Smoke Signals.

*Sidenote... sometimes I will have a story to tell or something to say but can't really think of how to start it off gracefully.  So sometimes they will just start out rather abruptly and without warning. Like word vomit. Yum. Example:

My apartment is right next to this cigar shop. (Horrible opening sentence.) The California air ever so smoggily wofts the scents from cigar smoke into my window ever to often. Now, I oddly like this smell even though it is commonly the signature scent of old men with mustaches. Men like this:

But while the lovely scent of cigar smoke drifts into my room, giving me a higher risk for lung cancer, another thing is accompanying it. The sweet tunes of the Rat Pack. The boys in the cigar shop have bought themselves a karaoke machine. So fairly often they will turn on the bbq parked at the front of the store, put the game on and sing at the top of their lungs to Frank and the rest of the gang. It's so cute hearing them jam out on the mic and shout at the tv when the football game is getting excited. I hope I'm like that when I get old. Minus the mustache.