Smoking - an addiction for people and politicians

My mother quit smoking on New Years Day 1991, and she does not miss the habit. Back in 1991, there weren't as many finger-waggers telling her all of those lovely chemicals she's putting into her body, and a pack of cigarettes cost about $2 a pack. Today, thanks to an excise tax of $1.51 per pack of cigs, the cheapest you can get a pack of cigs is $3.50, with the name brands clocking in at least $5.00. In New York State, a pack of cigarettes goes for at least $6 - and in New York City, you can't even get an ultra-cheap (as in no-name, you've got to be desperate) pack of cancer stix for less than $8.

When I went to Mohegan Sun for my birthday last year, I would have expected cigarettes to be much cheaper. Boy, was I wrong: a pack of Marlboros went for the princely sum of $9.65 per pack. (I have no clue how much the cheapos were, but a sawbuck? They were also selling bars of soap with real money for $13.95 - and of course, stupid me bought one. I did, however, use that dollar inside the bar of soap to play the daily numbers and ended up winning $721.)

In some of the New York State Indian reservations, however, you can still get name-brands for more than half the price. Why? The Indians kinda sorta don't put tax stamps on the packages.

This means the bridge & tunnel folks from Queens and Brooklyn (and their Manhattanite friends) who don't want to venture into their corner bodega can take a quick trip to the Hamptons for a family "visit" and stop by the Shinnecock Indian rez for a carton of Newports at $50. If their corner bodega is selling them for $8.50 a pack, that's $170 a carton there versus $50 (and $2.50 a pack) at the rez, meaning a savings of $120 per carton. No wonder the Indians in New York State like business the way it is, and the wholesalers are a bit miffed.

And believe the wholesalers with a fisheye when they say the cheap cigs are funding terrorism. Wholesalers who deliver to stores get a commission on all the sales they make, no matter what the price. So, when they go into the convenience store and set up their displays, it's not to make sure the lady in a bikini is not showing too much bodacious ta-ta; it's because that bodacious ta-ta is the difference between a stale pack that doesn't get sold and several hundred orders, perhaps with the bodacious ta-ta exposed. The wholesalers are blowing as much smoke to deceive the public; if the black market were as thriving as the wholesalers would have you believe, then New York City would have returned to the glorious cesspool of iniquity it once was. It hasn't, and it looks like the wholesalers are ticked that Indian tobacco sellers are cutting into their commissions and profits.

It doesn't mean I approve of smoking. I don't smoke myself, and I personally don't care if you light up, and I will not stop you if you're puffing away (if you ask nicely, all the fuss you'll get is a friendly hand wave and a "g'right ahead.").

Imagine, though, if cigarettes were ultimately banned. Everyone stopped smoking, no one got dirty looks when you lit up, and you didn't smell like an ashtray.

The politicians would have a hell of a time getting over their addiction - to smoker's money.

Here in Massachusetts, the excise tax for a carton is $1.51 x 20 = $30.20. $30.20 is not chump change, and a million cartons not being lit up means $30.2 million denied to the Commonwealth's coffers. Hence, you will see increasing and more constrictive rules on smoking, but you will never, ever see a complete ban, because once the commonwealth or any other state bans smoking completely, they lose hundreds of millions of dollars in easy, regressive tax revenue. The nanny state is not bold or ballsy enough to do a total ban, so they must do their deeds in passive-aggressive steps.

If there's anyone who really must get an intervention, it's the governments who use their insecurities and moralities to control people. Smoking is that perfect example: if smoking were banned, the states would require cases of Nicorette Tax patches.

I'm an uncle again...

8 lbs, 5 oz (3770g), 20 inches (508mm), Riley Blake Colby. I already have a niece named Hollace; I call her God's Ultimate Trade: the girl that my mother always wanted, but to get her, we had to give up our father to lung cancer.

Somewhere along the line, God has to balance pain and suffering with hope and joy.

Free Orange Julius or Cinnabon with each guilty verdict

If you're in the mall looking for random parts in Radio Shack, looking to complement your wardrobe in WalMart, looking for that kicky shredded denim skirt/off the shoulder T-shirt/footless tights/ballerina flats combo in Forever 21, or are just mall rats over the age of 18 with a clean record, the sheriff of Caledonia County in Vermont would like you to exercise your civil duty as a juror.

The bus is waiting to take you to the courthouse. Don't worry - by the time you've put the Level 3 Child Molester in jail, your iced chai latte will still be there...along with a fresh, warm Cinnabon roll!

A little bit of old-school street sign influence...

The new site header is up. You might see these white signs still up in certain areas; here are some examples:

- Beacon St at the Brookline line at St. Mary's St (it still says "Boston LINE" on the top)
- Brookline Avenue at the Brookline line (ditto)
- Baker St at the Newton/Boston line
- Grove St at Dedham line (at Bussey St)
- Temple and Baker St

These white signs first appeared around the mid-60s to the late 1960s. They were taken down when the new green signs - some reflective, others not - arrived in the early 1970s.

