#cheroot

[not-your-asian-fantasy]

🇲🇲 The long cheroot that she holds is a typical attribute in studio portraits of Burmese women, whose habit of smoking large cigars was noted with some astonishment by European visitors, who also commented on their relative freedom, beauty and confidence.

The girl wears a striped silk hta-mein (wrap-around skirt) and a close-fitting jacket of fine muslin or cotton known as an ein-gyi. Her hair is adorned with a floral headband and she wears necklaces and earrings.

During the Konbaung Dynasty (1752-1885), rich jewellery, fine fabrics such as silk and garments such as her jacket were reserved for court officials and their wives by sumptuary laws.

x

[chronivore]

Cheroot

[ushas42]

I'm so happy for Gil. This kidnapping is probably one of the nicer afternoons he's had in a while.

Look at him, he's in his element! Out on the town, wearing an open collared shirt and smoking a cigar! He's gotten to fight a bunch people, show off his medical skills, and talk about how cool his girlfriend is with his new friend who's required to either hold his hand or climb all over him like a rhesus monkey at all times.

[sinisterexaggerator]

Headcanon: Cad Bane’s breakfast consists of caf and ambrian cheroot, much like coffee and a cigarette, but it’s with a shot of whiskey. Kinda like Carajillo is made, or an Irish coffee without the cream and sugar.

Apparently there is a name for it already: “Spiran caf,” which can be found at Oga’s Cantina on Batuu.

Bane sips it while he sits cross-legged, reading the holonews and the most wanted list.

“Whaddaye mean ah’ve been bumped down off de top five?!”

[mermaidsirennikita]

literally one of my favorite historical romance micro-tropes is when the hero goes to the heroine's brother (usually because the heroine has been all *Eartha Kitt voice* "Ha!!!!!! STUPID!" to a marriage proposal) to be all "waaaaaaa go make your sister marry meeeee"

and the brother is all "I shall not make her do anything she does not wish to do because I am properly the hero of a previous book or the hero of a future book and that means I must exhibit a minor regard for gender equality""

to which the current hero goes "welllllll 🥺 she may be pregnant lmao idk it's been like half an hour but SHE COULD BE"

and you just have this long dramatic pause where it sinks in and you can feel the brother hulking out

[dailyjimmybuffett]

Cowboy in the Jungle

There's a cowboy in the jungle And he looks so out of place With his shrimpskin boots and his cheap cheroots And his skin as white as paste

Headin' south to Paraguay Where the Gauchos sing and shout Now he's stuck in Porto Bello Since his money all ran out

So he hangs out with the sailors Night and day they're raisin' hell And his original destination's Just another story that he loves to tell

With no plans for the future He still seems in control From a bronco ride to a ten foot tide He just had to learn to roll

Rolled with the punches. Played all of his hunches Made the best of whatever came his way What he lacked in ambition, he made up with intuition Plowin' straight ahead, come what may

Steel band in the distance And their music floats across the bay While American women in muumuus Talk about all the things they did today

And their husbands quack about fishing As they slug those rum drinks down Discussing who caught what and who sat on his butt But it's the only show in town

Tryin' to drink all the punches, they all may lose their lunches Tryin' to cram lost years into five or six days Seems that blind ambition erased their intuition Plowin' straight ahead, come what may

I don't want to live on that kind of island No, I don't want to swim in a roped-off sea Too much for me, too much for me I've got to be where the wind and the water are free

Alone on a midnight passage I can count the falling stars While the Southern Cross and the satellites They remind me of where we are

Spinning around in circles Living it day to day And still twenty four hours, maybe sixty good years It's really not that long a stay

We've gotta roll with the punches, learn to play all of our hunches Makin' the best of whatever comes your way Forget that blind ambition and learn to trust your intuition Plowin' straight ahead, come what may

And there's a cowboy in the jungle

[almostinfamous]

they remade this at Raymond's tomb in Hyderabad

Frank Horvat

The Greek Temple

Agrigento, Italy, 1981

[luxebeat]

