So, I'm still smoke free. Congratulate me.

Something I've discovered about myself. It's not so much the nicotine or the smoke that I craved. It was the ritual of smoking itself that attracted me.

It was everything about actually doing it that I liked.

It starts with buying the pack. Knowing your brand. Being able to walk into your local Wawa, stepping up to the counter and asking for your brand. Anything else is unacceptable. No substitutions, no compromises. Ever. Even though 100 other people ask for that same pack of Marlboro Menthol Light Box a day, it was still something that was uniquely you. Your brand. Your flavor. Your style. You.

Once you pay, you can't even open your pack until you've prepared it. Packing your cigarettes by turning the pack on the butt end and slamming them against the counter repeatedly until you're satisfied. Maybe there's no counter space. The back of your wrist or the heel of your hand will do in a pinch. You've got to compact every bit of tobacco in those cigarettes, making every drag even more potent.

Then the unveiling. To peel the cellophane from the top of the box, you don't even have to look to see where the starter tab or the perforation is. You've done this a million times before. It's almost natural instinct. In that all too familiar circular motion you whip that plastic off the top and don't even hesitate to discard it. You flick the roof of the cardboard box open with the edge of your thumb. You rip out the foil keeping that magic fresh. Again discarded. You're so close. Nothing can stop you now.

You hold that pack to your bottom lip. You can feel the soft cotton of the filters pressed against your lips, packed so firmly in the box like 20 little class 'A' soldiers, all standing at attention. You draw your first whiff of the box. The menthol rises up your nose and fills the space behind your eyes. Mmm, they're fresh. Nothing worse than a stale smoke.

Your teeth, a precision instrument, select the first soldier to fall. They isolate a cigarette from the center of the pack and slide him out slowly. The ghost of James Dean is with you. He can see the slow cool forming at the tip of your lips. The box is closed and 19 soldiers are left standing.

You whip out your faithful Zippo from its place of keeping, the fifth pocket. He knows his job. He is the catalyst. All that came before was for not without him. A little flare is all he desires. You whip him open with the coolest of ease. Roll his striker and he's ready to go. You cock your head ever so slightly and take that first drag. That long slow drag. James would be proud. The smoke fills your lungs. A tingle passes through your body. Your muscles relax. The tension that's been building at the base of our neck begins to loosen. You feel light-headed. Almost dizzy. The nicotine flows through your body like a rushing flood. From your shoulders to the small of your back to your toes. You exhale and slam the zippo shut. You remember this feeling. It's been this good to you so many times before.


Damn, that was some good writing, huh? I'm making smoking sound like a supermarket romance novel. Cool. Shit I was on a roll.


Anyway, I smoked because it was something to do. I smoked at work because it got me away from my computer screen if only for a few minutes. When I smoked at home, I never smoked in the house because I never wanted my furniture to smell like an ashtray. I liked having the discipline of that rule. I would always smoke outside. I would always so out on my deck and smoke, though in the colder winter months, I've taking to smoking on my front steps.

Even smoking on the deck was a ritual. I had my favorite smoking deck chair I would sit in. I had an ashtray that i liked that I would empty every so often. Maybe I would choose to sit on my air conditioner. Maybe I would choose to lean over the rail of the deck. I would look up at the stars and contemplate the universe and everything else around me.

In summers I sit out on the deck with my guitar. I would use my zippo as a slide, sitting in my chair playing blues, drinking beer and smoking cigarettes all night. Those are some of my most relaxing times. Giving concerts for no one but myself.

When I'm deep in thought about work (whether it be professional or recreational work), sometimes my brain goes into overdrive. I need the smoke break to calm my mind down. The mild euphoria lets only a couple of thoughts seep through at a time. Not the standard hundreds, or even the thousands in overdrive mode. It allows me to slow down and actually let my brain process the thoughts it had. Kinda like speed reading. Yes, you just read this book in 12 minutes, but how much of it did you actually retain?

The biggest ritual for me was driving. My brain knows that the first thing I do after finding a good radio station is to light one up. I roll down the window a crack. Cigarette in left hand. Right hand on the wheel. When it's raining, the window is rolled up, and the cigarette switches hands, allowing me to put my ashes in the ashtray in my truck. I actually had to learn to drive with only my left hand so that I could smoke.

