L.S.M.F.T.

Maybe it was Monday or just one of those days when you do what you want to do -- because. It was a good productive day at the office. I good friend stopped by to discuss a project. Another buddy called to tell of his lover's quarrel. I secured my visa for China so it was good to go on Saturday for ten days. A girlfriend gave me a pass on seeing her tonight. My daughter had good tidings to talk about.
I could go home and throw together some dinner but it was after seven. The local Gus O’Connor’s had not seen me for a while. After a couple Boddington ales and a bowl of mussels, I was feeling at ease. Contentment was not coming easily because I neglected to mention a phone call from my business partner in Germany. Klaus is dealing with some paranoia that I refuse to get wrapped up in. Such efforts I can find within myself. After dinner, I was toying with sampling some good Irish whiskey but I drove home. A Cuban Cigar came to mind. A good friend from Germany had sent a Cohiba, La Habana Cuba cigar along with other indulgent paraphernalia for my birthday last year. I quit smoking twenty-six years ago. Why should I think of that now? I found a box of matches from my Turkish Hotel Armada, reopened the birthday present, and sat on the backdoor stoop. Gosh, how I relished those seductive fumes. It was a personification of freedom. I could not permit my addictive character for a chance to inhale but the ghastly aroma was levitating. Sure I had to spit the damned saliva. I thought of uncorking a vintage Lafite Rothschild. Better yet, a bottle of Jack Daniels had been undisturbed in my cupboard for some years so I filled a glass of Waterford.
Was there the same taste for freedom at fourteen when I first took a pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes from my Dad? Not exactly but I remember sitting on the railroad tracks finding an exhilaration of just being a guy. Lucky Strike Means Fine Tobacco.