“You can tell a lot ‘bout someone based on what kind of cigarettes they smoke”

Most of my life’s been spent outlining useless theories that, ultimately, never held any substance. I’d go to local shows for bands I envied, or attend house parties held by owners I vaguely knew existed, or sit outside waiting for life to come to me, large Dunkin’ regular in hand. One of my early adolescent mentors called this habit ‘People Watching’. To him, it was the mark of some [sort of] out-of-step genius. To me, it felt like the type of beautiful, cliche thought experiment a millennium philosopher would absolutely occupy their time with. Of course I fell in love with the idea.

As I practiced the craft, however, I grew disillusioned with it. The key components to People Watching involved distancing oneself from the subjects. For me, it felt more natural to physically engage in casual conversation . Not that I ever, you know, initiated these talks. They just…came to me. Someone always approached me, always confessed their entire life stories, always opened their hearts and souls, or at least isolated portions of them. The Universe’s wind continuously left chance encounters at my feet, regardless whether I asked for them or not. So I did what felt right — I went along with it. Townies. Tourists. Homeless bums. College kids walking to and from class. Anyone. If complete strangers started talking, I started listening.

It was (and still is) the only time I actually shut up for five minutes.

The problem was I never left my head. No matter how intense the topic, how unique the individual, my eyes always wandered, picking up the tiniest details and meaningless characteristics. Who was the emoji-named lover this person was texting?, what fashion trend did they embody?, where did their hometown accent come from?, why did they keep their left hand buried in their jean pocket, or why didn’t they?, how the fuck did their Fate line up perfectly with mine to make our interaction possible? Despite how easy it was for me to talk, I rarely could relate. Fifteen minutes later, and we would never speak again…

I avoided the issue by playing another one of philosophy’s pretentious games — the game of ‘Observation’. It’s a game played by only the most self-centered, most disgusting thinkers, and it’s sincerely solitary. Every stranger appeared to be my equal, but truthfully they were pawns for me to later dissect into examples. Humane traits became collected points within my mind’s never-ending charts. Commonalities blossomed into definitive rules. If he offered me a white lighter, I could trust him (but not the lighter). If she couldn’t walk home in an autumn drizzle, I would probably adore her (even though I shouldn’t). If you and I shared a similar interest in a slew of senseless pop culture bullshit, and you did most of the talking for the fifteen minutes the Universe granted us, I’d do everything in my power to have you give me your number in hopes that we might form some sort of fated bond. If I could formulate a theory of Who Someone Was based around minute attributes I caught within a short timespan, then I could avoid honestly getting to know people. Everyone was a specimen confined to my narcissistically infallible Philosopher King system. It was piety; it was pathetic; it was downright gross!

Correlation doesn’t always mean causation, thankfully. Individual spirits are more than how they appear to be on the physical surface. Human beings are complex creatures, and what you start to love most about a person is often the things you never expected. By permanently residing in my own intellect, I excluded myself from reality. Life, as they say, can be beautiful. Life — in all its twisted chaos, in all its random unknowns, in all its grit and dirt and lackluster shine and lowlife truth — can only be beautiful when it’s real. So I promised to stop playing worthless games. There are days, particularly certain situations, when it’s hard as all hell to resist the game’s lure. I’m constantly working to quit. Some day I will. Theories are rarely built to last, anyway, especially once put to the test. Thank god. All my immature thoughts fell apart with time.

All, of course, except one, and it’s unfortunately the one that led to all the others… “You can tell a lot ‘bout someone based on what kind of cigarettes they smoke.”

Shorts/Kings: The typical masculine cigarette. Shorts are for people who believe smoking makes them manly/“one of the guys”.

100s: The typical feminine cigarette. 100s are for people who believe smoking is classy/beautiful. Also the common choice for anyone pushing a pack-a-day.

72s: For people trying to quit, but (for some reason or another) can’t seem to make the final leap into going cold turkey.

120s: The ultimate feminine cigarette. 120s also tend to be slimmer to give off a more elegant, haute couture look reminiscent of when cigarette holders were in style.

83s: Oddly enough, 83s burn slower than any other length. Virtually no one knows that, though, so people who smoke 83s are few and far between. If someone does smoke them, then it’s safe to assume that either a) they like standing outside for inhuman amounts of time, or b) they’re money situation is tight and they’re trying to get the most out of their smoking habits.

*Pall Mall shorts are really 83s, so this rule (usually) doesn’t apply to them.

Full Flavors [Red]: Meaningless. The brand is what matters when someone smokes full flavors.

Lights [Golds/Blues]: Most people agree that smoking lights is a sign of someone trying to quit. This is simply not true. Since they aren’t as harsh as full flavored, it’s easier to smoke more of them. I’d argue lights to be associated with new smokers, drunk smokers, or older, pack-a-day smokers. Lights have the aura of being feminine; I’ve come to see this as a mirage.

Ultra-Lights [Silvers/Oranges]: Here, the feminine quality is sincere. Ultra-lights and “girly-girls” almost go hand-in-hand. When visualizing the cliche the 1950's housewife, or the Hollywood sorority girl, one must do so with a pack of ultra-lights in mind. It’s by no means a rule of thumb that only women smoke them, but sometimes the cliche is too dominant to ignore.

Menthol: The low-lives’ flavor of choice. High school dropouts, manual labor workers, kids well out of college still working retail or food service jobs, and anyone who comes from a relatively poor upbringing. Menthols signify calluses on someone’s hands.

Blacks: The worst of the low-lives smoke Blacks. Menthol smokers are sincere; Black smokers are posers trying to look less successful than they are. The metalheads, the outcasts, and the burnouts all believe Blacks are the epitome of “cool”. Every crust punk in history has smoked them. Failures…bums bound to go nowhere…after a long enough time, they fulfill their own prophecy.

