Tough choice, but I done good.

Watching Quentin Tarantino’s 8th film, “The Hateful Eight,”  is probably not the best way to go about writing a post about cigars, but it’s raining like hell out there so I’m stuck in the office.  So what to do?  

I’m sure everyone is a bit tired of cigar reviews, so I thought I’d just sit here and watch the film.  And If anything comes up that I think may be of interest I’ll mention it.  But for now . . . oh!  Here comes the beginning.  I love this – especially the score.  The opening track, “L’ultima diligenza di Red Rock” (Versione Integrale), was released as a single online on December 15, 2015.  In December 2016, it gained a nomination for a Grammy Award for Best Instrumental Composition for Mr. Morricone.  The soundtrack includes the first complete original score for a Tarantino film and is composed, orchestrated and conducted by Ennio Morricone.  Morricone composed 50 minutes of original music for “The Hateful Eight.” (Wiki)

Chapter One:  Last Stage to Red Rock.  It took a while for me to recognize Kurt Russell, who plays John “The Hangman” Ruth.  While on his journey to Red Rock, the stagecoach driver, O. B Jackson, stops a few feet from what appears to be a black man, next to a pile of frozen corpses.  

The black guy turns out to be Major Marquis Warren, played by Samuel L. Jackson.  He asks the driver for a ride and finds out that if it were up to him, he’d let him ride in the coach. “But it isn’t,” he says.  That’s when the Major and The Hangman meet.

After a very tense, and thorough line of questioning, and the surprising fact that both men ate a steak with each other in Chattanooga, Ruth allows him passage.   Both men, and Daisy Domergue, played by Jennifer Jason Leigh, (with a $10,000 bounty on her head) are all just sitting quiet like.  The Major and John are smoking long pipes.  A cigar never would have made it in that thrashing temperature.  The wrapper would’ve cracked.  For sure. 

Chapter two: Son of a Gun.

The new sheriff for Red Rock, Chris Mannix, played by Walton Goggins appears on the road practically frozen to death and talks his way onto the stagecoach.

Chapter Three: Minnie’s Haberdashery.  This is where they plan to stay until the blizzard blows over.  There are three buildings:  the cabin, the barn, and the outhouse.  Major stays to help with the horses in the barn with Bob, “The Mexican” played by Damien Bichir.  In the meantime, Mannix and O.B. pound iron stakes into the ground and string a line from the cabin to the barn and to the “shit house.”

Inside, tense introductions are made.  Suspicions rise, and the new sheriff asks John Ruth, “Don’t you feel the least bit bad about hanging a woman?”  All are eating grub. Bruce Dern adds to the already strained relations between everyone.  He’s a Confederate General. Warren, a Major, was Union but now is a bounty hunter, ergo the corpses in the opening scene.

One jelly bean, from way up there?  Possible.  But Warren smells the stink.

Sleepy.  Me.  I’m sleepy.  So’s the computer.

********

Second day on this piece.  The rain has subsided and the moisture in the air adds to the chill.  I’m smoking a Veiled Prophet by Hiram & Solomon – 60.  Odd.  But what a delight.  But tonight I have a choice.  Smoke a cigar out on the Patio Cigar Lounge (Open 24/7), or get back into the house and move on to the next chapter “The Hateful Eight” looking for cigar connections.  I chose the former – and, not taking anything away from QT, I’m damned pleased that I did.

-30-

Cigar Confidential.

Giving up is futile.  You will always lose.  So my personality is to continue to trudge forward.  However, I do slow my gait because I’m getting so weary of listening to the proselytizing by cigar brand owners about how great their cigar is, how everyone who tries it melts into an erotic trance, how the cigar is flying off their warehouse shelves, how they cannot keep up with the demand.

I can hear the comments, “Best I’ve ever tasted;” “Can’t wait to stock up on these before they’re all gone;” “My mouth is salivating just at the thought of being one of the first to try it.”  Or worse, “I give God all the credit for my success.”  If I may sound like a heathen, the only intervention by God is through His miraculous contribution of soil, rain, the wind, and steady weather.  My utmost apologies to those who may be offended by that last observation.

Why do I say this?  Because all the hype is hyperbole?  It’s utter bullshit.  To wit:  In various forms, it can be a bull, a cow, a herd of cattle, the word “bullshit” was and is used to describe falsehoods and worthless nonsense.  There is no definitive origin of the word, but “shit” derives from the etymological origin of the Old English word scitte or diarrhea, the Dutch schijten, or the German scheissen.  Originally it is believed that the word did not have a vulgar connotation.  In short – origin unknown.

Too, the apocryphal acronym “Ship High In Transit” referred to when manure was transported by ship and was labeled S.H.I.T so it would be stored on the top of other products so the stink would be less offensive.  But in fact, I repeat – origin unknown.

