that's kool as in a state of being, the undefinable aesthetic, not cool as in temperature...
smoking is kool. Cut the shit, it is. Are you trying to tell me Kojak is kooler than Bogart? Who loves ya' baby?, Kojak maybe slick, but Bogie he ain't. Now, to be clear, smoking doesn't make you kool. you can't just pick up a pack Tarrytown 120's, light up and expect for the world to kneel to your every whim. No. You're not kool because you smoke. In fact, right now, there are hundreds of thousands of unkool individuals outside of a bar, in their kitchen, on the pitch, off the pitch, in their car, on a train platform, banging their girlfriend etc, all doing their best to look kool by smoking cigarettes. Its not happening. Some people can hang with the cigarette, Rik, in between renditions of his monologue on the virtues of sex and TANG, used to tell me that he couldn't imagine me in any other way but walking across the Country Glen Center sans coat but scarfed and topped with a winter hat, with a cup of coffee in one hand and cigarette in another. Thrilla has said that my smoking was an extension of my personality, controlled pyromania. Point is, whether i'm kool or not, smoking enhanced my wardrobe, i looked the part. My brother who smoke for a short time, did not. Bless his lungs, he was drawn unwittingly to the nicotine but the ritual never did suit him, as much as he liked to think it did. He's better off. Smoking can kill you...
i started smoking with my childhood best friend Dave, a tallish, quiet type worthy of his northern Euro ancestry and upbringing. We used to split a box of Reds over time walking to junior high school. My father smoked, and i liked the scent of a freshly lit cigarette, i liked the look of it as my father would leave one burning a stain on the counter when he needed both hands to do whatever it was he was up to. It looked kool, and i was eager to join the club. When i first took my first real drag, the one where the smoke truly filled my lungs for the first time without incident of cough, that was it. The taste, my virgin lungs absorbing the nicotine through the smoke, distributing it through the blood stream, creating that lovely head rush, the fore bearer of the high, the relaxation, the release of, seemingly, all stress and tension of the moment. The ritual, the exhale, the vietnam hold, the proper flick, tossing them into your lips, properly packing a pack or carton (a special technique i invented), having that Chesterfield moment—all of these things would come, wrapped up in a three inch cylinder. With that first inhale of tobacco i was hooked on a feeling and over time i would be well on my way to experience the aforementioned rituals. By the time i was in my mid-teens i was alternating between Parliaments and Reds, $1.75 a pack...
After being diagnosed with leukemia i had stopped. It had been only a year or so of habitual smoking up to this point and chemotherapy and radiation has a way of helping you quit. The nurses didn't care for it, either. That next New Years, getting back into shape and well on my way to remission i had a few a la Binkley at Buglione's. Astonishingly enough i picked up the habit where i left off in less than year from diagnosis at $2 a pack. Astonishingly enough i never grubbed another from Binkley, although he would make an art of grubbing from me and others, but that and Binkley, for sure, are stories for another time...
by the time i was sitting on the ledge of the Tower Records front window i was well into puffing Camel Lights, which would remain my brand. i held court there for many hours per shift, street philosophy and cigarettes. i always talked my way out register shifts in order to fulfill my shifts outdoors, kvetching as it were, people watching and of course smoking. i do fondly recall the days watching the sunset behind the LIRR tracks on those brisk evenings in late September. There was never anything like a butt when the hawk first came out, nothing. i used to ride home after closing, toking a roach if i had one tucked in the top of the pack before strapping the head phones on and taking the midnight ride. i would arrive home, high and ready for a cigarette on the stoop. Shrouded by the two maples in front of my folks' (RIP to both), the night sky above, i could sit there, unnoticed amongst the streaks of black and orbs of light, enjoying the silence; nothing but the sound of burning tobacco and paper to keep me company. And it was welcome company...
i continued my smoking through my bar tending, and NTC days up until my date with the knife for a torn aorta. I recuperated well, rebuilding myself like the $6 million man for a second time, only to start picking strays out of Missy's pack of Marlboro Lights two months later. i was back with Camel Lights within three months, $5+ a pack and rising. I recall warming Missy's car up and revealing the pilfered cigarette to my lips, smoking in secret as i drove myslef home. Sitting on the steps of Arthur Ashe as the sun bent towards Manhattan taking in a avant-garde trio basking in the beams of the mighty light, while they plied their trade in the distance across the empty plaza, cleared of the nonsense of the day session, and not yet engulfed by the evening's card. Jamie Foxx, entourage in tow, would approve as he passed, so would i, over a Camel...
onto Florida, and a story (or stories) for another day, late in my tenure i began to have trouble breathing. It felt sort of like an asthma attack would feel and given my history I broke down and went to the doctor. diagnosed with bronchitis and no relief through antibiotics, i finally gave up the ghost. i bought my last pack of cigarettes in September of 2006, $3.25 a pack. (!!!!) i smoked my last cigarette Thanksgiving night, courtesy of Hurricane Danny (not really a nickname of his, although he is a fan of the U, i'm just being topical)...
i always knew smokers could be assholes, smoking in crowded areas and the like; being generally inconsiderate I always looked for a quiet spot away from others, partly because of my hatred for people and my wish not to disturb my surroundings. i still gravitate to those spots, haunts indeed, to keep cover from the rat-race.i always knew smoking could kill you. Its smoke—carbon monoxide—that shit kills! i have ever felt an ounce of compassion for someone who sued the tobacco companies for killing them. You killed yourself. What it is I didn't realize was the stench of stale smoke that followed you everywhere. You don't get that whilst smoking. Your taste buds are shot and you can't smell anything, so who cares, but when you stop and you get a whiff off of a smokers clothes, or, Odin-forbid, a wisp of smoker-breath, you wonder how you ever had any friends...
all of the above is to explain the empty space here the last few days. i've been quiet since the end of last week with not much to say or no motivation to tap into in order to put thoughts together. You see, that bronchitis from, now three years, is more chronic than anything else and from time to time i feel the malaise that come with the lack of oxygen to my brain—constricted bronchus and all. i force coughing fits in my steam filled bathroom to expectorate what i can to loosen me up and allow me to feel better. Its my penance. Although i would rate myself a considerate smoker, there is no way that i didn't annoy someone, somewhere with my breath, stench, stray butt or exhale of smoke, so i do my penance. Every bunch of months or so i do time in the shower coughing up a lung, so i can breathe easier. One of these days i'll see a pulmonologist—maybe after the novel comes out and goes Times best-seller, maybe. i'll get myself all fixed up, this way i can get back on the wagon. i don't crave cigarettes anymore, but occasionally i'll find myself in a moment where a Camel would set the place right. Not wanting, just reminiscing. You see, i won't retract my original statement, smoking is kool. If there was a way to avoid the odor, the bad breath and the health detriment, everybody would do it...
so, how much is pack going for these days?...
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