Why I’m Taking Days Off . . .

 

Ok, Christmas is over thank God.  And anyone who disagrees with me is addled and adored to put up with it.  But now it’s time for us to get back to normal so it’s  rush, rush, rush. Sell, sell, sell.  “Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.”  Thank you, Yul Brynner, for that accentuation to our verbal reality.  Indeed, the only true King of Broadway who was able to say it the way “et cetera” is supposed to be said. 

So what I decided to do during this “down” time between Christmas and New Year’s Day is gestate.  Yes.  Gestate, or develop over a period of time.  Indeed, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera – or in Latin gestate.  Not as brief as a fruit fly, which can be as short as 24-48 hours, and not as extended as an octopus which has been known to brood her eggs for a total of 53 months (aka 4.5 years).  I have only a few days and even that is suspect depending on the network that is circulating throughout this industry.  Though I have discovered that what I am doing is not all that unusual.  The specifics will come out.  But I have chosen not to reveal my decisions during this self-imposed period of evolution.

But know that during this time I will continue to write.  But not for immediate public consumption.  My writing is not limited to blogging or cigars because it is an addiction I openly admit to.  It is my crack, my cocaine, my omnipresent sterile needle that I slowly insert into my bulging vein as was done in the memorable slow-mo scene of ichor mixing with the bodily fluids of Vincent Vega of “Pulp Fiction.”  It is my high.  My creative juice that courses through my veins without a whit of concern of how its infusion affects my body, my brain, my psyche, or my Chicago accent.  Only I pray that the words continue to flow through my muscles, tendons and nerves to entertain, to shock, to piss off, and bring attention to whatever I feel need to be said to fulfill my honored mantra and mission statement, “WAKE UP!!!” Daniel Carver-style, though without the ignorance that accompanies his utterances.

So I am an ersatz uterine pretzel curled up in the fetal position of disturbing discovery and fascinating fear.  My invisible umbilical cord is my electronic connection to this damn computer, phone and social medium that has gripped me like billions of fish hooks that have no way to be extricated without massive bloodletting to the point that I might feel as a slave must have felt, tied to his “massa,” no disrespect intended for those who are offended so easily. Go ahead, rail now. I suppose.  CF.  

I just know that for now I may publish songs, poetry readings, plays, snippets of whatever suits my fancy to take the place of the words I love so dearly and that I cherish with my God-given soul.  Sounds, tunes, memories, some objectionable, a Burroughs’ mark of approval that I know once loosed will never ever leave my brain but will only expand my cerebral cortex, a file base larger than any computer wizard could ever imagine. Ot nothing.  So when I return, I will again begin to elucidate, make attempts at communicating my thoughts of what goes through the mind of this maturing cigar broker’s musings mired in the throes of the tyrannical tentacles of government legislation that is bent on destroying the creativity of all mankind in the name of justice.

Those of you who stick by me so I can simply communicate the views that are processed through my brain with the hopes that what I offer to you will meld into your consciousness resulting in blended ideas that will congeal into solutions, and guide us to our next period of gestation if we all don’t dissolve into conformity by allowing the acidic actions of the spittled sizzle of our freedoms morph into the hell of the Morlocks.

I feel it.  The buzz is getting louder.  The heavy eyelids of gestation are beginning to pull me in and so I hear the siren and I go .  . . go . . . go . . . ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz . . .

Tom Waits sings “Waltzing Matilda.”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vGpwgHqlfWo

Leonard Cohen sings, “Halleluia.”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YrLk4vdY28Q

Asylum 33. Insanely Good!

That’s all that’s left of the Asylum 33 I just smoked in the garage.  The band.  I didn’t take any pics, and I quite frankly, didn’t even think twice about the cigar because it was given to me by a fellow by the name of Brian Dvoret (http://yardenwines.com/) when I was visiting Jimmy and Tony at Ultimate Cigar in Villa Park, Illlinois the other day.  I traded Brian one of mine, he reciprocated with the Asylum 33.

I never gave it any more thought until I had to take Flo out and I wanted a cigar to smoke. So I went to the humidor in the basement and it was the first one I noticed.  I figured how good can it be?  So I took it and went on my way.