How can I say a high percentage of brand owners are spreading this type of bovine fertilizer with concrete confidence?  I smoke ‘em!  In fact,  I’m smoking one now that has been blessed as being one of the best.  Yes, it has phenomenal flavor, but the construction is worse than scenes taken by dash-cams by Russian drivers.  It’s all over the place.  But it toto, the high praise is “bullshit.”  All components of a cigar must be present before it even has a chance to be placed in the column for the ultra-boutique additions.  And upon the last look, the brands that would be listed is skeletal.

The accolades that are bestowed upon this high-quality, premium cigar are more often than not uttered by friends, relatives, regional smokers when indeed it’s a fourth-rate cigar that the brand owner has psychologically convinced himself is the next Padron.  It ain’t!  Get your head out of the hypnotic-laced smoke your flaccid attempt at perfection has made and get back to the blending board and man up.

There are cigar makers who have decades on your blend and even their blends can be awash in civil criticism. Don’t be so foolish to think you’ve stumbled upon the holy grail just because you spent X amount of dollars soaking in the manufacturer’s rhetoric that somehow you have come to believe with all your heart to be the truth.  Truth is easy.  Light it up.  There’s your answer.

-30-

The Cigar is Present.

In 2010, from March 14th through May 31st, Marina Abromović, the performance artist, sat in a wooden chair in one of the main halls of MoMA from when the museum opened at 10 am until 5:30 pm and a bit longer on the weekends.  In front of her was a wooden table and across from the table was placed another chair.

Patrons of the Arts and curiosity seekers were given the chance to sit across from her to look into her eyes and she into theirs.  She did not eat, she did not move, she did not speak, save for the blinking of her eyes.  In the end, over 750,000 people sat in the chair opposite Marina.

One of the only times she reached over to hold hands was when her former lover, Ulay, sat in the chair.  Only this one time did tears form in her eyes as she reached out to him as they grasped each other’s hands.  They had not seen each other since they said good bye when they met in the middle of the Great Wall of China to say, “Good Bye.”  The crowd was overwhelmed with emotion and applauded the long awaited reunion.

What was amazing to watch (the performance was filmed and released in documentary form “The Artist is Present” in 2012) was the various reactions that this brief moment with her elicited.  Some participants cried, smiled, sat in awe, all seemingly connected to this woman whose strength of self-control is well known, as she literally was placed on exhibit.

The purpose of the piece was to show how people can stop their lives for brief moments in time to concentrate on another human being and connect with this individual without a word being uttered or a gesture being made.

I have seen many films of her other performances and watched this documentary numerous times. Each time I view this remarkable work of art, I too, find tears welling up in my eyes combined with a strange sense of wonder, calm and serenity.  And these reactions are from seeing the film. I cannot imagine how I would have behaved had I been able to personally participate. And I would have been one of those who waited for whatever time it took to sit across from Marina and then be able to say. “Yes, I was there to witness this show of love and human sacrifice all for the sake of art.”

I have been thinking about her performance for several weeks now.  I read her book “Walking Through Walls” and I know the backstory of why she became a performance artist and why she choose to do certain things to her body – the canvas if you will.

And with that reflection whirling around in my thoughts, I began to wonder what would people’s reaction be if a lone cigar was placed on a wooden table and what would the results be for those who took the time to stare at the cigar – no words, no touching, no sounds?

What would happen?  I’m sure there would be outright ridicule, sarcastic comments, and snide amazement at such an exhibition of “art.”  Yet, I believe that after the naysayers, the jokesters, the critics, and the mildly amused put a lid on it, they would cease to entertain their negative emotions and begin to take note of the cigar in front of them.

Leidy of Reina del Nilo cigars.

I believe that the experience would turn into a similar showing of love, appreciation, acceptance, and wonderment.  I am positive that real emotions such as joy, passion, happiness, thoughtfulness, and even love would flood the hearts of those – who for this brief moment in time – concentrated on the beauty and workmanship of this man-made object.

There are too many of us who refuse to take time out of our busy lives to stop, admire, think, and process what nature and man can produce in contemplative concert.

Of course, this performance may never happen. But the thought is a provocative future idea that would make us aware of that which is around us on a daily basis.  The surprise of our own reactions would be worth all the effort to try it.  

That’s all Marina did.  She tried and she succeeded.  And in so doing, created an eternal masterpiece.

-30-

 

“Ideas Don’t Come Easy.”

(If you have no intention of a complete read and viewing the video – scroll by now.)

