Some things just speak to you on a visceral, spiritual level.

Smoking Mannequin Head was one of those things.

We met in a Seattle antique store. Love at first sight. There atop a tall glass case filled with old broaches and shaving mugs was the coolest nicotine fiend I’ve ever seen.

Paid 100 bucks for him, I think. But price is no object when a Smoking Mannequin Head is involved. Now he’s perched on a shelf in my den, puffing away like Sinatra, ignoring the Surgeon General’s Warning.

Mr. Mannequin Head doesn’t fret about lung cancer.

Mr. Mannequin Head doesn’t have lungs.

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