CHENNAI: Of Cocktails & Cuisine

The French have always had a penchant for Tamil Nadu given the historic Pondicherry connection. Whilst Pondicherry became a chic French colony, Tamil Nadu’s capital Madras remained entrenched in hoary tradition. Until Madras was renamed Chennai and transformed into a hotspot for IT and multinational factories. BMW, Audi, Michelin, Toyota, Nissan, Hyundai etc., launched factories in Chennai whilst…

[thiefbird]

Channeling my inner stephen maturin with mild substance abuse before writing

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Girl Talk - Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Vi and Sevika: Unlikely Bffs

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Snippet:

"Transcending survival," it sounds like a direct quote, "and achieving sovereignty."

Vi lets off a low whistle.

"Sovereignty," she repeats. "That's a big fucking word."

"Yeah, well."

The sigh rides a languid plume of smoke. Satisfaction, Vi thinks. But also fatigue. Whatever toll Silco's absence exerted seems nothing compared to the one his return's exacted.

Strangely, Vi recognizes the feeling. With her romance with Caitlyn rekindled, it is impossible to feel contentment: apart or in proximity.  Closeness only opens the floodgates for more want. More worries. More risks to lose what's been regained.

Then she thinks of the kiss she and Caitlyn shared inside the café: warm, safe, solid. Of the longing that preceded it; and the closure that followed. Since then, the bedrock certainty has stayed beneath Vi's feet even as reality spins its dizzying wheels.

Yet, here is a fellow Fissurewoman stuck in a quagmire. Loyal to her last breath, and lonelier for it.

"And that's all there is?" Vi takes the plunge. "What about… y’know? You and him?"

Dark eyes lock on Vi. "Where're you going with this?"

"Nowhere. Just... seems like there's been a falling out."

"And if there was?"

"I'd say 'tough shit,' and move on. Not my circus; not my monkeys. Unless they're living right next door." Vi gestures: at the ebbing signs of festivity around the dockside. At the promise Progress Day offers, for Piltover and Zaun both. "You've kept me in the loop for a year. The least I can do is lend an ear if something's up."

"Thought we weren't doing debts."

"This isn't about debts."

"Then what's it about?"

"Honesty. Or have you spent so long in Silco's shadow, you've forgotten how to be real?"

Sevika says nothing. Her footsteps eat the cobblestones; her drags devour the cheroot. Her profile stays inscrutable. If she's contemplating socking Vi in the jaw, or contemplating other matters entirely, she doesn't let on. That'd be tantamount to losing face.

Vi is, whatever else, half a Topsider.

Half a Topsider—but she's snitched not a damn thing that could be held against Zaun. Nothing to pad the Council's dossiers: no dirt on Silco's business dealings. Jinx's name had been kept exempt entirely. Silco had expected—hell, encouraged—her to spin tales and secure her safety. He knew each song would come with privileges: sweeten deals; polish connections; bolster clout.

If she'd played it right, she'd have been the Council's pet canary, crooning into a platinum-plated microphone.

Vi kept her lips zipped.

Six months at Silco's side, and she'd done squat to capitalize on the ordeal. Nor will she.  Whatever beefs exist, they are private property. Silco may have jettisoned her, Vi may hate him, their mutual grudges may stretch for leagues. And yet there was a bargain struck between them—Silco and Vi—the night the Void encroached on their home.

They'd become fellow survivors in an unholy alliance that no outsider could understand.

Now Vi's silence is the silence of the Fissures: inviolate. She'll carry it till her deathbed.

Maybe Sevika recognizes that.

She doesn't soften, exactly. But her words, when they come, don't hold the usual granite.

"No falling out," she says quietly. "At least, not where Zaun's concerned.  That bag's secured, tagged, and marked as Top Priority."

"And the rest?"

"The rest's the usual. I've got my squeezes. He's got his. Keeps the ashes hauled, and the gears oiled." The granite returns; so does a degree of the old wickedness. "Though if it's gossip you're after, here's a tidbit. Your girl is back in Silco's good graces. And she's planning on sticking around."

