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    New Bitcoin Payment Option! Currently, we offer a new convenient and modern payment method – Bitcoin! Buying cigarettes with Bitcoin is easy and absolutely safe – it's a direct transaction with no huge fee. Moreover, while using Bitcoin you don't disclose any of your personal or Credit Card details. How to place an order using Bitcoin: 1. You need to open a Bitcoin wallet (for example at coinbase.com) 2. You can buy Bitcoins at any Bitcoin exchange of your preference (for example btc-e.com) 3. Then you can place the order on our website, choosing "Pay with Bitcoin"...

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  • 02.02.2015 California To Raise Smoking Age To 21

    A California official presented enactment on Thursday that expects to raise the lawful smoking age to 21 from 18, his office said in an announcement, just over a week after a comparative move by Washington state's top legal advisor. The bill additionally comes a day after California's top wellbeing authority said electronic cigarettes are undermining to disentangle the state's decades-long push to diminish tobacco utilization. Fair State Senator Ed Hernandez of West Covina, who seats the chamber's wellbeing board of trustees, brought the bill with expectations of keeping more high...

  • 19.12.2014 Texas Smoking Ban

    A conclusion by the Paris City Council in March to ban smoking in public areas, including restaurants, angered Brent McKee. Some sort of restaurant owner, Mr. McKee was taking into consideration the customers who enjoyed a cigarette or two while nursing their own morning coffee. “I built that with my blood and perspire, and then they come in and in addition they tell me what I may and cannot do? That angry me, ” he said with the ban. Now, Mr. McKee reluctantly acknowledges a big difference of heart. “I’m glad the idea happened, I guess, ” he said a week ago....

  • 20.11.2014 Special Offers

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Take Their Word

“THESE people are so desperate for anything exclusive that they’ll end up in a broom cupboard or a toilet somewhere and no one is allowed in,” said Jamie Hince, the lead singer of the Kills, at Fendi’s private concert on Wednesday featuring the Gossip. Mr. Hince was seated in the V.I.P. balcony of a club on the Right Bank called the V.I.P. Room, and down the banquette from him were a variety of specially invited guests who, if they were not in fact Very Important, gave every impression of thinking otherwise.

It was an illogically impressive bunch gathered at the end of an illogically impressive season, when the people who make fashion, faced in many cases with their own imminent disappearance, seemed to have concluded that if the ship appears to be sinking, the best thing to do is to ask the band to play louder and dance till the end.

So there on Wednesday was Mr. Hince’s girlfriend, Kate Moss, entertaining some of her uncountable admirers as she alternated drags on a bummed Marlboro and sips of Champagne; and the almost girlishly pretty, chain-smoking LVMH scion, Antoine Arnault; and the ruddy Amazonian American model Angela Lindvall. There was Hilary Alexander, the fashion director for The Daily Telegraph in England, puffing on her own cigarette and regaling a listener with tales of a fashion show that preceded the Fendi soiree.

“IT was one of John’s best,” said Ms. Alexander, referring to the John Galliano show earlier that evening, held at an indoor parking garage not far from the Seine. “It was Ukrainian ice princess brides, Cypriot gypsies and Turkish festival dancers in a 70-foot laser-lit tunnel with snowflakes falling,” she said. “And it was absolute magic.”

And there was the petite art director and Gap model, Julia Restoin-Roitfeld, whose mother is the editor of French Vogue, standing up on the upholstery to improve her sightline to the balcony on the opposite side of the room. Leaning on the railing there, his camera held out over the dance floor, was the pre-eminent example of fashion survival, Karl Lagerfeld.

Wearing his trademark starched collar and fingerless gloves and with the ponytail he keeps talc white with imported Japanese powder, Mr. Lagerfeld was amusedly snapping photographs of the mob. “It’s the Titanic,” said one fashion editor looking out on this scene. But actually it more closely resembled an episode of the “Love Boat” as directed by Andy Warhol.

It was Warhol who once recorded, in his “Philosophy of Andy Warhol,” the following exchange at a party not so different from this:

A.: Is that a female impersonator?

B.: Of what?
Wherever Mr. Lagerfeld happened to train his lens Wednesday night, it was likely to frame a Warholian vignette of a flame-haired dominatrix eyeing a shirtless male hustler posing for the photographer Roxanne Lowit with a transgender drummer. By one corner of the stage, the drag eminence Lady Bunny did a dance that, in the era he parodies, would have been called the Wild Watusi.

Lady Bunny had flown from New York to host another and entirely different type of exclusive party, for the boutique and tourist magnet Colette. In its early days Colette was known as a “concept store,” an idea that — like pop-up stores and guerrilla stores and baroquely severe Japanese designers who make unwearable but museum-ready clothes — now seems charmingly dated and quaint.

Colette’s concept in the early days was to defy the tyranny of designer dressing and showcase fashion in a manner resembling a D.J. mashup. Although somewhere along the line the store turned into a Parisian version of a T-shirt shop on Eighth Street, this had virtually no effect on the hordes that still routinely cram the place.

“I accidentally dropped the tassel on my sleeve in the toilet as I was getting ready,” Lady Bunny said at the V.I.P. party, as the D.J. frenetically scratched ’80s dance pop on the turntables and the crowd awaited the arrival of the band and the celebrity lady’s maid (or stylist) Rachel Zoe teetered around the perimeter of the dance floor greeting people who seemed less than eager to return her air kisses.

“So now I’m wearing genuine eau de toilette,” Lady Bunny said. The cigarette smoke drifting through the V.I.P. club was so thick, it banked in places like a weather front. Nobody minded in the least. In part their laissez-aller tolerance was attributable to the zinc buckets inset in tables all over the club that each held ice and chilled bottles of Belvedere vodka and Ruinart Brut.

And in part, people also seemed to sense that this party and this night was the payoff at the end of a very long season, one in which designers outdid themselves and one another in their efforts to earn back the love of a cash-strapped consumer who has lately decided she is just not that into them.

THE wingding was a proper, and ultimately a raucous, celebration, of fashion and the characters that make, sell and display it and also of the wonderful incongruities of belonging to a club exclusive only in the sense that admission might be predicated on being unwanted anyplace else.

“This has been a great season for lesbians,” one fashion editor said, as he surveyed a dance floor filled with people who seem to have taken style cues from ’80s cult bands like the Bush Tetras. He was talking about what some critics termed the “androgyny” of collections like Hermès (Amelia Earhart) or Jean Paul Gaultier (scenes from a lesbian bordello; same designer as Hermès, but still) or else in the designer Stefano Pilati’s implicit homage at Yves Saint Laurent to those sexily defiant “frigid” types that even James Bond could never seem to get into bed.

He was referring to the current French Vogue cover featuring the model Iris Strubegger, who with her cropped hair slicked back and wearing jeans and a T-shirt looks like a bruiser compared with the male model on the magazine’s inside pages shown dressed in little but an oversize Martin Margiela jacket, a gold bolo necklace and a pair of Lanvin pumps.

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