Yesterday I complained about sleeping in shifts... which is never good... but last night we slept the sleep of The Just, warranted or not. I went to bed well before midnight (I don't remember the exact time) and woke up the first time at 0630 hrs. That seemed to be a bit too early to begin my busy day, so we did sumthin' highly unusual: we rolled over and went back to sleep, for an hour an a half. Yay, me!
And then we went out to the base, got our quarterly haircut, and made a major commissary run, getting everything done, including putting away all the provisions, well before 1200 hrs. I'd give myself another cheer except for the fact we planned to do all that yesterday. So here we are, a day late and at least a Yankee Dollar short.
So, re-runs. I was curious as to how many re-runs I've actually done in my eight-year blogging career (the eighth anniversary coming up in two weeks time) so I did a search on "re-run." Blogger brought back 160 results, but not all of 'em are actual re-runs of stuff I posted, there are a few instances where I use the term in other contexts. Stoopid Blogger! But, Hey!... even if every one of those 160 posts WERE an actual re-run that would amount to only 2.8% of this blog's content. (Do the math: 5,686 posts/160 re-runs) I don't know if this makes YOU feel any better, Gentle Reader, but it eases my mind a lot.
So, here's the re-run, from... well, you'll see:
Another Re-Run: Smoke 'Em If Ya Got 'Em
I went looking for something this
morning (I found it, too) and came across this old chestnut from four
and a half years ago... which I posted right at the time I quit smoking
cigarettes. It kinda rang a couple o' bells with me; I hope it works
for you, Gentle Reader. The post, in part:
It’s been a week today and I’m still off the evil weed cigarettes, still haven’t cracked the Partagas stash. It’s still very early days, but at least I haven’t done that backsliding thing immediately. Thank you, Nicorette.
So. Just by sheer coincidence (and thanks to the inimitable Lileks,
he of the cigarillos taken under the gazebo in the summer), I came
across a couple of items on smoking yesterday, wouldn’t you know. And
they’ll continue to pop up just like clockwork for the foreseeable
future, too. Life’s like that.
But Obama's semisecret weapon amounts to
a double-edged sword. After all, what sort of successful Democratic
politician smokes nowadays? Smoking is GOP old-school. House Minority
Leader John Boehner regularly smokes cigarettes—which helps explain why
he didn't hesitate to hand out tobacco-industry campaign checks on the
House floor some years back. But Democrats shun the demon weed, at least
in public. One of the first acts of House Speaker Nancy Pelosi was to
ban smoking in the Speaker's Lobby, long the haunt of nicotine-crazed
legislators. (The most famous Democratic tobacco addict doesn't even
smoke. Former President Clinton likes to chomp on cigars—and, as the Starr report detailed, to occasionally use them for other purposes. Sometimes a cigar is not just a cigar.)
So, it's understandable that Obama,
according to his aides, has been trying to kick the filthy habit as he
gears up for a possible presidential campaign. The senator is
refreshingly honest about his penchant for cigarettes: When asked about
it by the Chicago Tribune in 2005, he replied, "The flesh is weak." When
asked whether Obama still smokes, his spokesman, Tommy Vietor, hedged.
"I haven't seen him for a month, so I don't know," Vietor said in late
December. Vietor later declined to comment for this piece. (emphasis mine)
That Starr report link is pretty danged
graphic, but I’m probably not telling you anything you don’t already
know. Back to Barack… I really don’t give a damn if Barack, or anyone
else, for that matter, smokes. I don’t think most Lefties are that
tolerant, however. Because they know what’s good for you, even if you
don’t…and they’re not shy about telling you, either. Still and
even, I think this just has to be the most unique, if not bizarre,
reason to quit I ever heard… “Well, I decided to run for President, so I
guess I better quit.” Takes the cake, that does.
The second item is quite old, a Times Online (UK) item from March of 2005 titled “Up in Smoke.” (Ed: The Times link is dead and more's the pity) (No, Sparky, not that Up In Smoke) It’s a bit of nostalgia, and Boy-Howdy, do I ever relate.
