Far From Neutral Notions - Philippine politics, culture and stuff

There is a sublime pleasure involved in letting acrid smoke pass through my nostrils, down to my lungs, holding it in for a moment, and exhaling, with the lingering hint of menthol around my inner cheeks as I down a glass of ice-cold cola. I’ve abused my share of (legal, wink wink) substances, but nothing comes close to this, the sweet combination of cigarettes and caffeine. It is a rush — albeit psychological — that is unparalleled. It is also bad for the health: mine, and yours, if you’re around me. For that, I apologize.

Friends, officemates and even brief acquaintances know me for one of several things: my music, my art, my concerns, my uncharacteristic interest in sports, or, in rare circumstances, this blog. But for those that have met me personally, there’s one characteristic that is universally known: I smoke. Like a chimney.

It’s like a crutch, really. I can’t do much of anything without a puff or six, but the boost it gives is epiphanic, to say the least. I can waste several nicotine-less hours thinking about something that I can conceptualize after five minutes spent smoking. I’m weak and addicted, but I’m young-ish enough to not care, yet.

Coupled with the boost of caffeine that only Coke can give me, well, let’s just say that some of my most memorable conversations wouldn’t have happened without their help. My friend Allan calls them the 3 C’s: Coke, cigarettes and conversation, with Coke interchangeable with coffee.

That said, I somewhat support the anti-smoking initiatives of the cities of Makati, Pasig and the like, although I believe it’s a fairly futile and inutile solution. But then, their campaign is politically driven, and that’s a fatal flaw to any endeavor, well-meaning or otherwise. Because the trick really isn’t in legislation. I’d still find a way to smoke in Makati, in Pasig. It’s not that hard, even inside buildings.

The trick is in realizing that smokers like myself need help, and a pretty good reason, to quit. The trick is not to treat us as vagabonds and ne’r-do-wells, but as, well, victims. You can’t make me stop by yelling at me, but you can help me help myself.

Case in point, the head of security at the building I work at talked to me one time about my habit of smoking in the indoor parking area, which is a non-smoking zone. I’ve been in that situation before, and I thought I knew what to expect. He surprised me, though, because he talked to me. Not yelled, not admonished, just talked. I listened. It worked, too. I still smoke, but as a result, I haven’t smoked inside the building in months, and every day I’m that much closer to making my mind up and quitting. For good. Honest.

I leave you with this moment of Zen:

And a woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is a smoke.

Rudyard Kipling

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