Shit!  What a cigar!  I had to look this one up.  So I went to Halfwheel and here’s what I found out:

• Cigar Reviewed: Asylum 33 5 1/2 x 46
• Country of Origin: Honduras
• Factory: El Aladino
• Wrapper: Honduras
• Binder: Honduras
• Filler: Honduras
• Length: 5 1/2 Inches
• Ring Gauge: 46
• Vitola: Corona Extra
• MSRP: $11
• Release Date: Aug. 28, 2015
• Number of Cigars Released: n/a
• Number of Cigars Smoked For Review: 3

Now I don’t know what size I smoked, but it was probably a toro or close to it.  Plus there’s a lot of descriptive copy on the site about the cigar, including this third, that third, etc., etc.  A bit detailed for me, but then again I wasn’t really that interested in the dissection of the cigar – only that it satisfied me to the nth degree.

Plus, I’m no charlatan, I usually go off and try to duplicate the flavors via words ά la Andrew Zimmern.  But all I’m going to say is if you want a well-written critique on this stick, read the link.  If you want to simply enjoy the hell out of a cigar, smoke the Asylum 33.  Enough said.

http://halfwheel.com/asylum-33-5-12-x-46/100893

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Merry Christmas Everyone!!!

 

Michael More . . . than.

Had a cigar with Michael Moreland, the manager of Stogies on Lake in Hanover Park, Illinois today.  You really never know what ornamental comments you’re going to get when you talk to this twenty-something professor of ocular observatory opinions.

His wit is split between the sardonic and the sarcastic because when those two intellectual elements of literary license of his are loosed, anything can happen and usually does.

We had a short smoke.  Exhilarating.  And if you ever get a chance, stop by and see where he’ll lead you.  It’s definitely an exercise in thinking on your feet.

Plus his knowledge of cigars is second to none.  Go ahead test him.  I dare ya!

♫ And So This Is Christmas ♫

“Two seven zero – ready to go!”  

“Two ninety-three – hot as can be!”

♫ Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas ♫

Over and over, like when Rel Norris was on the ship during WW II.  One more time and he would have jumped overboard.

The rattle of concussive conversations is battling each other for priority.   The group behind me is definitely winning.

“Your order is ready!”

I just chomped down a hot dog.  You’d think it’d be quiet, but it isn’t.  People are everywhere.

♫ So Have Yourself A Merry Little Chrisssssstmasssssss Nowwwwwwww ♫

No, it ain’t Judy, but what the hell, it’s festive and livens up the place with more than just chatter.  Garland?  That’s on the window and the tree at you walk into the place dragging in some slush as you pushed the revolving door to get in.

I have some root beer left.  And three cigars well-packaged in a plastic bag.  Which one will I light up? Smoked a Don Olman with Chris earlier.  Luscious and such a delight.  Today’s choices are from De Los Reyes, and Hiram & Solomon.  Chance picks.  Does it really matter? As long as they’re good, and they all are.

The stomach is a bit queasy.  Too much rushing around.

All I can hear is chaotic cheer.  Save for the guy reading the book.  A hardcover, no less.  I can’t help but wonder what the title is.  Maybe he saw my cigars and is just as curious.  My guess is not in the least.

People are fast-walking past me every minute.  Not so irritating because I’m writing.  My mind is not here.  It’s on the napkin.  And the guy reading.  And the loudest laugher (Yes, “laugher”) at the table behind me.

🎜🎜🎜 So this is Christmas and what have you done / Another year over, a new one just begun / And so this is Christmas, I hope you have fun / The near and the dear ones, the old and the young 🎜🎜🎜  Lennon.  You can hear Yoko’s scratchy vocals over John’s melodic miracle.  I still miss him.

Maybe a piece of chocolate cake with that gooey icing would be just what I need to put my stomach back in order?  That’s a silly thought.

The guy with the book just left his table for something. Probably ketchup.  Never enough it seems.  Relish and ketchup.  The perfect colors, but for heaven’s sake, not on the hot dog.

The season is revving up and ours is winding down.  I haven’t a smile.  Damn stomach.

Just like the time the guy saved my life when he lifted me out of the water in a hotel swimming pool to bring air into my lungs because I was drowning.

Claustrophobia.  Like the three cigars in the bag.  Too close together. Gotta separate them. Give ‘em room. Won’t be long now.  I’m headed to Harry’s.  Be specific in thought lest your ideas wander to places unknown.  That’s the beginning of boredom.  Not today.

I like spontaneous expression.  Some are uncomfortable with that trait of mine.  I’m not. It’s woven into my genetic fabric.  Just like the desire for one of the cigars.  

No more root beer, but I’ll bring the cup along.  A few sweet sips left.  I know.  

Last chance to buy the cake.  Nope.  I will pass.  If the icing sticks to the fork (and it does) it’s sticking to my gut.  Fatty.  Blah.  Nausea.