Not very long ago, the whole world
smoked, no room was truly furnished unless it contained an ashtray, and
all of waking life was measured out in cigarettes. Doctors smoked in
their consultation rooms. Chefs smoked in restaurant kitchens. Mothers
smoked while dandling their babies. Mechanics smoked in oil-flecked
garages. Athletes smoked on the sidelines. Teachers smoked in
classrooms. Patients smoked in hospital solariums. Television presenters
smoked on camera. Shoppers smoked in the produce aisle at the
supermarket. We smoked in the rear halves of airliners, in the balconies
at movie theatres, between courses at formal dinners, on crowded dance
floors while gyrating, on elevators despite the signs, on the subway if
the hour was late enough. We smoked in the office and at the beach, in
the waiting room and at the hair salon, in the art gallery and at the
stadium. We smoked in bed: just after waking and just before sleep,
after making love and sometimes during it. We often smoked without being
aware we were smoking.
[…]
In Europe - actually, in most parts of the world other than the US -
everyone was perpetually offering everyone else a smoke. Sit down at a
table with three people and instantly out come four packs, an expertly
gradated trio of ends poking out of a corner of each, and of course you
have to take one, even if it’s a brand you abhor, just as they must take
yours. To refuse would be an act of aggressively bad manners, like
spurning the proffered tea in an Arab country or the bread and salt in
Russia. In America, by contrast, prison yard customs prevailed. The pack
was kept in a shirt pocket and one pill was drawn out at a time and
inserted into the owner’s mouth. This was not viewed as a breach of
etiquette since, it was reasoned, everyone you encountered would already
have his or her own pack. Keeping your pack to yourself was a sterling
example of the American ethos, like fencing your land and shooting
trespassers and considering that basic societal benefits belong to those
who can afford them. (Ed: gotta get that snark in, doncha?)
[…]
Bohemians and intellectuals predictably went for Camels or Luckies.
Raymond Loewy’s Lucky Strike package was a triumph of design, even after
the green background was excised in the Forties so that the dye could
be saved for the war effort. In the Twenties it was stylish for
cigarettes to allude to the Near East, hence Murads, Fatimas - and
Camels, now the last survivor of the trend. (Philip Marlowe and Sam
Spade smoked Fatimas.) Supposedly, there were dirty pictures concealed
within the image of the camel on the package, but though I nodded yes
when they were pointed out to me, I was never able to make them out.
Both Camels and Luckies appealed to a certain purism, to a nostalgia for
fedoras and speakeasies, to a peculiar impression that the brands were
so elemental as to be something like produce, not really commercial
brands at all. Nothing was better at conveying cosmopolitan style and
culture in America than possession of a pack of Gauloises, or Gitanes.
The aroma of black caporal tobacco was so distinctive you didn’t need to
flash the pack to stand out in a crowd. (Ed: You sure didn’t.
Gauloises and Gitanes stink, in a manner that’s simply beyond the stink
of an ordinary cigarette and is, essentially, indescribable. Anyone who
has ever been to Paris, or anywhere else in France, knows this for a
fact. It begins when you ask yourself “What the Hell smells in here?”)
[…]
Anyway you can’t smoke any more. You can’t smoke anything - not low tar,
not Sher Bidis, not all-natural additive-free tobacco in unbleached
paper. It’s not yet illegal to possess the materials and implements for
smoking, nor to consume them in the privacy of your own home, but it is
increasingly difficult to smoke in public places, even outdoors, even in
Europe. It’s true that a certain dark anti-glamour lingers outside the
restaurant doorway, as you and people you will never meet again enjoy
the rough comradeship of exile, puffing away in your thin jackets in
February as if you were doing something heroic. It’s true that in a few
Western settings - student life, for example, or among fashion models -
smoking remains almost normative. It’s true that if you produce a pack
of cigarettes in the right place and at the right time entire roomfuls
of confirmed quitters will line up to bum one. And of course everyone
knows at least one defiant and unapologetic smoker. In general, though,
and especially in prosperous suburbs, you can expect passers by to glare
at you with undisguised contempt, however discreetly you light up.