I even had special smokes for special occasions. I used to have clove cigarettes (Djarum) for parties and very long road trips. I've been smoking cloves since I was 16. I could rarely find them and I could sparsely get them then, so they were always reserved for special occasions.


Without the ritual of smoking, I feel kind of empty. Like, now what do I do? Without smoking, I don't really have an excuse to visit my deck and contemplate the universe. It's too cold for blues nights. How do I slow my brain down when I'm busy? What will I do when I need a break at work? Even driving, my brain wants to smoke because it knows that's always what it's done.

My biggest fear is the future. You already know I regressed at the bar last week. Well I'm going out to Kildare's this Friday and I'm debating whether to smoke or not. My brain just won't let me drink and not smoke. But a lot of people only smoke when they drink. Maybe it's ok. I don't know. It seems like if I only smoke when I'm out drinking, it's still an improvement. The question is, will I start to go out drinking more? Hehe.

Labels: Philosophizing

So I had a revelation today. I discovered a problem of mine. I keep waiting on the world to change. I took a look back at a few of my personal relationships over the past couple of years. I realized that I was always waiting for the other person to change. Whether it be changing an opinion, a viewpoint, their personality, whatever.

I always feel like I'm evolving. I'm always willing to take that one step forward. Because of that, it seems, that I assume everyone else is willing, too. What I discovered is that just because I'm ready doesn't meant that they are, no matter how much I want it. No matter how much I want them to be.

Case in point: With Jade, I kept waiting on her to be a better person. I had faith. I expected her to be. She even tried. But she wasn't ready. She wasn't able to let go of herself long enough to realize that she wasn't the center of the universe. I kept waiting on her to change and while I was waiting, she ruined me. It was my own fault that I let her do that to me. I couldn't see her for what she was, only what I expected her to be.

Next case in point: I recently asked someone out who works at the same company as I do. I won't mention her name here. She turned me down. Though I wasn't mad, I was kind of puzzled as to why she said no. She stated as one of her reasons that she wasn't willing to breach "the friend boundary" especially with someone she works with. I suppose I understand that. Her friendship is very important to me. I remember stating in public many times, "Don't dip your pen in the company ink." Logically, I should have heeded my own advice, but I couldn't help the way I felt.

I started to analyze her response a little. I kept thinking to myself in stark contrast to my own advice, "We can make it work. It doesn't have to be awkward if we don't let it." Did you notice the pronoun in there, we? I discovered playing back in my head that her response was about her. She wasn't willing to cross the friend boundary. She was uncomfortable dating someone at work. She wasn't willing to put our friendship in jeopardy.

Just because I was willing to cross those lines for the prospect of something more than friendship, something better, why should I expect that she would? I think it's probably a little arrogant of me to expect that. If she was willing, that's great. If she wasn't, that's her decision, not my expectation. She has her own set of rules that she lives her life by. I shouldn't impose myself upon that.

Final case in point: Sydd. I wouldn't talk to Sydd for years because when I was 21 and he was 21, I was semi-successful. I had my life together (or at least was on the track). I had a good job and was living on my own, making a little bit of coin. I expected he should be doing the same. When I discovered that not only he wasn't, but he was still continuing in the same patterns that had gotten him into deep shit as a teenager, I dropped him. We had a knock-down, drag-out on the phone, and I didn't speak to him again for years. I expected him to do better because I was doing better.

Sydd was the same as he ever was. I had expected so much better. He just wasn't ready to do better at that point. Why did I expect so much? Maybe I always thought, "Well, if I can do it, why can't you?" I can't hold other people to my own standards. Everybody's different and everybody's got their own path. Thankfully, we're starting to get back in touch with one another in recent days. He's doing better. I'm doing better. I feel we'll be better friends now.



I don't know. It's just a surprising pattern I've discovered in my personal relationships. I keep expecting the world to change and what I've realized is that people are who they are. It's not my job to change them. And it shouldn't be my expectation that they will. In fact, I know now, that some people ain't never gonna change. It's not incumbent upon me to expect anything from anyone.

Maybe this sounds cynical. It's really not. It's actually a more positive outlook. I can still hope for people. I can still believe good things about people. It's just not my place to impose or expect anything.