I can hear the music. 🎜🎜🎜  It’s some guy, too quiet or the surroundings are too loud.  Or I just don’t give a damn to care as I exit

The car is still kinda warm.  Harry’s place isn’t far at all.  I walk in.  Roy is there.  Always good to see him.  Harry looks thinner.  You can tell something is on his mind.  Me?  The cigar.  Off with the band.  And light it up.

Serenity at last.

– 🎜🎜🎜 –

 

Passion is art, be it stone or tobacco.

Not completely, but damn near.  I just wasted a good portion of my day solving problems and going over S#@T that probably didn’t need attending to at all when the final analysis – my current realization, i.e. the above sentence – slushed in.

Yes, I read about the news that “Sosa cigars are now the property of A.J. Fernandez, who will also be producing them in Nicaragua and distributing them, as well.” (CA)  But what really caught my attention, and that I found directly related to the above story, was spotted way down in the right-hand corner on page 2 in an interesting scrap of news in today’s Chicago Tribune.  I shall quote it in its entirety: (It’s short.)

Noguchi piece installed in NYC

“A sculpture (see above) by Isamu Noguchi is on display in a Manhattan neighborhood where the Holland Tunnel connects New York and New Jersey.

The abstract work called “Octetra,” went up Monday (12.19.16) on a plaza in Hudson Square.  The geometric red sculpture is over 7 feet high and consists of five, four-sided triangular pyramids. There are about a dozen casts of the work.  

It comes from the collection of Julie and Edward Minskoff.  The length of its stay has not yet been determined.”  (AP)

What does this have to do with cigars?  Everything. Substance and conviction are what make the artist, Mr. Noguchi, who he is.  And how outstanding his artwork is and how revered he and his works are in the world of art, architecture and outdoor gardens today is insurmountable and lasting.  Like cigar families.

To quote from “Listening to Stone: The Art and Life of Isamu Noguchi by Hayden Herrera:

“Throughout the twentieth century, Isamu Noguchi was a vital figure in modern art. From interlocking wooden sculptures to massive steel monuments to the elegant Akari lamps, Noguchi became a master of what he called the ‘sculpturing of space.’ But his constant struggle as both an artist and a man was to embrace his conflicted identity as the son of a single American woman and a famous yet reclusive Japanese father. ‘It’s only in art,’ he insisted, ‘that it was ever possible for me to find any identity at all.’”  Or cigars?

In short, substitute the words “tobacco or cigar” for the elements of the artist’s choice of materials, and his persistent individual existence, and you can identify with what I mean.

I will have a chance to visit “Octetra” and when I do, I will, of course, take photographs.   But I will also stand in awe at his resolve and his deeply felt conviction to his infinite desire to express himself in his chosen field.

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Don Olman Releases Rainbow of Flavors!

None of the humid Costa Rican air survived.  None.  So when I opened up the package of cigars sent to me from Andres, I got – cigars.  Period.  Not a bad thing.  Oh, but my imagination went into grade school overdrive when I saw them.  The warm tropical breeze laced with the fresh green aroma of island mist surrounded my senses.  I felt the warmth of the sun as it gently graced the sandy beach of Playa Jaco ( a 2.5 mile (4 km) strip which offers some of the best surfing and eye candy nature has to offer) heating the crystalline granules of silica that sluiced through my tanned toes.  Mhmmm. I was in that area of passion I’m not supposed to go to as an adult.

But there I was reaching that peak of sheer embarrassment as I gazed at the cigars, all lovingly encased in bubble wrap and ready to be opened and held in my hands so I could seductively remove the cellophane and breathe in the aroma of Golden Aged tobacco.  I was not disappointed as I lasciviously looked around to see if anyone was around to see if I had been spotted.  Getting caught in amorous rapture with an inanimate object is just too hard to explain.

So what do I do?  It’s 7° and I’m not going to take one of them outside, not even to the Patio Cigar Lounge (Open 24/7) to be sacrificed to the ice gods.  So I’ll just have to wait until tomorrow.  See you all then . . .

******    

Ok.  So I waited the 24 hours and nothing happened except the weather got colder it’s now -3° and so I said to hell with it.  I wrapped myself up in the warmest clothing I could find, trudged through the kinda-shoveled pathway that led to the Gray Garage Lounge’s door and stepped in.  It was eerily quiet.  So I started up the heater and cranked it to 86° and hoped for the best.  I slipped off Don Olman’s cellophane coat and immediately lit it up.  This artisanal delight is wrapped in one of the most delicious looking Ecuadorian leaves I’ve seen in some time – sporting a chocolaty brown hue possessing just enough micro hills and valleys to prove it was handmade.