The cobblestones dip underfoot. Caitlyn's face flashes, but of course that's not who Sevika means. 

"Nao?" Vi blurts.

"The one and only."

"I thought she was done turning tricks."

"Oh, the tricking's been put to bed. She's Zaun's mistress-in-chief now. Direct line to the Eye." Off Vi’s stunned silence, Sevika tips a shoulder.  "Silco's got his hands in plenty of pockets. And Maven's the one who's pulled every pair of those monogrammed drawers down. Every state secret, every political scandal—it all funnels through her. Guess Silco decided it's smarter to have her onside."

"Motherfuck."

"Yeah, she's got a few of those on file too." Something rueful glitters in the dark gaze. "Thought I'd give you the heads-up. Silco's been trotting her out for public engagements lately. So you might see her viz in the papers. She sure fits the look of a high-class mistress. Posh accent. Poised walk. Polite manners. Plus a dash of brass to keep it interesting. Not to mention—" An expressive cupping, "—a brand new boost to the decolletage. Twenty-ninth birthday gift, courtesy of the Boss." 

Vi shakes her head. 

It's difficult not to feel a measure of resentment toward Nao. Especially after she'd set Vi up to walk into the ambush in the Abattoir. And yet, there's a twinge of pity, too. However shiny Nao’s golden perch, it sits within a shark's glistening jaws. Whatever gains come of staying close, there's always the risk of waking up with those teeth buried in your throat.

Nao should have left when she could.

Then again: wasn't that the advice she'd given Vi?

As for Silco: what's his gameplan? A mistress isn't his style. Too many demands: energy, attention, affection. Demands he'd rather invest elsewhere. Perhaps Nao's meant to serve as window-dressing as he slinks out of the shadows and into the social spotlight. Keep the gossip mill spinning with decadent sleights-of-hand, while he cuts dirtier deals behind the scenes.

Except Vi doesn't buy it. Silco's smallest decision serves a dual purpose.  But he's too subtle to misdirect through such showy gambits as a kept woman on his arm. If he's brought Nao back into the fold, his agenda extends beyond mere showmanship. He wants her within arm's reach: he wants her in his crosshairs.

Meaning Nao's not simply a plaything: she's leverage.

And the fallout—if things go south—could put her six-feet-under.

As if reading Vi's mind, Sevika says, "I've warned her to watch her step. She thinks she's in the Big League. But there's no keeping pace with a man who's ten miles ahead and counting." Her tone darkens; Vi hears grief and envy both. Neither take precedence. There's only an inevitability that comes with long-lived loyalty. "He runs hot; you just run behind. And if you don't run fast enough, you'll burn."

"You've always kept pace. Always run the closest."

"And now, Maven's using my playbook to cut corners."

"She ought to know better."

"Ought to."

"So should you."

Sevika's brow holds that familiar uptick.

"I just mean," Vi says, "it's a shitty hand to be dealt. You've been all-in for years. Now someone else is in the chips."

Understatement is a risky ploy. But Vi has learnt its uses. It gives nothing away—but it also leaves room for backing out. For denial, if that's the way Sevika wants to swing it.

Because even if her remarks are confirmation—yes, this is a breakup—that doesn't mean she wants to dwell in the reality.

In her place, Vi wouldn't.

Because, fuck, she gets it. Heartbreak hurts. Sevika may be older, tougher; the only fighter to meet Vi toe-to-toe. But that doesn't make her infallible. It takes a hundred sleepless nights to perfect that level of sangfroid.

More than anyone, Vi thinks the woman deserves an easy chair by the fireside.

Maybe that's why she asks:

"You doing alright?"

"We swapping girl-talk now?" Sevika scoffs. "Not our scene."

"We can afford to switch it up now and then." Vi kicks a stray pebble with the tip of her boot. "I just… hell. I'll say it. I'm grateful to you. When I was in Zaun, you gave me a square shot. Even if it was to keep the game rolling. After shit hit the fan, you kept the city from splitting at the seams. Silco ought to give you a fucking medal. Instead, he's with girl a half his age, who's profiting from all your groundwork. Soon, he'll either snap her in half, or find a juicer catch. But what about you? Will you still be on his hook?"

