There have been two periods in my life in which I've considered myself a smoker. The first period was as an angst-filled teenager when I lived in England. I struck-up that first friendship with Dunhill Blues because that's what angst-filled teens in Britain seem to do. My second era of smoking began as an intercollegiate debater. Again I turned to the Dunhills, this time for the hipster cachet that accompanied them.

In the ensuing years, I've been known to pick up a pack every now and then. It's become increasingly rare, but I can always count on the circumstances that will persuade me to do so.

The Blues often have been my friend on a drink-filled night in any of a number of smokey environs. I don't really drink much anymore, though, so they haven't come along for that adventure in a long time.

I also can count on picking up a pack when I'm stressed. It's the ritual that attracts me then. There's something cathartic about smoking when it feels like the world is spinning out of control. The ritual forces you to take at least a momentary break.

When I'm feeling down I also feel the draw of my friend the Blues. This one's a bit harder to explain. I guess it just provides me something to think about other than what happens to be taxing my emotions. A simple little exercise that doesn't seem so heavy.

Today I stopped and picked up a pack as part of a seemingly pointless and non-stop trek through the lonely streets of Manhattan. Sure, tobacco is a dangerous friend. But a friend that I rarely get to play with and one that I swear off of after a couple of crazy excursions. Sometimes it's nice to reacquaint yourself with a long-lost devilish sidekick.