“Nasty Habits” by Grand Ole Party
This past Friday I went to Vouyer, a nightclub in Philly’s Gayborhood that also plays host to DJ Dave P’s semi-regular indie/dance behemoth party, Making Time. Last time I went to one of those, I bummed cigarettes mercilessly from my friend Cat, even though I no longer smoke.
This time I figured I’d atone for my past moochery – and thwart any inevitable near-future moochery – by buying a pack in advance for us to share. Nope, still not a smoker. But it was unsettling how readily all those instinctive behaviors came back to me.
It started, waiting outside for the group to show up, by flipping the pack over and smacking it swiftly on my wrist to pack the tobacco down. This allegedly makes the cigs burn longer, but I’ve seen no evidence of that and figure that honestly it’s just deeply wired nic-fiend OCD.
From there, the stupid superstition an ex-girlfriend taught me: counting each cigarette in front while spelling the name of your significant other. When you stop, flip over the one next to it for good luck. I started doing this, realized my fiancee’s name is seven letters (ie. the entire first row, meaning there was no cigarette next to it to flip) and furthermore that this practice definitely never brought me good luck with relationships in the past. And wishing my fiancee to remain my fiancee, I checked myself and simply pulled out a random cigarette to smoke.
While smoking, I bummed out to people – used to do this too, freely and frequently. It was a way to rationalize my own bumming when I was broke. In this case, I bummed to two people who then tried to sell me drugs. (“Got some KINEBUD, man! Great PARTY material!”) Should taken this as a bad omen of the post-cabin fever bacchanalia the night had in store: I was later caught in the crosshairs of not one but two near-fights, both between friends and strangers. Liquor was spilt. Glasses were lost. But that’s another story for another time.
Finishing up the cigarette, I rolled it’s butt between my thumb and forefingers to drop the last embers to the ground. I stomped them out and found a trashcan to dispose of the butt – used to do this to avoid littering as well as accidental arson.
Cat and I (and some surrounding friends) collectively ripped through two-thirds of the pack that night. By the time I returned it to her on Monday (we got separated when the bands started and they were with me), six cigarettes remained and I wound up bumming two of em after a particularly frustrating meeting at the radio station. For all my good intentions, I don’t think I honestly balanced out the Karmac universe much – though Cat said it was more smokes then she woulda had otherwise and she appreciated it.
Despite all this, and to reiterate, I still don’t consider myself a smoker. Why? Once I admit this – even if I were to couch it with the word “casual” or “lite” or god forbid “social” – I open myself to more frequent impulsive purchases and slips of resistance. It took me too long to quit-quit that I’m not risking this. Plus, did you know cigarettes are like $6 a pack now? Fuck that.
Still, the readiness with which I fell right back into the behavioral trappings of a habit that took forever to break were frightening. In this swaggery number by San Diego trio Grand Ole Party (yeah, you were wondering when I was going to get to the song, weren’t you?) they argue that habitual behavior – in their case, lust, natch – is what defines us and our personalities. That it should be embraced, not broken. Part of me agrees with them. And part of me sees it as wimpy excuse-making, avoiding the confrontation of your personal failings. And that part therefore sees the agreeable part as a hung-up compulsive.
And frankly, I’m not sure which to believe.
LISTEN: “Nasty Habits” [buy Humanimals]
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