Sign made with OpenOffice 2.3 Draw.

Vermont - home of the Upper West Side Red Diaper Baby diaspora

A real fair trade: arrest Bush, collect one way ticket back to the Upper West Side -furnished apartment and organic vegan goodies gratis. That way, the state of Vermont can finally purge itself of its faux-radicals and wannabe revolutionaries and return to its former state, free of nanny state busybodies slapping "No War for Oil" on their $60k Beemers and considering non-white persons who dare step into their co-operative automatic shoplifters.

Besides, these twits don't realize that habeas corpus works both ways. It would be very much illegal to arrest someone if they didn't commit a crime - and being pissed because the President didn't visit your state isn't that much of a criminal offense. Consider it a complement he didn't bring tanks and troops in.

Herd mentality on the MBTA

I sometimes work on Saturdays for three reasons. One, because there's no dearth of work, two, it's paid OT, and three, the MBTA operates at a much better rate than during the week. Where it's Christmas Week and school vacation week, however, the MBTA will be a lot less crowded, and I'll likely get to work somewhat earlier.

Tonight, however, I decided to make a trek to Anna's Taqueria in Central Square after work. Unbelievable burritos, and the generous amount of chips for 95 cents are well worth the journey. I also noticed that there's a Qdoba across the way; they're good too, especially for a chain restaurant, but Anna's Taqueria is worth the $7 I spent on dinner.

I took the Route 87 bus from behind Porter to Lechmere. Except for a small bottleneck in Union Square in Somerville, I got to Lechmere in pretty good time.

Then the fun started. (I plan on using heavy amounts of adult language here, so if you have young children reading this blog, be prepared to explain a lot. You also have permission to print this out and apply Wite-out to the naughty bits; otherwise, your sweet little child will repeat these words, likely to your pastor or Sunday School teacher.)

First, the white trash see-you-next-Tuesday who "threatened to smash the fucking fare gates" because her card wouldn't go through. My resolution: don't ride the train with that ultra-bitch and her boyfriend, because likely her criminal record rivaled the first ten chapters of War and Peace. This is a good time to stand way over to the side because I would like to keep certain body parts intact.

The larger problem was that the MBTA was quite a lot short on cars, and thanks to the proximity of the Cambridgeside Galleria, too many last-minute shoppers filling up the platforms. Unlike the weekdays, Green Line cars run double. Thanks to what I would call a nasty case of clusterfuck and upper managerial horseshit, there were no double cars, only single cars. No wonder the poor inspector at Lechmere was having constant conniptions and shitfits
because someone in the Green Line upper echelon figured, yeah, it's the end of the shopping season, everyone will be taking the T, we don't need those extra trains! Single cars will be more than enough!

Not only were single cars not enough, they were often overcrowded. No matter what car came forward, it was filled to capacity within seconds. And, like flies to a steaming pile of horseshit, whenever an empty car came forward, the sea of humanity followed, hoping to lay its maggot egg-like asses onto a seat. So after twenty minutes of watching the sea of idiocy try to hedge their bets on which car will get them out of this narrow platform, I figured it would be a good idea to seek out the Kendall/MIT shuttle.

Only one problem. My watch said 7:11. The last shuttle out was 6:20. Foiled - making me an idiot too for not reading the goddamn schedule.

After trying to get through the Cambridgeside Galleria, I stopped by the newsstand centered in the middle of the food court to buy lottery tickets. It was a good thing I had eaten beforehand, because the place was packed solid, and I see first hand why some people abhor Christmas and would like it banned: thanks to the psychology that commercialism and marketing offers, we turn from nice, civil people to animals without a shred of fucking courtesy or decorum. It was evident at the food court, the mall, and at Lechmere Station - the lure of deep bargains and the encouragement to empty wallets lower our defenses and our civility, and acting like some dominatrix who controls the horizontal, vertical and contrast. Outside of the city wouldn't have been better.

I finally left Cambridgeside and returned to Lechmere, which looked as if it were calming down. Nope - same large crowd, same harried inspector, same single-car trains. This time, I didn't wait too long; ten minutes and I was headed to North Station; single car, but nowhere nearly as crowded. When I arrived at North Station, the Orange Line train was coming into the station. Maximum waiting time: 90 seconds. Time at the station: 7:35pm. I was laughing out loud as I got to the train; a conversation between a group of African American girls revolved around a girl "wearing stockings."

Then I got to Forest Hills station and decided to take the Route 40/50. Normally, this would be a sleepy route, but that herd mentality of HOLY SHIT! IT'S THE LAST BUS OF THE FUCKING APOCALYPSE! GET ON THE FIRST GODDAMN BUS YOU SEE OR YOU'LL BE LEFT BEHIND TO DIE! reared its ugly head again, as the bus was packed solid. The good/bad thing is that between Roslindale Square and Forest Hills, NINE buses ply Washington Street. (Routes 30, 34, 34E, 35, 36, 37, 40, 50, 51, in case you're curious.) Most of the passengers too impatient/lazy/stupid to wait emptied out around Roslindale Square, with a few more at the Beech St projects. By the time the bus left Georgetowne and entered Cleary Square, the bus was empty. The driver stopped for some slices of pizza and returned to Forest Hills.

