When my husband Soren was in his early twenties, he and his hooligan buddy Jay used to cruise the country in Jay’s Oldsmobile Eighty Eight — just two Montana boys, one enormous car, and the open road. They smoked, of course. Jay had mounted a bronze globe cigarette holder on the dashboard of the car for easy access. He’s smooth like that.
Soren eventually inherited the globe. But by the time I met him it was mysteriously broken. Too many tobacco-stained fingers yanking at the orb’s northern hemisphere had finally taken a toll. Soren tried to show me how it had once worked, but it just wasn’t the same. The explanation ruined it.
I generally don’t approve of hooliganism or smoking, but Soren loved that globe. So I found a shiny functional one on ebay, and I bought it. He was ecstatic. And we both agree it’s the coolest thing we own.
Urban Cholita 