The foot was perfect.  The tightly wound curly “Q” on top added a bit of whimsy.  My torch spritzed out its blue flame of relief and touched the leaves igniting them to the point that made me feel even more lustful than I imagined I could for just a cigar.

I drew in the first mouthful of smoke and I was greeted with some of the creamiest flavors that I have ever had the chance to taste.  It made me think of the consistency of fresh, just whipped buttercream frosting.  But then as I drew in the second time, the surrounding deconstructed flavors began to scatter in every direction on my palate so much so that I had a hard time mentally sorting them out.

But I put my sensors to work and bit by bit my taste buds began to be splattered with fruit from every island, continent, and country you could think of.  Topical tropes consisting of ripened banana blasts, a menagerie of melons, squirts of juice from every grape you can imagine, the lilt of vanilla bean’s succulence producing that omnipresent aroma, an abundance of apples from every region known to man, Kiwi nectar, fig paste, limes, orange rinds, and a plethora of fruits I cannot even begin to name.

And the overwhelming essence of each fruit, when combined in perfect proportions of harmony with the  Honduran, Peruvian, Nicaraguan and Dominican tobaccos all perfectly rolled into this bedlam of flavor, produced such rich and luxurious complexity, that I thought I was a god being honored on an isolated island to ceremoniously savor only the rarest and the most exquisite edible foodstuffs the inhabitants had to offer.

And perhaps that was the intent of the blender to do just that, but instead of offering all these exceptional tastes on a platter, he thought why not run them through the sieve and present them in a cigar that will never be duplicated anywhere in the world but Tobacos de Costa Rica.

This cigar was indeed a fruit camaraderie cocktail of complexity that was not sweet nor bitter, but just right because it worked – it really worked.  Add to this the intoxicating aroma of so many microscopic particles of puréed pleasure floating in the air and this was indeed a moment that – even though my nose was running, my fingers were freezing, and my legs were chilling – I still reached climatic excitement to sheer ecstasy with this miraculous tribute to nature through the imagination of man.  

Don Olman – a cigar to be reckoned with for its verve, its rarity, and its devotion to delicacy to please the priceless palates of people – as it most certainly will.

“Thank you,” Anthony Bourdain.

I’m coming up to the 500 mark on the number of articles or posts that I’ve written for Irv CigarBroker: The Blog! (https://irvcigarbroker.wordpress.com/)  Some posts have entertained, confused and bewildered, others have hit the nail right on the head, and still other posts have caused angst and anger amongst some readers who responded with such vitriolic blows they felt like the hammer had just missed the hardened steel of the nail and landed right on my finger sending streaks of pain up my arm and into my very soul.

But I discovered that what I do is described so much better in the words of another man.

I speak of Anthony Bourdain, of Parts Unknown fame, among other endeavors.  And for this, I quote from an article written by Oliver Strand in the November issue of Vogue magazine aptly titled, “Man of the World.”

“(Anthony Bourdain), the tastemaker whose name is set to be on a $60 million market hall on a pier in New York City (where else?).”  When asked further about his rise to fame in this business and his new venture, Mr. Bourdain responds, “ I assumed from the get-go that every minute I was on television was a freakish anomaly that would be over quickly. It came as a sobering and confusing moment when I realized I was still on the air.  What the fuck is going on?”

Mr. Oliver goes on to write that it is by maintaining his integrity (a word he hates), that Bourdain has found his audience.  Not that he cares.  “Look,” he says.  “I appreciate my fans, but I don’t feel any obligation to give them what they want or expect.  I don’t feel any obligation to live up to anybody’s expectation of me.”

Wow.  I read those words and I felt as if I had just glommed onto a permanent symbiotic psychological relationship with another man who feels exactly as I do when I decide what to write about in my blog posts each and every day.  He’s doing what he does to be who he is and he doesn’t give a rat’s ass what others think of him – not in the least – and that, I feel, is what makes him so appealing to the public.

His confident demeanor is proof solid enough for me to know that he knows what he knows and he will continue to be who he is – show or no show, $60 million food extravaganza or no $60 million food extravaganza.  I share his sentiments, his honesty and his “integrity” to a “T” and that makes me feel as if  I just swallowed the canary and enjoyed every single bite.

Thanks for all who read and continue to read my Blog.  I love you all.  And thank you for letting me be who I am without apology.

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