, all silver and etched with a motif of flames surrounding an engraving of Baron Samedi. All for around $2. Score!

The moral of this story, then, my chickies, is that good things don't come to those who persevere and wait patiently for providence, but, rather, that good things come to those who are fueled by lakes of fiery hatred for their fellow man, and whose burning, searing rage flows out of them through soothing dreams of mass mayhem and chaos, sending tendrils of energy to the loom of the Moirae, tweaking the strings of destiny they weave to bring to the infuriated that which he or she so desperately and angrily desires. That's how I did it, and So Should You!

The End.

I Get Knocked Down, Then I Get Up Again - With A Sore Throat

I know, I know. I'm a harsh mistress. 'Do This,' I command. 'Try That' and so on. And how do I reward you for obeying my every whim? Neglect! Ridicule! Callousness and Sarcasm! But seriously, my pets, don't protest so. It's unseemly. You've presumed too much, as if I didn't have it all in hand, well controlled. Whatever happened to discipline, eh? Naughty lungs must needs be punished...

And, if you've been smoking the Second Experiment's kreteks, as I have, those lungs would be thoroughly beaten. Now, the second experiment attempted to fix some problems that arose from the First Experiment, namely, that the tobacco and clove preparation both proved too moist, and were unsmokable. So, we fixed this problem by using a dryer tobacco, and a dryer clove preparation, never thinking that we might have fixed it too much.

At first, the second round of cigarettes were very enjoyable, easy to smoke, well-flavoured, and with the crackling we all know and love so dearly. The only problem I initially found was that some of the chunks of clove -- which in this preparation we crushed roughly in a mortar and pestle-- were too large, so that some puffs were extra super clove-y. A problem that not only is not a problem for some folks, but that is easily solved by expending a bit more effort with the next batch's clove-crushing. 'Not bad,' I thought to myself, and I baked a congratulatory pie.

This love affair, as so many do, lasted all of two days, whereupon the skies turned grey and all joy was for nought.

I awoke, one morning, with a scratchy, dry throat, which progressed as I smoked more of those delicious death-sticks, until my melodious voice was somehow switched out for a hoarse rasp. I refused to blame the cigarettes, though they certainly irritated my brittle carbon-coated bronchii, instead attributing the cause to the rain, or the unseasonable cool evenings. But alas, a discrepancy; there hasn't been any rain, and I haven't been out in the fresh and cool since early spring.

So, this second batch was just as bad as the first, though more insidious and deceitful in its awfulness. Well, perhaps not as bad, since these I was actually able to smoke, instead of sucking and sucking and receiving nothing.

I shall leave you with that, my dears, until next time, when I shall once again let you partake of the cup of knowledge, for the insignificant fee of undying allegiance and a lifetime of minion-hood...