Unfiltered: Old souls who were “born too late,” who reminisce for eras they never would’ve enjoyed had they lived through whatever time they’ve come to romanticize. Also, these people read too deeply into everything.

***Here I will use the typical Full-Flavor as a foil, unless otherwise noted***

Marlboro: The hardest working, most sincere people you will ever meet all smoke Marlboro. Forget the “cowboy killer” archetype. This rule goes for both blue-collared and white-collared individuals. And trust me when I say, it runs eerily deep on both ends of the Western class-based spectrum.

Camels: If they possess even the faintest hint of a creative spark in their soul, I’d be willing to bet they smoke Camels. This is why Art School campuses are polluted with them.

Pall Malls: These people read way too much. Sure, they take the time to educate themselves, but they rarely take the time to think for themselves. Instead of contributing to society, they’d rather sit around and talk in circles. This is also why most of the low-lives I know smoke Pall Malls.

*They’re also incredibly cheap and taste disgusting. Anyone who doesn’t wonder why this is must be too caught up in their own mind to ask stimulating questions.*

L&Ms: In Europe, L&Ms tend to be somewhat of a mid-range smoke on par with Marlboros and Camels. In America, they’re a bastardized version of Pall Malls, but still taste better. When someone smokes L&Ms, it simply means they’re too broke to buy their “true” brand [Camels or Marlboros], but want to look at least somewhat sophisticated.

Parliaments: Never trust someone who smokes Parliaments. They’re pretentious, they’re arrogant, they’re judgmental, and they will find a way to ruin you.

Kools: There was a time when I vowed never to trust someone who smokes Kools. I can safely assume this had everything to do with my obsessive love for Paul Thomas Anderson films, since his antagonists smoke Kools. As time’s gone on, though, I’ve noticed that it has little to do with trustworthiness. Rather, every Kools smoker seems to have a deeply rooted gambling addiction. It doesn’t make them bad people, but they do often come across as shady. That, or they were obsessed with Paul Thomas Anderson films.

Winstons: Townies and suburbanites around the world have come to claim Winstons as their brand. They are stuck in their ways. They will never change. Nothing you try to tell them will convince them otherwise.

Newports: Everyone who smokes Newports has an incredibly strong sense of ‘Home’. Sometimes they feel a deep connection with their heritage, but only if they were raised in a very *Insert-Nationality-Here*-American household. These’re people who could live 10,000 miles away for 20+ years and their accent will remain as thick as it was the day the moved.

*Fuck anyone who tries to joke about Newports being racial. That’s the furthest thing from the truth.*

American Spirits: These are the cutest and coolest hippies in the world. If they’re over the age of 30, they used to do a lot of drugs. If they’re under the age of 35, they do a lot of drugs. They started smoking them for ethical reasons, but continue smoking them as a way to hold onto their youth while blossoming into responsible yuppies.

Virginia Slims: Independent, brilliant, beautiful, successful. When a woman smokes Virginia Slims, listen to whatever life advice she subtly gives. Like, this is everything the Feminist Movement stands for! Sure, the original slogan — “We’ve come a long way” — had a lot to do with this connection, but these women are still some of the best people to talk to. The only way Virginia Slims could be more Feminist is if a few more yuppie men and a few less cranky old ladies smoked them.

Knock-off Virginia Slims (Capris/Eves/Mistys/Malibus/etc.): Rich middle-aged women exclusive smoke these. I don’t care how they acquired their wealth. It could’ve been through inheritance, marriage, or gained independently; all I know is these women have a surplus of money and they are willing to spend $10+ on cheaply produced knock-offs. The real thing always tastes better.

Carltons: If it’s a woman — she smokes Menthol, wears an unsettling amount of neon eyeshadow, and is only nice to people who are nice to her first. If it’s a man — he has no defining characteristics, but is so friendly that some days it becomes nauseating.

Salems: Introverts. They always seem like nice people, though.

Djarum (Blacks): Drunk smoker.

Pyramids/Basic: Junky.

Nat Shermans: Meaningless. No one honestly claims Nat Shermans as their brand.

Lucky Strikes: People who genuinely believe themselves to be geniuses smoke Lucky Strikes on the reg’. They never are. But after one drag, it’s understandable why they believe that self-imposed lie. Best smoked at infrequent intervals.

U.S.A. Golds: Sober, these are literally the grossest cigarettes you will ever have. Under the influence, they are the closest I have ever personally felt to experiencing Heaven. I couldn’t tell you if it was the irony that killed me, or the asphalt clogging up my lungs. Either way, they’re gorg’.

Merits: My Dad used to smoke Merit Golds 100s [soft pack] prior to the Great Recession. I have no idea what that means.

Mavericks: My Mom started to smoke Maverick Gold 100s toward the end of the Great Recession, after she picked up her third job. I have no idea what this means.

Benson & Hedges: A weird cult revolves around Benson & Hedges. For starters, a good number of pretenious rock stars seem to claim these are their “brand of choice”. Like Pattie Boyd, a handful of songs have been written by various admirers in their honor. It’s impossible to find Benson & Hedges on a whim. Every blend’s box looks the same, and they all have ridiculous names. (For example, the full-flavors are Premium, the lights are Deluxe, etc.) People usually bring along an old pack to show the cashier what they’re asking for. The cashier will screw up and ring in the wrong kind. I found out recently that, when my Mom was in her early-20s, she smoked Benson & Hedges Deluxe Menthols exclusively. Victoria smoked Benson & Hedges Premium…I assume she still does. These facts have no correlation. I don’t know what any of this truly means…

But then again, you can’t derive an entire person’s soul from one tiny aspect of their life…