Today is the first day, of my fifth try, at quitting smoking. Say this mantra with me: “I love carrots, I love carrots, I love carrots, I love carrots . . . .” How dare they (in the generic, I have no specific idea who discovered this information, and why they want to torture me specifically, I know it’s personal, it must be)! How dare they find out that smoking is bad for you! Bastards. Son(s) . . . or . . . Daughter(s) of a poopieheads. As if “Death and Taxes” (Thank you Dorothy Parker for the lovely title) weren’t enough, all small pleasures must be placed into the “oh, no you don’t” category: overeating, smoking . . . voting. I love carrots. I love carrots. In our postmodern world of fractured identities and ideologies, can you blame a person for wanting a coping machination which allows that person to check out for a moment, feeling the capitalist Zen? What? What’s that you say? Television? Yes, well, you have a point. Television is that “check out” machination—that ticket to oblivion—glossy eyed, mine numbing, brain kicking drug. Which am I willing to give up first? Cigarettes or TV? Winstons or “I Want to be a Hilton?” I love carrots. I love carrots. . . Hum, braking up the word Winstons, you get WINS – TON? Is this a subliminal message? I am not a “Marlboro Smoker” but a WINS-TON smoker, making me better than you! I love carrots. I love carrots. I love carrots. . .