Ahh, the joys of smoking. Tapping that fresh pack against my hand. Ripping off the plastic, pulling out the foil. Lighting one up and letting the nicotine alter my brain chemistry, one neurotransmitter at a time.
What is it about the habit that allures me so?
I know it's not the danger factor. It could kill me, I'm aware, but so could driving, eating pesticides, visiting Kansas City, or participating in extreme sports. Okay, I admit I do avoid the pesticides, and I have yet to shred a half pipe or take a 20-foot drop on my mountain bike. That shit could really kill me--instantaneously. Worse even, it could break my bones or mangle my pretty face. Dropping into a half pipe certainly looks cool, but--and here's the good news, kids--so does smoking.
Don't get me wrong. When I was a kid, I wanted to be Tony Hawk, Tommy Guerrero, or Gator Rogowski. I had my Variflex, I read Thrasher, and I belonged to a hardcore team of skater punks. Well actually, there were only two of us, and yeah, Team Variflex pretty much sucked. Truth be told, the idea of a broken arm or a broken head pretty much kept my Vans firmly on the ground. I usually bailed out halfway up the quarter pipe and walked my ass back down.
Last time I checked, smoking has never cracked a rib or snapped a femur in two. And look what happened to Gator, anyway. He took a hard trip from skating like a madman to enjoying fame and massive amounts of money to murdering a girl. I could be wrong, but second-hand smoke strikes me as a mild offense compared to murder by bludgeoning.
My Variflex is long gone and the team disbanded ages ago, but it was never really about the shredding anyway. Above all else, I wanted to look cool. In fact, I still want to look cool, and since there will probably be no X Games in my future, I've had to find a more accessible solution. Therefore, I light up a cigarette on occasion.
That is, occasionally I smoke like a chimney. I have to tell you, it looks just as cool as a front-side fakey, and if you think about it, it's far safer, requires less practice, and is a much more sociable habit. Skateboarding, after all, has been a crime since the late '80s. Smoking was just banned in December.
I can chain-smoke a whole carton of Lucky Strikes while paying tribute at their war memorials. No one takes a second look.
Maybe smoking will kill me eventually. On the other hand, maybe a lot of things. Maybe my friend Finnegan will be president. Maybe my dad will win the lottery. Maybe monkeys will fly out of my butt.
Everyone always said smoking would kill Uncle Denny. "Screw you bastards," he wheezed from his death bed, a burning stick of tobacco in hand. "Screw you," he said, and died peacefully from liver cancer while taking a morphine-induced nap.
So why not, next time you see me out and about, just thank me for smoking? I have done far worse things in my life--things you're glad I don't still do. Trust me.
What is it about the habit that allures me so?
I know it's not the danger factor. It could kill me, I'm aware, but so could driving, eating pesticides, visiting Kansas City, or participating in extreme sports. Okay, I admit I do avoid the pesticides, and I have yet to shred a half pipe or take a 20-foot drop on my mountain bike. That shit could really kill me--instantaneously. Worse even, it could break my bones or mangle my pretty face. Dropping into a half pipe certainly looks cool, but--and here's the good news, kids--so does smoking.
Don't get me wrong. When I was a kid, I wanted to be Tony Hawk, Tommy Guerrero, or Gator Rogowski. I had my Variflex, I read Thrasher, and I belonged to a hardcore team of skater punks. Well actually, there were only two of us, and yeah, Team Variflex pretty much sucked. Truth be told, the idea of a broken arm or a broken head pretty much kept my Vans firmly on the ground. I usually bailed out halfway up the quarter pipe and walked my ass back down.
Last time I checked, smoking has never cracked a rib or snapped a femur in two. And look what happened to Gator, anyway. He took a hard trip from skating like a madman to enjoying fame and massive amounts of money to murdering a girl. I could be wrong, but second-hand smoke strikes me as a mild offense compared to murder by bludgeoning.
My Variflex is long gone and the team disbanded ages ago, but it was never really about the shredding anyway. Above all else, I wanted to look cool. In fact, I still want to look cool, and since there will probably be no X Games in my future, I've had to find a more accessible solution. Therefore, I light up a cigarette on occasion.
That is, occasionally I smoke like a chimney. I have to tell you, it looks just as cool as a front-side fakey, and if you think about it, it's far safer, requires less practice, and is a much more sociable habit. Skateboarding, after all, has been a crime since the late '80s. Smoking was just banned in December.
I can chain-smoke a whole carton of Lucky Strikes while paying tribute at their war memorials. No one takes a second look.
Maybe smoking will kill me eventually. On the other hand, maybe a lot of things. Maybe my friend Finnegan will be president. Maybe my dad will win the lottery. Maybe monkeys will fly out of my butt.
Everyone always said smoking would kill Uncle Denny. "Screw you bastards," he wheezed from his death bed, a burning stick of tobacco in hand. "Screw you," he said, and died peacefully from liver cancer while taking a morphine-induced nap.
So why not, next time you see me out and about, just thank me for smoking? I have done far worse things in my life--things you're glad I don't still do. Trust me.