The Chronicle

Fumus Gratia Artis

Smoking 2 copy

I might have another go at smoking. Cigarettes, that is. I know, I sounds unwise, especially for a man in my condition. But what, exactly, does a man in my condition have to fear from a pack of Luckies? Plenty, I suppose. And, truth be told, I never managed to acquire the habit. Oh I tried. I did so try. My mother smoked Alpines, my father favored Kents, which featured the mighty, manly, micronite filter. So supply was never a problem. I’d pilfer a few of Dad’s Kents when I got the chance, settle for an Alpine if I had to. But for some reason, I never took to cigarettes. Still, all the kids were doing it, and yours truly was no Goody Two-Shoes. I stoically, if reluctantly, puffed my way through high school, and thereafter, only smoked cigarettes when the annual Great American Smokout day rolled around. (Make of that what you will.) But something I recently saw in a Steven Spielberg movie left me jonesing for a Lucky Strike, in the off season. Spite is a powerful force. 

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