Neanderpundit

I dated a girl who smoked more me. We would lie in hotel rooms and play various variations of hide the salami until such time as we couldn’t move under our own power, then we’d lie back and smoke.

She smoked Marlboro ulltralights, I smoked B&H ultralights. We’d lie on the sweaty sheets and try not to touch one another while the air conditioner evaporated the sweat off our bodies.

One such afternoon we were laying there and i had the ashtray on my chest, the lights out, the room littered with our clothes, bedding, french safes and empty beercans. I finished my smoke and put the ashtray carefully on the nightstand; she finished her smoke and put it out in the middle of my chest. Where the ashtray had been.

I was… not amused. But I was not amused at such a level of astonishment as I had never before experienced, so I bit my tongue and went to the bathroom to wipe it off.

Whe I returned she was asleep so I napped a bit myself, and then rose and molested her anew. The cigarrette burn didn’t completely heal for at least another month. I felt an odd kinship with James Dean.

I think of that girl from time to time. These are days I am glad I don’t smoke.

and, frankly, a little surprised to discover that not all Stuckey’s have become Fuckeys. There are still gen-yoo-whyne Stuckeys all over the place, and you can find one here. Not like they were wonderful, they were the very definition of kitsch with cedar cigarrette boxes made in Lebanon and genuine Falsa blankets made in China. But the logs are… interesting.