Labels: Life, Philosophizing

You know, I was watching TV this weekend and saw the movie Money Train.

I was just thinking, remember how beautiful Jennifer Lopez used to be?

What I mean by that is back in 1995, she was this pretty down chick from the Bronx with curly hair. She was approachable even if you only had a little game. So attractive, and the apple of everyone's eye.

Now she is the entity known as J.Lo, a millionairess with champagne tastes, who marries other celebrities at will. Yes, she's still got the onion booty (it may have even been enhanced since then), but basically a Hollywood starfucker.

I remember the lyric, "Don't be fooled by the rocks that I got. I'm still Jenny from the block.". Nothing could be further from the truth. With her makeup and hair product lines that people pay fortunes for, she is so superficial and artificial, it makes me wanna puke. And yet she has been deified as a Hollywood/Music industry diva, nay, queen, nay god. Her music isn't that good and neither is her acting. She ain't even all that cute anymore.

I would have preferred she remain humble. Every time I see those commercials for her new album, it makes me wanna gag and throw up in my mouth a little. I feel physically ill. She is so fake.

Labels: Hot Bitches, Movies, Music, Philosophizing, TV

Normal is just ... boring.

Labels: Life, Philosophizing

As you may notice, it is now 4:40 AM and I'm on my computer blogging. I woke up at 4 this morning and couldn't get back to sleep. As I tried to get back to sleep, I realized I couldn't for three reasons.

I couldn't lay on my side because of how hungry I was.
I couldn't lay on my side because of how horny I was.
I couldn't turn off my mind.

That's when I had a revelation albeit a minor one.

Typically, I sleep with the TV on. It's almost like a nightlight/alarm clock. I watch TV until I fall asleep. I don't even bother turning it off. I just watch whatever I'm watching until I fade away.

I'm so attached to it that I rarely know what it's like to sleep without it. When Jade and I would sleep together, we would sleep with the TV on. She was the same way.

I decided to try an experiment last night. I was done what I was doing for the night, turned off all the downstairs lights and headed up to bed. I got into the bedroom and hadn't turned on the lights at all. Completely dark. The realization was that I couldn't find my remote control in the sheets. After groping around in the dark, I didn't even turn the TV on. I thought it would be a welcome and calming change to sleep without my dependency. My electric bill will thank me.

Here's what I've discovered. I use the TV as a mental distraction. Without it, I can't shut my mind off. As someone who spends a great deal of time in my own head, I have a near constant inner monologue. With nothing drowning it out, the volume gets amplified. I can't shut my mind up.

I know that sounds crazy... and it probably is. I can't tune out the voice in my head. Thank god it's only one voice.

I find myself pondering philosophy, giving life lessons, writing blog entries, having fantasies, thinking about the next day, dreaming up new code-based solutions, website designs, etc. The only thing that stops this deluge of thought during the day is that it's constantly interrupted by speaking, or working.

I think I woke up, fully awake at 4 AM because my own mind had no one to listen to it. I think this is what it must be like to be truly insane. I think crazy people just don't know how to suppress or absorb the inner monologue. It just becomes completely overwhelming. Fortunately, I have been living with my own inner monologue for a very long time.

Labels: Insomnia, Life, Philosophizing

This is my barely coherent, rant on tattoos and piercings in popular culture today. Feel free to sound off on this. This is just my opinion.

You know, I remember exactly when it was that tattoos became a fashion statement. It was around 1997. I remember I was a junior in high school. I was sitting in Chemistry class and Dave Lacey, a 16-year old sophomore football player came into class with a blue & gold tattoo around his bicep.

This was it. Tattoos had officially become part of popular culture. When a 16-year old's parents authorize him to get a tattoo, it's no longer tabooo.

Right around then, the popularity of body art had really exploded. Camryn Manheim (The Practice) had eighty-nine earrings in her ear, Rosanna Arquette (Pulp Fiction) had 16 various piercings. Kids wanted to follow along. Tribal tattoos, barbed wire tattoos, and nipple, eyebrow, nose, belly button, clitoral piercings and tongue studs were the latest trends in the mid-to-late nineties.