The herd mentality is a dangerous mentality, especially when your bus/train doesn't show up for twenty to thirty minutes. The busiest routes are the most notorious for bottlenecks. For example, Route 71 and 73 trackless trolleys run on Mount Auburn St, and if there's an accident at the Fresh Pond Parkway/Memorial Drive split, trolleys bunch up and delay, and in addition to arriving at Harvard late, it has to circle the Cambridge Common before returning to Waverley or Watertown. Also, Route 71 and Route 73 ply the same route between Harvard and the Belmont St/Watertown line, and both buses serve Mount Auburn Hospital. (What the T should do is introduce two diesel routes, e.g. Route 61 and Route 63, that run limited within that area and offer more seating and standing. At the Mt. Auburn Bridge, they can run their regular routes.)

No matter - if it's that late, riders who are legitimately late, or just like the thrill of pushing forward to display their selfish "me first" attitude, or fear that they'll be left out or left behind, rush right to any available bus and try to pile on. The opposite happens on Route 71 headed inbound from Watertown Square to Harvard. Maybe it's the residents or the suburban patina, but even when it gets crowded and packed, the herd mentality is nowhere near as bad. You'll have your odd person blocking the back door or running for the bus (to which the herd pleads with the bus driver to stop; some drivers have emptied entire buses because they would rather be on time or make up time than listen to a Greek chorus)

The first time there's an accident or a huge fight because of a delayed bus or train, no one will admit it's because they're too impatient to wait for a less crowded train, too lazy to take an earlier or later train, or too stupid to plan ahead or seek alternate routes.

For those who have lost, no greater joy is that what has been gained

I want to write a positive, heartwarming story about loss during the Christmas season, and how time will heal, but not cure, a broken heart.

Once upon a time, a man was feeding the birds in a local park. He had been widowed for the past twenty-two years, with his beloved wife of thirty-one years passing away from cancer. But instead of mourning, every year on the anniversary of her death, he took his grown children on unforgettable travel adventure. One year, it was a one-month tour of the British Isles. Another, a sun-drenched three-week cruise through the Carribean. And for the fifieth anniversary, the father and children traveled across Russia, from Moscow to the cold, harsh steppes of the Siberian forests.

Christmases were also feasts that defied description. Not only did he invite the family, he invited the neighbors. The grown children also received checks for vast sums, some of which were invested to generate even more wealth through wise investments. He made sure Christmas was a celebration, not a time to weep or mourn.

That didn't mean he never mourned at all. Quite the contrary - each day on the hour of his wife's death, he would light four candles and pray silently. One candle, a black candle, symbolized loss, in this case his wife. Another candle, a blue candle, symbolized his wife's favorite color. A pink color represented hope in desperate times. When he lit the final candle, a white candle that symbolized her new home in Heaven, only then would he allow himself to weep and shudder over that loss. Even on his trips and during Christmas, he would find a quiet spot and light the candles.

While he was feeding the birds, a woman approached him. "I see the birds are having quite a feast, like the ones you give the neighborhood." The man was shocked - how did she know about him? Then the woman said, "Your wife is quite pleased that you've carried on with your life, yet you spend time honoring her without fail. Do you know that your wife knows the sex of your grandchildren, and the time your son will be promoted?"

The man recoiled in horror. "You've got to be kidding!" The woman smiled and said, "Meet me back in a year's time."

Sure enough, not only did his daughter have twin boys, but his oldest son was promoted after years of struggling at his job. The woman returned, and the man, humbled by the prediction, finally realized who the woman really was.

"I suppose she knows the exact day I'll rejoin her."

"The next time you'll see me, I'll tell you the exact hour."

This didn't happen for at least ten years. By then, he became more and more frail, using crutches and soon, a walker. Even when his grandsons pushed him in a wheelchair to feed the pigeons, the life and sparkle in his eyes never left.

The next year, he was bedridden, too tired and frail to feed the pigeons. He shut his eyes, and the woman that he met at the park bench appeared. She wasn't dressed in a business suit like she usually was - and accompanying her was his beloved wife. The woman then said, "Now it's time." His wife gently took him by the arm, and with a quick breath, he passed from the mortal to the eternal.

Something different happened at his funeral, though. It was such a simple, understated affair compared to the adventures and parties he led. Each of his grandchildren carried a large candle to the altar - the same black, blue, pink, and yellow that the man lit at the hour of his wife's death. The youngest grandchild carried a fifth candle, which was multi-colored. It was fitting that a candle colored like this represented him the best, and per his orders, his sons and daughters wore colorful clothing and pastels; and that on the same hour of his death, the children light the five candles; and that on every year of his death, they embark on vacations and vacations that they can live that ultimate fantasy.

Dedicated to the memory of Bernard C. Colby