I miss the candela wrapper.
Twenty or so years ago, one could hardly get away from that green monster (or fairy, as the case may have been). Good Heavens, I was all but ready to throw rocks at the next son of a biscuit eater that shoved a candela in my face and extolled its magnificence.
"I'm a maduro smoker, dagnabbit. Don't put that frappin' pea pod, zucchini looking thing in my face again and expect me to be cool about it. Get outta here with that abomination!"
Dadgumminest thing, though: I liked it. I sure as mother's love didn't want it often (much less all the time), but nothing beat it for a change of pace. These babies were the candela gin to my maduro whisky. I need both.
I fully appreciate that I am part of the problem about which I complain and that I had some part, small as it may be, in realizing it. But, still . . .
Where have all the green sticks gone?
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Where Have All the Green Sticks Gone?
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