"Never been off it."

"But why?" Another pebble goes skittering. "He's not worth it. Believe me. I'd be happy to kick him in the nuts if it'd make a lick of difference."

"It'd make a lick of difference." A smile: fair-off, flickering. "But he'd still be the same bastard. Besides. You break his dick, you're breaking one of Zaun's national treasures."

"Ew."

"Thought we were switching it up."

"Not that way." Vi's spasm is visceral. "I just don't get it.  You can't tell me it doesn't chafe, knowing Nao's strutting in your shoes." A sudden candor makes its way past her defenses: "When I was in Zaun, Caitlyn... she took up with someone else. An heiress. The press got wind, and splashed the pictures on every rag Topside and Down-Low. Gotta tell you. It felt like an axe to the jaw, seeing her with another chick. Like breaking up ten times over. You can't say it's not as bad with you. That you're not..."

The quirk in Sevika’s brow cuts higher. The query's clear: Jealous?

Vi nods. Sevika shakes her head.

"He's welcome to whomever," she says. "Same way I'm free to fuck who I choose."

"You expect me to believe that?"

"You're a rookie at this game, Vi. You've been with that Piltie of yours for what—eighteen months, give or take? And you think you're entitled to judge? Please. Try a decade, and we'll swap war stories."

A smoke ring ripples past Vi's nose: a perfect O-shaped provocation. She doesn't rise to it. Sevika's a natural sparrer: there's nothing she relishes more than a blow-by-blow.

But Vi understands her aim isn't to throw down. It's to throw Vi off her game.

This conversation is veering dangerously close to Sevika's heart-of-hearts. With it comes the temptation to divert, distract, derail. But the moment's past. In its place is a weary sense of trust.

At the end of the day, Vi and Sevika aren't scheming power-brokers.

Just two brawlers rolling with life's punches.

"Is that how long you've been with together?" Vi dares. "A decade?"

"We were never 'together.' Already made that plain."

"Doesn't mean there's no strings attached."

"Strings aren't the same as vows, Vi. And the more time goes by, the deeper those lines get engraved."

"Enlighten me."

Sevika smiles. A strange smile: halved and hidden. A sense of something tethered down deep. "A decade, Vi. That’s enough time to understand where matters stand. What's the bottom line, and the cost of crossing it." The cheroot's cherry brightens, then dims; two thirds' gone. "We grew up together. We fought together. Suffered the same defeats. Shared the same wins. Rode into war on the same wavelength. And when the end came, it gutted us. Me to disillusionment. Him to death."

Vi thinks back to the kitchen, and the parallelogram of sunlight creeping as Silco's confession came closer to completion. And, after: the rush of rage, so white-hot her vision went momentarily blind. That urge to grab the nearest object and drive it into his eyeball wasn't merely vengeance. It was a mercy kill.

Because she'd recognized how much had been cored out of Silco. The pieces of him that could never be resuscitated.

Never be laid to rest.

"He changed," Vi says.  "He'll never be the same again."

"Nothing stays the same," Sevika retorts, without sharpness. "Everything evolves. That Piltie of yours won't be the same girl you fell in love with, five months down the line. Let alone five years. But if you play your cards right, she'll be the woman by your side till you're old and senile." A drag of the cheroot; a coil of smoke. "Ten years, Vi. Not eighteen months of fucking and fights and fun. Ten years of ups and downs. Blood, sweat, tears and doing what needed to be done. Being the kind of XO he wanted, so he could be the monster our city needed. Ten years of struggling tooth and nail to finish what we started, and hitting too many rock-bottoms to count. And each time, I watched him dig in his heels, grit his teeth, and crawl from the wreckage. He never stopped until he'd made his way to the top. Until we'd gone from the slags in the sewer to the kings of the hill." A deeper drag; a longer coil. "Ten years, and d'you think it matters if I'm jealous? If he dips his wick in a million Mavens? If we're 'together' or not? After all that's been lost and gained and fought for?" She shakes her head. "The man's occupied territory. But my blood's on that deed. It’s mine till death do us part.”

