and the worst are stoned to death at the north pole...or else forced to quit smoking

In approximately forty-nine days and eighteen hours I will be in the north pole. This is no ruse, dear reader: in less than two months, yours truly will be wrapped up in layers of polypropylene and wool, donning thick mountaineering boots and a heavy duty jacket, and armed with the massive afro-puff of hair on my head which retains %250 body heat. I will be shivering and wet, unable to feel my fingers or toes, trudging around in rain and/or snow and/or hellfire, chipping mineral samples or something of that nature from rocks and examining them. Most importantly, I will (god willing) be taking notes for a longer fiction or non-fiction piece when I return.

In order to survive the conditions in said geographical location, I have been advised to quit smoking. This is good advice. In fact, this is not only good advice in light of my forthcoming expedition, but it's simply (gasp) good advice in general. Having had my first experience with nicotine at the age of twelve, I've found it increasingly difficult as the years have passed to refrain from using said substance.

But I mean it this time.

I think.

I realize that smoking causes all sorts of nasty cancer. I also realize that I have a long family history of cancer. I also realize that I die walking up the five flights of steps to Morey Hall every morning and walking up the three flights of steps to my tiny room in the attic of my house every evening. When I wake up every morning, I can hear the wheezing of my breath as I lay in bed. I cough up brown things. My room, my car and my clothes smell like smoke. My life smells like cigarettes.

Fact*: %99 of the universe is disgusted by the smell of cigarettes.

Therefore, %99 percent of the universe finds me disgusting. This poses a problem.

And what else poses a problem?

My compulsion to smoke while driving, walking to class, walking back from class, before meals, after meals, while I'm drinking water, while I'm drinking beer, while I'm writing, reading, sneezing, coughing, choking, farting, showering, having my yearly physical, walking my dog, walking my cat, talking on the phone, talking to myself, after sex, before sex, during sex, while paying my credit card bill, while buying cigarettes, while setting my alarm clock before going to sleep, and yes, dearest reader, even while sleeping.

May I proceed?

I spoke with a doctor about a drug I've heard about called Chantix. Besides sounding like the name of a fetal cat indigenous to New Guinea or one of the working girls you can find down on Lyell Ave, Chantix--

"CHANTIX™ (varenicline) is non-nicotine prescription medicine specifically developed to help adults quit smoking." (http://www.chantix.com)

If you're afraid that this is about to turn into a ringing endorsement for godforsaken Pfizer, don't fear. Actually, I don't really have anything to say about it yet. I've been taking the stuff for 7 days, and tomorrow is my quit date. More anon.

But the arctic! I know very little about it so far, other than that I will be accompanied by Professors Joanna Scott and John Tarduno as well as one English graduate student Katie Van Wert (I believe I've gotten the name right) as well as X number of geology students (I really know nothing so far as that is concerned). And for free!

As of now, the itinerary looks like we'll begin in Rochester, fly to Ottawa, then take a small plane to Iqaluit, then take a helicopter to Resolute Island, where we'll be for ten days, and then backtrack along the same path. I may very well be the first Jew to ever grace Resolute Island. ברוך השם!

This probably isn't even true. It occurs to me now though that if the whole Israel-Palestine thing doesn't work out they can always move one of them to the arctic. Plenty of space.

Unfortunately, this little trip is going to end up causing some problems in my life...serious problems. But I'll save that for next time.

Goodnight you princes [and princesses] of Maine, you kings [and queens] of New England!

David