 "Photo: T.J. Patrick - MUSE STAFF")
If there is one thing I have learned during my four goiter-inducing years at this magical, manure-scented hayride of a university it’s that there are just some habits way too expensive for me to even bother forming.
Tae Bo, with my old pal and martial arts B-movie extra, Billy Blanks, is one such habit that I thought I could handle. However, it wound up being one of the most wallet-draining habits of all time. Everything was fine and dandy at first: a kick here, a punch there, the occasional leg lift. But one day, Mr. Blanks decided to become a puppet for the fast food deli chain industry. He was soon using his puffy workout gloves to clench cold cut trios in ads for a sandwich chain that shall remain unnamed. Shortly after Mr. Blanks joined the unholy army of the sandwich, chips and medium diet Coke regime, a new recruit was hired. This young soldier was a formerly obese male from Bloomington, Ind. and is a living, (heavily) breathing (and constantly sweating) example of how any typical cholesterol-stuffed American can lose weight and still enjoy a variety of seven hearty sandwiches containing only six grams of fat or less.
Everything had snowballed. It started with Tae Bo and that high-stepping idiot and ended with my insatiable hunger for foot-long asagio Caesar chicken sandwiches in freshly baked parmesan oregano bread, flavored with only a small drip of mildly sweet honey mustard. I was soon broke and had to turn to lesser habits. Smoking, I quickly learned was not such a habit.
In researching what I was to now call my new habit, I had to get the “inside scoop” on the places that supply smokers with their treasured goods. So in a typical journalistic fashion I sauntered about the city of Boston harassing and tossing lemon meringue pies at anyone one willing to provide me with information. The first stop was Sugar Daddy’s in our very own Kenmore Square.
The outside of this small shop is moderately decorated with some psychedelic colors, a drawing of an alien and some signs stating that it is a “chills authorized dealer” and sells “hand-rolled cigars and humidors.” In order to enter the shop, one must provide a valid ID with proof of age. Only those 18 and over are allowed in to see the graphic images of nudity, snuff and Gilbert Godfrey that wait inside. The shop is often cluttered with annoying college kids seeking to start a new expensive habit of their own. It is actually your typical, run-of-the-mill bong and cigar shop. The glass cases and counter tops are furnished like a room from a stoner’s wet dream. Bongs (waterpipe is a must-use term in the shop, unless you wish to guarantee your immediate expulsion from the store), pipes, hookas, filters, cigars, cigarettes, cloves, lighters, throwing knives, and other accessories cover every inch of space. There are even free authentic jumping beans for those who wish to watch a leaping Phaseolus for many mind-altering hours on end.
I approached the gentleman (who I assume is the manager of the store) for a brief Q&A session, only to be denied the opportunity and offered a free lollipop from a selection of assorted Chupa Chups and Moofus Pops.
“Sorry, we don’t speak to the press,” he said.
A bit disappointed with Sugar Daddy’s and suffering from a diabetic fit from the exceptionally sweet cream pop, I wanted to head somewhere that would lift my spirits without altering my brain chemistry. Nicotine was not the answer, so I thought a little clothes shopping would suit me well. I made a trip to Hempest on 207 Newbury Street. This little trip was special, not because I witnessed students foolishly donate money to a talentless “street performer” whose mic was merely a shower-head on a stand; nor was it the “homeless” man on a bike who insisted I give him change because he could relate to me and my Yankees cap. No, this trip was special because I learned a little bit about Woody Harrelson’s philosophy and religion.
This fashion boutique can be considered aptly named, since every item sold consists of hemp in one form or another. Items included clothes, rope, shoes, oils, candles, and various literatures on hemp. The prices for a short-sleeved men’s shirt ranged from $50 to $78. Mostly everything was some sort of earth tone color, from the hemp-silk blend underwear to the Cambridge Soundworks system that was supplying the country blues grass that was the store’s ambience.
I asked one of the sales representatives about the benefits of hemp and he provided insight on such things as the pesticides used on cotton crops, the creation of paper, fuels, and how alternatives such as hemp and organic cotton provide little to no harmful environmental problems while replenishing the soil from which it comes. I told him I wear nothing but non-biodegradable disposable boxers and he clenched his heart in fear for the world, and because he was suffering from heartburn due to his filet mignon dinner the night before.
When asked why a boutique would sell items such as waterpipes when they do not sell tobacco, he responded, “Those aren’t waterpipes. They are hand-blown glass art. We had a demand for such art, and decided to support the artists involved.” I have never considered a quadruple chamber acrylic waterpipe with three water filtration chambers and ice chamber art, but maybe I am just old-fashioned.
With some new knowledge in my head, and the “Hemp Manifesto: 101 ways that hemp can save our world” in my hand, I repeated ways 34 and 35 out loud to the denizens of Newbury Street – “Hemp can save our world because it’s patriotic.” On that note I went to the most American smoke shop I could think of, a place where my newly adapted habit would be accepted and respected as a symbol of class. I went to Cigar Masters, just a few yards away on 176 Newbury St.
Cigar Masters caters to the white collar American who laughs in the face of cancer and really thinks that George Burns is God. Self-titled, “Boston’s First Cigar Café,” this posh cigar bar sits on the most American strip of Newbury Street — beside Ben & Jerry’s and across the street from the Wireless Resource. In an act of tremendously brilliant cruelty on the behalf of the Cigar Masters marketing team, a 100 percent Cuban male in his mid-40s sits outside the posh smoker’s lounge. He sits on his poorly assembled wood chair and performs the tedious task of making cigars on his table of equally poor construction. Soccer moms and their children stand by and watch this man as a networking executive named Jim puffs on his Hashton’s inside the bar, playing chess. Simply brilliant.
Be the first to comment on this article!