"That sounds..."

Like a fucking prison, Vi nearly says. Except that's not quite right.

Whatever Silco and Sevika share refuses to slot into a neat cellspace. And Vi's perspective's biased: it's shaped according to a private lexicon of highs-and-lows, rather than give-and-take. She's never experienced a bond where reciprocity and self-sacrifice interlock. She meets Caitlyn as an equal; Caitlyn will settle for nothing less. It's why she's so active in Vi's struggles; so committed to securing their shared future. A partnership that transcends privilege and poverty; one that hopes to eradicate the divides entirely.

That journey's worth every second spent fighting the odds.

No regrets. No surrender.

Sevika and Silco don't fit this mold. They never have. He leads; she follows. To his highest ascents, and his lowest ebbs. Maybe because she's known who he is—what they are together—long before anyone else did. Known that on the blueprint of their bond, they can build something greater. Something that belongs to them both, and yet outlasts their struggles side-by-side.

Something that transcends even the love itself.

Not survival, but sovereignty.

Yet, Vi cannot help but think:  it must be hard to invest soul-deep in a cause, and not in each other. It must be harder to know you're aligned, no matter the odds. It must be downright brutal to be close —close enough to touch—but separated by a split so profound, you've shaped yourself around it, and can never fill the space in.

It must royally suck to know:  Gods, I'm still in love.

Always will be.

Full fucking circle.

"It sounds..." Vi swallows. "Heavy."

"It is what it is."

"Guess so." A beat. "But you know what?"

"What?"

"If your name's on the deed, then Silco's put it there. Meaning no matter how many beds he's hopped, he's gotta come crawling home in the end." Vi holds her stare. "And when he does, I hope you make him grovel. Hands and knees. Kissing the ground you walk on all the way to Hell. Because the bastard owes you ten times over for not cutting that so-called National Treasure clean off, and mounting it on a pike." Vi crooks her pinky-finger: as solemn as a salute. "Fifty Hexes per ball, right?"

A look of naked surprise flashes across Sevika's face. Her laugh catches Vi off-guard. The husky timbre bleeds into the dark. Sevika's features, in the receding dusk, are subtly altered: young as she must've been before time dealt its blows; beautiful in the flashfire way Vi sees whenever they clash in battle.  

A reminder, too. Some folks are forged to endure, no matter how rough the ride, or how rigged the game.

"Oh, Vi," Sevika says. "If you weren't kissing Piltie puss, I'd plant one on you."

"Keep dreaming."

"I've got better ways to keep warm. Though if you were offering—"

"I'd split you down your seams."

"Sweetheart," Sevika grins, "that's the idea."

[not-your-asian-fantasy]

Group of Burmese Cigar makers , Burma

Publication date : 1920

Credit : Whiteaway , Laidlaw & Co

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

I consider it my sacred duty to break the rules. A broken rule is the open gate to a wilder meadow. I smoked an Arturo Fuentes cheroot with the Buddha. Forgive me. Asked if he had any rules. He said, just one. Vow to be healed by your tears. Then he opened up to me about his sadness, admitted he had to come back because he was lonely. Maybe as Anthony Bourdain. Maybe Dolly Parton. I made a bourbon smoothie and shared it with Jesus. Asked if he had any rules. He said, just one. Call me brother, not Lord. Cucumber, mint, and kale with a shot of Wild Turkey, forgive me, it was delicious. A broken rule is the open gate to a deeper rule, unwritten and harder to disobey. The rules of the body lead to the rules of the soul. Like the one that says, love for no reason. The one that says, make friends with the brokenhearted. The one that says, forgive yourself again and again. So I discover the rules I cannot break by breaking the ones I can.

~ Fred LaMotte

[janamelie]

New Red Dwarf Challenge

Day 21: Favourite Lister Episode

The Inquisitor.

This is of course a pretty popular episode with wider fandom or at least it certainly was when it originally came out, spawning Smegazine strips. It's one of those I strongly associate with being a fan in the 90s and which helped to shape my image of Lister.

