"We're from the Government, and we're here to help."

There's this steakhouse/cigar shop/tavern near my mother's house that I pass on my way home from work sometimes. The building itself's been around for over two centuries, though I'm not sure how long the business has been there. Driving by every once in awhile gives me hope. Just on the other side of those rustic walls there are people sitting at an oak bar with a mirror behind it, and they're smoking. Cigarettes, cigars, pipes, etc. The State can't intervene because the establishment has superceded the law through the grandfather clause. Besides, there's a powerful exhaust system in the ceiling of the joint that sucks all the smoke up into the ductwork. It's not as blue and gray and beautiful as the bars of yore were, where Hollywood icons over-acted to the point of painful perfection. But every time I take that route part of me wants to stop in to order a stiff drink and light something up. It's harder to resist the urge after work, but I do. I guess it's enough to know that somewhere is still zoned as a safe place to kill yourself. There's a haven for us stubborn health despots. The years of Public Service Announcements did nothing so the Man stepped in and encroached upon our right to self-destructive pleasure, claiming that it was done to protect the waitstaff and barkeeps, but we know better; eighty percent of people in that industry also smoke. There's no point in prolonging the inevitable in pursuit of intangible immortality. Don't save me from myself in the name of my well-being, thank you. Like I said: We know better. Our livers and lungs will never outlive our hearts. Only our regrets will accomplish that feat. Our regrets, and slightly fudged tax records. Drink on, brothers. Smoke on, sisters. There's solace in knowing the end of the story, even though we all lose.


Currently reading:
"The Selected Poems of Kenneth Patchen"