A glimpse into one actor/writer's life in La-La Land. Part lampoon, part harpoon, all good.

Tuesday, October 10, 2006


You know the old joke:

Do you smoke after sex?
I don't know...I never looked.

Well, I can tell you that I have smoked after sex. Before sex. And, yes, even during sex; but, I'll spare you the details. The point is - and I hate even saying it - but I love smoking. There's nothing - nothing, I tell you - like that first morning cigarette. I wake up, put on the coffee, and while it brews I do my "mini-Yoga" session. Very heathly; right? And as soon as I'm done I head to the balcony (read: fire escape) with mug in one hand, cigarette in the other, and lighter at the ready. Remember that old cartoon with the old classical musical score playing as morning was breaking in the forest? That's the feeling. Ah! (By the way, if you can tell me the name, I'll send you a pickle; despite multiple searches, I couldn't find it. It seems my "Some-timer's Disease" has wiped my memory yet again. Either that, or the smoke is clouding my brain.)

For most smokers, a pack of cigarettes is like a best friend. It's always there for you. It makes you feel better when you're down. And it tells you that you look wonderful, even when you don't. And quitting feels just like losing that friend. It's absolutely horrible. Imagine being locked in a small (poorly decorated) room with your three worst enemies; just for shits and giggles, let's say that in our example you are confined along with Condoleeza Rice and her sourpuss, George W. Bush, and Carl Rove. All naked. Brrr! A terrible chill just ran down my spine as I typed that...And you know what? That doesn't even come close to describing the sheer horror and pain of the quitting process. The last time that I quit I would actually show up at work, give out the assignments to my staff, and then lock myself in the bathroom to cry. Whitney didn't have a thing compared to me; I was a wreck, I tell you.

And now it seems that the time may well be upon me to quit again. You see, Californians have the disgusting habit of being exceptionally healthy. They hike, bike, work out, and eat algae. And they don't smoke. At least, 83% of them don't. Maybe the Universe is trying to tell me something. Or Mother Nature. If not her, certainly the cute boy I saw out and about the town Friday night was trying to tell me something. He was clearly flirting as I stood outside with my friends. And when I lit up a cigarette, he rolled his eyes. He rolled his eyes! That is the gay kiss of death! That is like getting voted off the island, or fired by the Trumpinator. Truly, it was Heidi Klum saying, "You ah out." I even heard the dramatic drum beat. (Which is eerily similar to the one they use on "Lost.") That was it. Final. I was dismissed.

Now, as if that wasn't enough motivation, there is always the terrible medical reality that they just aren't good for you. I'm sure you already know this, but cigarettes have been linked with a terrible disease. The sort of thing people only whisper at dinner tables. You know, wrinkles. Now, that should give me some extra umph to quit; right?


Anonymous Anonymous said...

Eighty-three percent of Californians are non-smokers?! That's impressive. So you have that (the camraderie of fellow Californians), rejection avoidance, and wrinkle control--it's worth a try! (Speaking of wrinkles, I read in the paper the other day that 3+million people got Botox last year.) I'm not really a cheerleader by nature, but I'm cheering you on in your quitting quest nontheless.


9:01 AM  
Blogger Soul Terrain said...

Universe? Maybe YOU'RE trying to tell you something! You know I'll be a cheerleader on this one, having escaped the seductive clutches of Lady Backy shortly before your bathroom episodes. (If I'd have known what you were doing in there I would have banged on the door and sent Bobby D in to get you.) We've been duped by those fatbastard billionaires who sold us our addiction one pack at a time. But if I can get out and be glad, anyone can (really). Remember when they told us there is no such thing as failure on this one, just "not ready"?

Excuse me while I climb down off the soap box. You got me all excited.

As Freud would say "Aahhh ze zigarette, shee iz a false miztresss. And her pimpz, zey are ze worzt. Zey point zere finger and laff at you. Zometimes a zigar is just a fatbastard in dizguys."

4:38 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

I add my congratulations to the other commenters. Glad you're seizing the reigns of good health (being that you are, a-hem, a health care professional and all...nudge, nudge. Okay enough guilt). Still, I have to admit a teensy bit of perverse pleasure in listening to you buck the wrinkle-less, eat-free hegemony of LA. Everybody in NYC smokes, right? They can take the girl out of the city but they can't take the city out of the girl. Having said that -good on you for quitting. Definitely give 'em up. I boycotted sex until my boyfriend left his nicotine mistress. Seriously. Hey, it worked.

Lisa in Chi-town

9:45 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

By the way, I've seen the uncropped version of that photo. I remember it bc I was horrified by the uncanny resemblance to my own breasts.

9:31 AM  
Anonymous loretta hernandez said...

well guy i really enjoy reading about u and meeting u in person u r so awsome hope u stay with us for a long time or at least come see us. love loretta

7:33 PM  

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