This is undeniably one of Lister's "coolest" episodes and yet he's still the comic-reading slob we know and love. We get to see so many facets of him in this episode.

The naughty schoolboy, for a start.

He's so stubbornly committed to his anti-authority stance that he refuses to even attempt to put a case for his existence.

Whilst he and Kryten are on the run, Lister points out to him that by encouraging Kryten to break his programming he "gave you a life to lose". If he'd just said that to the Inquisitor he wouldn't be in this mess but he refuses to play that game and self-defeating though that is, I admire it.

Since the situation is so desperate, Lister "uses his brains for once in his life" and comes up with a plan to trick the Inquisitor into destroying himself. I take a slashy pleasure in noting that he does so whilst smoking one of the cheroots Ace left behind in "Dimension Jump", having clearly kept them for cool moments such as this.

Don't underestimate Dave Lister.

(All gifs by myself using this site. https://smegadrive.ganymede.tv/)

[vintagetvstars]

Eric Close Vs. William Shockley

Propaganda

Eric Close - (The Magnificent Seven (1998-2000), Now and Again (1999-2000), Without a Trace (Seasons 1-2)) - He's just really cute and I have problems with his face.

William Shockley - (Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman) - As the callous, often vicious saloon-owner Hank Lawson, William Shockley's character was one of the primary antagonists in Dr Quinn, Medicine Woman. Whether the showrunners made a mistake by casting a rangy, blue-eyed, flowing-haired beauty with a fantastic smile is up to each viewer to decide, but I don't think so. Shockley's laid back, often grinning demeanor, even through his cruelty, serves to make the character's angrier swerves all the more dramatic. With his cheroots, loose peasant shirts, low-slung gun belt, festive floral vests, and, let's be real, good looks, he gives the character a memorable design, and when the script allows him some softer scenes, Shockley even sells those too. His performance creates an irreverent, uncaring, colorful contrast to the heroes' earnestness, and so often Shockley gives you the impression that he's enjoying every disruptive moment.

Master Poll List | How to submit propaganda | What is vintage? (FAQ)

Additional propaganda below the cut

Eric Close:

William Shockley:

[ohlalunette]

Ivory cheroot holder of a ballerina and man-in-the-moon pas de deux.

[heaven-is-in-your-arms-series]

Just What Was Wan Smoking?

I suspect, for the most part, Wan was smoking cheroots.

Cheroots are filterless cylindrical cigars, easy to hand roll and clipped at both ends.

In Thailand, they were traditionally rolled in banana leaves and as well as tobacco, the leaves of the Indian cork tree were often added, along with the flowers sometimes for fragrance.

Things like molasses, honey, rice wine, pineapple and banana were often used to sweeten the mixture.

Sometimes cannabis could be added, which was historically used for pain relief in Thailand.

It seems like Wan relies on smoking these as a way to manage his mental health issues, like many smokers, who reach for a cigarette when they are stressed, we often see him smoking when he is feeling disturbed.

We can see from the film that Khem seems very comfortable with the act of stealing but we only ever see him steal or think about stealing, cheroots on Wan's behalf.

He even splashes out on expensive imported "cigarettes," as a gift for Wan which his friend is clearly touched by. That recognition from Khem, that these are important for Wan.

It's as if he recognises that they are something Wan needs, we never see Khem smoke himself although they were both clearly fans of betel chewing before they were forbidden to do so in ManSuang.

Hence their black teeth.

Betel nut is a stimulant and many people describe the act of chewing betel as giving them a bit of a high. It is certainly addictive but was also a standard part of socialising for a very long time in several parts of Southeast Asia and India.

As Khem and Wan are forbidden from chewing betel while they stay at ManSuang, it is likely that they both would have experienced some withdrawal symptoms and this probably made Wan rely on the cheroots even more.

Cheroots originated in India along with beedies which historically were made from leftover scraps of tobacco and rolled into leaves.

Cheroot smoking was very traditional both in India and Myanmar.