Smoking a 7 x 70 by Horacio XXXL ( I added an X). Huge. Almost comical. No, correction. It is preposterous. This brand, however, is extremely yummy despite its challenging circumference. I think the whole idea of these bastardizations of sizes is ludicrous. As is my current position, nay my current situation in this industry.
When I started in 2005, I was the kid vicariously milling about in San Francisco’s Haight-Ashbury district of San Francisco, California, named for the intersection of Haight and Ashbury streets. The “birthplace” of the counterculture. I donned my Dad’s old army jacket with my rose colored glass perched on me nose. It was a time of bathing in the summer of love in an industry ripe for another cigar broker to join in the fray.
Now, 12 years later, the summer of love has turned into the season of “how many boxes can you move” and the corner of Haight-Ashbury has been replaced with highways allowing dizzyingly speeds to jet to yet another event while looking at the bug massacre on my car’s windshield through dingy-tinted lenses.
It’s a race with thoughts running rampant in my consciousness like in Ben Hur during the lawless chariot race but without Charlton Heston holding onto the reins. Despite the rumor, there really is no finish line, only the journey that excites and pulsates with hot deep red blood.
Is it a lazy afternoon? Naw. I’m lazy this afternoon trying to make sense of it all. It’s about 5 p.m. and the wind is causing the pages of my notes to flap spasmodically back and forth, back and forth. My pen is blown off the table, my irritation has been ignited.
We have control over one thing – our mind. It’s looking at an autostereogram for too long and not being able to see the 3D image purported to be hidden amongst the swirls, cross hatches, and topsy-turvey lines made even more difficult with colors and bright hues. Aargh! A frustrating puzzle.
So far this broomstick is holding its own. How? So much filler and so little wrapper. The construction is admirable. No splits, so cracks, no internal explosions. All the flavors of the smaller ring gauges are here only amplified. The combination of essences is cascading all over my palate like Niagra Falls’ roaring natural beauty.
It’s a long smoke – a long journey. Holding onto the leather straps, pulling the horses to a straight path. But I must head out to Home Depot. I want to stay. Finish my smoke. But I need plumbers epoxy to fix a hole in my humidifier so it will be ready for next year. Ha. Next year. Next. Year. Repeat. Next. Year. My teeth hold onto the cigar.
I pull into the lot. Park. Take a final draw and place what’s left of the XXXL on the curb. Oh, God how I hate this necessary excursion. It’s pedestrian, so f – ing prole. But reality isn’t always sparkles and glitter. I find the mix of resins – make my purchase.
I don’t retrieve my cigar from the curb when I return. I just hop back into the car, put it in drive and begin reminiscing about what pleasure tobacco can bring to the senses.
When I get back home, there’s another “journey” waiting for me – to do, to do, to do, to do, to do. “Oh, God how I wish I could see the journey for what it is.” Nirvana. The 23rd Psalm. Dinner is Taco Bell. Life is Ulay and Marina. The action went on – traversing the Great Wall of China – but the end resulted in tears and broken hearts. It is the journey.
Convince me. Convince me. Convince me. That’s the hard part – the challenge of linear change that chills the heat of sensual excitement to the point of placing the Brobdingnagian nub on the curb – and just being able to let it go.