Barack, take note of that last paragraph. Or perhaps he’s already read the article. At any rate, every single thing in the above paragraphs is true, with the possible exception of smoking during sex. After sex? Most certainly. During? I don’t think so.
I’m old enough to remember the days when
smoking was cool, the days when, as noted above, everyone did it. I
learned “British Rules” on smoking when I lived in London. Not
coincidentally, The Second Mrs. Pennington’s and my consumption rate
doubled or tripled, even, when we went out on the town or down to the
pub. We realized this almost immediately and developed subterfuges to
counter the expense, which could be considerable. There were nights
when the two of us would go through five packs of cigarettes, simply
because all our mates were eager to accept our cigarettes when offered.
I would routinely pass on the cigarettes offered in return, having
never developed a fondness for Players Navy Cut or Rothschilds. We
figured out what the Brits didn’t like (Trues, IIRC) and we’d
both bring a pack of those along to offer around. Naturally, the
offered smokes would be declined. Thus: money saved. I’m embarrassed
to admit this, but it’s true.
Being the good Bohemian I aspired to be
in my youth, I began with Luckies. I even did the James Dean thing by
rolling them up in the sleeve of my tee shirt while on the job as a
landscaping contractor’s assistant in high school. Yes, I began in
high school. We all did the JD thing, and we all smoked Luckies, too.
It was the thing to do. Over the years I moved from brand to brand,
changing about every ten years or so. At the end (last week, ha!) I
was smoking American Spirits, one of those “all-natural additive-free
tobacco in unbleached paper” brands described above. Well, the paper
is bleached, I think. And the damned things were still killing me, in
spite of their “naturalness.” God willing, I’ll make it stick this
time.
Even though I’ve excerpted from the article heavily, there’s much, much more. Here’s the closing graf:
Maybe there are ex-smokers out there
who feel uncomplicated relief at having quit. I doubt there are many,
however. Your cigarette was a friend - the sort of friend parents and
teachers warned you against, who would lead you down dark alleys and
leave you holding the evidence when things went wrong - but a friend
nevertheless. It’s terribly sad that you can’t enjoy a smoke now and
again without tumbling into the whirlpool of perdition, the way you can
take a glass of spirits on the weekend with no danger that by Monday
you will end up filtering the shoe polish after exhausting the cooking
sherry. But just as an alcoholic remains an alcoholic even after
decades of abstinence, so a smoker is a sinner forever after. You have
breathed fire. You have experienced one of the deepest satisfactions of
life: the first cigarette of the day in tandem with the first cup of
coffee. (Ed: Or the two glowing cigs in the dark after wild, wild sex!)
You have felt that knee-trembling rush upon taking the first drag
after suffering an enforced separation from cigarettes - after a trip
to the moon, for example. Your friend has come running to your side in
the worst moments, and has been there to cheer you on in the best. You
have tasted of the fruit of good and evil. Now that you have chosen the
path of righteousness, can it be that the decision is fixed and
irrevocable? Is it possible that smoking will be legislated or taxed
out of existence? Is it possible that the Earth will be wiped so clean
of tobacco that, like opium, it will be difficult to find without
undertaking hazardous journeys in troubled regions? Is it possible that
you will never again be able to enjoy the comfort of knowing that you
have traded five minutes of life for five minutes of serenity? We may
all have stopped smoking, but we continue to burn.
If you’re a smoker, or even an ex-smoker who doesn’t mind a trip back to Former Happy Days, go have a read. And smoke ‘em if ya got ‘em! Uh, no. Don’t.
The
pic is one of the very few I could find showing me with a cigarette,
which is passing strange, mainly because we almost always used ciggies
as props in the way-back... before smoking went out o' style. True
confession: I still miss the damned things.
That last sentence? It's still true. And you'll have to pry my cigars from my cold, dead hands if you really want 'em. Those things are here to stay.
And now if you'll pardon me, Gentle Reader, I'm either going to have a Liquid Lunch or kick off Happy Hour waaaay early. Because I CAN.
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