I remember there was this wannabe rebel freshman girl who was in the choir. She was a really excellent soprano. She had every chance to excel, but somehow had that mental wiring that made her sabotage everything good. She started hinting to the choir director that she wanted to get a piercing. She would drop questions like, "If I get a tongue stud, how will that affect my voice?" The response was, "If you get a tongue stud, you're out of my choir." So of course she got the stud.

Anyway, back to the point. It used to be that a tattoo was a badge of rebellion. If you were a dude and you got a tat, you were a bad ass, hands down. Before then, you only got a tattoo if you were in prison or in the Navy.

If you were a chick and you had a tattoo (which was almost unheard of), you were a total slut. Usually in the good way. If it was on your ass, you could be that librarian/secretary in public, but a wildcat behind closed doors. You know what I mean?

That's how it used to be, anyway.

In the nineties, every drunken fratboy had a barbed wire tattoo or tribal patterns. Every chick had a flower or a dolphin in the small of her back or her ankle.

Nowadays, it's out of control. Tattoos used to mean something. Whether it was a badge of honor, or a display of passion or self expression. It was something.

Today everyone and their momma has a tattoo. Kids have nothing better to do. Tattoos are nothing more than an accessory. Something to go with their Prada handbag. 10 years ago the concept of having a cuff or a sleeve was reserved for those who were truly hardcore. Today, everyone is covered in tats. It's not uncommon to see people with more ink than skin.

It's just that tats and piercings are so commonplace in the new millennium, that they've lost all value. If someone says, "I have a tattoo" Yeah, well so does everybody. There's no shock value in anything anymore.

Tats would have gotten you disowned from your family ten years ago. Today, you could sit down at the family dinner table and discuss your fresh ink. It's so commercial that there are multiple television shows around tattoos artists.

PLEASE don't get me wrong.

I'm not against tattoos or piercings. I even have a few, myself. I have a treble clef on my left bicep, which means a great deal to me. It wasn't just a whim like people get. I had been planning on getting this symbol of my passion since I was a teenager. I have three piercings in my left ear, one in my right, and I've had my right eyebrow pierced more times than I can remember.

Anyone has the right to do whatever they want with their body. It's not my place to say what anyone else should do. It's just that people are getting more and tats which mean nothing to them. just because they saw something on TV. People get Chinese writing on their necks because it's trendy.

Ordinarily, I think tattoos on a woman can be ultra sexy if done tastefully and discreetly. One or two only. Small and somewhere like an ankle or the small of the back, or even on a hip. It's kind of like a little treasure. Not a friggin' billboard across your stomach.

I was at orientation for YellowBook and there was this girl with at least four tattoos below the sleeve line and two more on her neck. No one batted an eye.

I just wonder where we'll be in another ten years. Less and less shocks us. What is left? I've gone to strip clubs and seen strippers that were literally covered in tats. I wasn't even shocked. It's not so much about the tats themselves, but about how easily people will get them and the fact that it's of little or no consequence.

I don't know. That's just my opinion. I could be wrong.

Labels: Hot Bitches, Life, Philosophizing, Pop Culture, Rants, Society, Tattoos

Last night at about 11:30 I was having a HUUUUGE donut jones. I actually submitted to my own greed and went out to Dunkin to get a dozen. I drove to Dunkin walked in the door and the Paki mopping the floor inside told me there were NO DONUTS!

What!?!

Sure enough, I stepped up to the counter and he didn't have a single donut in the store. I just looked at him incredulously like, "How is this Dunkin Donuts, and you don't have any donuts!?!" He told me "We will have some donuts maybe around midnight."

Labels: Philosophizing, Rants

If people would just do what I tell them and stop arguing with me, life would work out much better.

Believe me, I don't speak unless I know what the hell I'm talking about. So whe I DO open my mouth, shut the fuck up and listen!

Wouldn't you rather listen to the guy who is right 99% of the time instead of arguing with him and getting proven wrong anyway?

Most people fucking argue with me because they think I'm so young that I don't know what I'm talking about. "Young punk. Can't tell me nuthin."

Yeah, but you look real stupid when you got proven wrong by the young punk. Doesn't it bruise your ego less when you just listen, do it right, and don't look like an ass, than when you start an argument in front of people, make EVERYONE look bad, and now the fact that you were so blatantly wrong is exposed?

Labels: Philosophizing, Rants