This was gonna be about Thabalolo, the first HIV positive person that I've known here in Bots to move on to the next life. I was gonna write about how somewhere between 25 and 40% of the population is infected. How no one talks about the disease, how shame surrounds those infected, how they often wait until they're too far gone for the anti-virals provided by government health care to make a difference or how the elders still tell the young people that condom use is white man's population control weapon.
But all of that depresses me, so instead this post is about tobacco and nudie mags.
I was with my first friend, Ed. We met at the age of six and have had many adventures. The one we're concerned with today involved the above mentioned items and a barn that housed hay and an old Model A Ford.
Ed lifted a couple of smokes from his mom's purse, then we headed down to the farm. There we acquired a couple of vintage Playboys. We climbed up into the loft and lit the smokes. After a cough or two, we had the hang of it so we busted out the bustys.
When the time came to ash the cigarettes, we looked around and were smart enough(but not that smart, keep reading) not to put ashes on the hay. Nor could we sully up Candy Loving's spread. I held out my hand. Since we weren't yet expert huffers, one of the cherries came off the end of the cigarette and burned my palm when it made contact. I let out a little yelp and shook it out of my hand. Back to the boobies.
By the time we got to the Party Jokes, the cherry had grown into a little fire on the dried hay. Ed and I stomped the holy hell out of it and then made a run for it. No way we wanted to get caught with Playboys, cigarettes, or a burnt down barn.
Sadly, no one from the next generation will get to have that sort of memory in the barn. Partly because porn is now downloaded from the web instead of found in the back of the closet under Grandpa's hunting shirts and partly because the barn fell down a couple of days ago.
Such a wonderful sort of haunting.
5 hours ago