…(no, not me, I've never been much for study and I'm certainly not going to do it now, but still…) of all those pulp-fiction detective novels, not to mention the film noir, that involved a matchbook found in the victim's pocket or handbag or cluched in cold, dead hands (sorry, carried away) from a bar or nightclub somewhere that turned out to be the clue, the very clue that solved the case. And who's going to understand that anymore, who's going to get it, when you can't even smoke in bars and nightclubs nowadays so they sure don't give away free matches, what would be the point?
They do, it turns out, still print advertising on matchbook covers (here's a link but be careful, it makes a lot of noise) but the closest they come to bars and nightclubs is liquor stores and a liquor store is not much of a clue, if you ask me. No tough guys. No molls. No sultry songbirds.
And speaking of tough guys, when the hard-boiled private eye walks up to a news stand and asks for a deck of Luckies, well, who's going to understand that, I ask you. What will we tell the children?
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