Tag Archives: Porterhouse Steak

Ashes to Ashes: An Elegy for Cigarettes

    I loved every fag I ever had. Each one was my best friend—a friendship that began with a flame and lasted a five-minute lifetime.   For 15 years, cigarettes afforded me routine timeouts from all things great and small. Smoking was a social bubble that insulated me from reality. A thinking thermosphere. The best damned cross-country copilot. Also, a platinum membership card into the subculture of superlative cool.   But all the fags are gone. And now I’m just a humdrum hominid who goes about his day without a burning stick between his lips.   I quit smoking one year ago this month. While I suppose I could use this moment to celebrate my chosen path toward improved health, instead I find myself lamenting the absence of tobacco from my life. We had so many wonderful times together.   There were the daybreak ferry trips across the Bosphorus during Ramadan, where my insouciant smoking drove the nicotine-fasting men of Istanbul insane.   Also, the cartons that fueled my peripatetic exploration of Paris—especially the wee-hours-of-the-morning Camels that carried me from Pigalle to the Seine after I…

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