Much to the chagrin of my libertarian and anarchist friends, I'm glad the American Cancer Society-backed proposition to limit public smoking passed here in Arizona. I don't mind accompanying my friends outside when they have a cigarette -- preferably an Export A or equivalent on a rainy night -- but know my respiratory system will find concert-going and other forms of carousing a lot easier if there's no smoke inside clubs and bars.
It's a little ironic, then, that I walk around the house saying, "Smokes!," whenever I see our adorable girl cat, almost as though I'm forced to find an outlet for the decadence I wish to suppress. But I become unreasonably happy just looking at her:Don't you want to walk up and give her a nudge? Nicotine addiction is pretty fierce, but the need to run one's hands over soft fur is just as strong. I'd better stop: this is one of the strangest entries I've ever composed. Before I do, though, let me enjoin you all to pour out a Mickey's for Rick Santorum, a Senator with the rare distinction to have had a mixture of bodily fluids named after him.
