UPDATE: This story below, about a mysterious lucky smoker, was published under the title "Smoker's Luck" two days ago. Now, in a stunning development, the lucky smoker has posted a comment (#36 in the comments section).

***

Smoking is dirty. Smoking is disgusting. Smoking kills. Right?

I certainly didn't need convincing. Last month I shot an episode of Law and Order: Criminal Intent. I was playing TK Richmond, an extortionist gossip columnist who gets blown up in his car. Peter Blauner's script for the episode was first-rate, so I was thrilled.

Except that I needed to smoke. As readers of this blog know I've never smoked pot. In part this is because the one time I smoked a cigarette I nearly fell to my death.

I was a 16 year old summer acting student at the North Carolina School of the Arts in Winston-Salem. The students would cluster on top of these giant stone blocks in the courtyard and smoke. When I finally scaled one of the blocks and took my first drag of my first cigarette the buzz was overwhelming. My head began spinning, and it was all I could do to grab hold of one of the other black-clad brooding would-be Hamlets.

It was clear: smoke was not welcome in my lungs.

But with my stint on CI, I was faced with a choice: my art or my health. DeNiro famously gained 320 pounds for Raging Bull. And TK was my LaMotta. So I chose art. And boy did I suffer for it.

The office scene was the second to last I was to shoot. I was at my typewriter, on the phone pressing one of the subjects of my column to make a pay-off. I didn't have to type -- just talk on the phone while I was smoking. (Not a tall order. Burt Lancaster in Sweet Smell of Success managed to type, smoke and talk on the phone simultaneously.)

But I was committed to beginning my line on a smoky exhale -- and we were using filterless Camels. And so I began puffing, then inhaling deeply. Even typing this now nauseates me -- and for good reason. After 11 Camels, I stood up, moved into the kitchen set for my final scene ... and began violently heaving. If only there'd been a vomiting scene in the script, I would have come away with an Emmy. (Even as I was hurling into a trash can, I felt badly for the crew. I knew they wanted to bust out laughing and I understood why. I'm a really loud vomiter. But they were total pros.)

The Method approach hadn't worked. Languishing over the trash can, the ghost of Olivier came to me: "Try acting ... it's much easier." I wiped the upchucked grits from the corners of my mouth and returned to set, resolved never again to smoke.

But that was before I met Adrian Moreira.



TO BE CONTINUED! (I have to eat my oatmeal, then go see my personal trainer, Isaac. It's a back and biceps day. I'll be back with the conclusion later.)

***

AND NOW THE CONCLUSION OF "SMOKER'S LUCK" ...

"There's no point. They just don't fit," I said to Joe, the salesman at De La Sole Footwear in the Castro section of San Francisco.

I'd spent the previous day at the World's Ugliest Dog Contest in Petaluma, where the winner Gus, a three-legged, one-eyed Chinese crested, tried to rip my face off. (I'd be in a foul mood, too, if droves of people were pointing at me, cooing "Isn't he uuuuugly?")

Now I was headed to the airport but stopped at De La Sole to pick up a pair of Clae sneakers, the hottest kicks around. When it was clear they didn't have my size, Joe began scrawling their website information. That's when I suddenly realized my flight was taking off in less than 80 minutes.

I sprinted to my Mitsubishi rental. (Ooh, I just realized that spell-check recognizes Mitsubishi but doesn't recognize Obama. They'll have to update that.) And I tore through the streets of San Francisco, en route to SFO. The Avis agent was a blur as I ran for the monorail to take me to my terminal.

It was on the airport train that I saw a mysterious man with striking Nelson Rockefeller frames. We didn't speak. We didn't need to. We knew that we were both headed to New York on American Airlines with e-tickets that needed to be printed more than a half-hour before takeoff ... and our flight was departing in 33 minutes! The tension was unbearable.

As soon as the train doors opened at Terminal 3, we began running. Running hard. It became a competition for that one special seat. (Irrational, since I instinctively knew he was aisle, I a window.) The mysterious man had at least three lengths on me when the American Airlines counter came into view. It looked like I would have to live with the silver medal, when suddenly he stopped. He just crapped out in front of United. I flew past and printed my e-ticket with one minute to spare.

Moments later the man I'd come to know as Adrian stumbled up to the next monitor, defeated -- like Eight Belles, just waiting to get shot.

"Congratulations," he gasped, conceding victory. "You made it. That's what I get for smoking." He hardly needed to swipe his credit card. It was 29 minutes before takeoff. There would be no e-ticket for Adrian. We shook hands, then parted.

I felt so proud, so healthy, like a giant winner. I trotted through security, all smiles, and nestled into my exit row window seat. How blessed was I? The woman next to me was fine-boned and narrow-shouldered, even if she did have a gigantic head. It was like sitting next to a Bratz Doll. Not once did she invade my space.

For a moment I wondered if Adrian would ever make it back to New York. (Flights these days are filled to capacity.) Then I forgot all about him.

***

Then yesterday I was returning from a visit to Dr. Saguaro. I was walking down Fifth Avenue, not a care in the world, when out of the corner of my eye I saw Adrian! He was smoking outside his office building. (It turns out he works at J Records.)

"Hi!" I said, genuinely surprised, before I took it down a few notches. I didn't want to sound so perky, especially after his humiliating episode. I lowered my gaze. "You didn't make the flight ... did you?" I said in my best condolence voice.

"Actually," he said, taking a drag, "I did. Yeah, they put me in a business class seat."

I was stunned.

"Yeah, it was great," he continued. "The [check-in] lady helped me out, gave me an upgrade. There were a bunch of seats up there. You missed out."

It didn't seem fair. It didn't seem right. The man with the reckless health habit had won out over those of us who do what we're supposed to do? What ever happened to justice? What ever happened to karma?

Or had I brought this on myself by being smug?

Or is there such a thing as ... Smoker's Luck?