********

Intensity.  Without it, these posts don’t get written.  I’ve been told I have a type “A” personality.  Ha!  What’s the letter before “A?”  Tonight is one of those moments of truth – a tough one.  What to write about?  What?  I use up pen and paper faster than a whore goes through johns.

I’m smoking a great cigar by Nat Cicco, the HHB, a very, intense and exceptional cigar – it’s a face off.  I’m not concerned about the length of the article, I write until it’s done. And I’m positive when that moment occurs.  So that makes the idea the most important aspect of the post and where I spend most of my time trying to find the right subject.

My mind is a chaotic cyclone of ideas, and I have to snatch one out of the whirling vortex that will peak your curiosity.  But I gotta tell you, tonight each one is seemingly coated in a gray ceramic alloy made from Boron-Aluminum-Magnesium (BAM), the slipperiest substance known to man.  Try to get your conscious brain cells to capture one of these topics with a 0.02 coefficient of friction.  That beats Teflon® that has a coefficient of 0.05 and lubricated steel with a multiplier or factor or to be repetitive –  a coefficient of 0.16.

Point is, I attempt this every day – to seize an idea that’s not only moving faster than the speed of light 299,792,458 m/s.in an ersatz vacuum, – but also tests my ability to land a single notion from the billions of visions circling about within the neurons of my brain.  That ain’t the simplicity of “Snap!  Crackle!  Or Pop!”

Is it possible?  Of course, it is.  I have almost 700 posts under my belt.  But oftimes, what I think is the right idea that is speeding along so fast and being as slippery as it is –  plus generating such scathing, intense energy,  I not only have to incorporate steely concentration, but I have to trust my gut so when I do grasp that brass ring – it’s the right subject that will enrapture you.  I love it.  Gotta go – here comes onnnnnnnnnnne – NOW!  

Gotcha ya, you evasive little son-of-a-bitch.

(Read tomorrow’s post.  Thank you.)

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

-30-

This cigar broker is “Out in the Open.”

Maybe it’s because it’s the end of the week.  Maybe I’ve just adjusted my attitude, but right now I am experiencing joy.  For many years I was unable to connect with my feelings, but it is because I have worked very hard to understand how the other person is feeling that I am able to literally connect with their emotions.  But I had to work on myself first.  

This business can turn you into a monster.  In fact, any business can bring out the Jekyll and Hyde of our personalities.  We deal with so many situations that only God can handle them all with the perfect reciprocal response.  But with diligent sympathetic and empathetic introspection we can come close to being an understanding being.  Yes, two can become one.  And I dare say, I believe that the numbers can increase markedly depending upon the intensity as to how hard we work on these skills.  And they do take work.

Skill. The word skill is absolutely synonymous with expertise, adroitness, prowess, competence, artistry, virtuosity, ability, deftness, talent and who knows how many more words could fit into this category of emotional maturity.  But the fact is, as business becomes more and more competitive, our innate desire, how we are wired, how we naturally react to a particular situation is a clear indication as to who we are.  Not who we want or should be, but as we exist.  What makes us individuals.  

More often than not – we react.  Our animalistic urge, our humanistic instinct is what is revealed first, unless we have learned to teach ourselves how to handle exactly what we are feeling can we go above the base compulsions that so often enter our lives each and every day.

Am I asking for a God-like response?  No one has that ability.  But I am asking that we stop, just like the pilot who has lost sight of the horizon is taught – “do nothing!” Wait! It may seem like an eternity, but in those terrifying few seconds we can, yes, we can draw upon experiences in the deepest recesses of our minds and pull out what we need to do –  not react, but to realize what is actually going on.  

That “brief moment” in time is what I believe is missing. Our feelings have been made into a desert of separate orbs, solo particles of all the aforementioned emotions and because we have let them drift uncontrollably, we cannot feel.  We are numb.  We have been figuratively injected with a massive dose of Novocain.  The nerves are there, but the local anesthetic temporarily blocks the transmission of pain to our hearts and all recognizable emotions seemingly end up scattered all over the place so we just attach our reaction to whatever neurological particles are the closest to each other, whether or not the resultant response is what is needed at the time or not.  We’re jousting uncontrollably.

But this joy – I sensed it when my son was born.  I wept uncontrollably at the very fact that I was cradling a life in my arms.  A new, fresh, unadulterated human being.  And we can still reconnect with that refreshing exaltation every second of our lives as long as we don’t let the appetite for love to become a parched and frozen tundra of hard, impenetrable bedrock.  But it is extremely difficult.  As laborious as threading a needle with our eyes closed shut.  But it CAN be done.

In short, we do what we want to do – in business, life, and relationships.  The question remains, what is it that we want to do?  Float within spatial emotional emptiness, or start to examine the lives we have lived and begin to go back and reconnect the billions of dots that God gave us when we were created.  If necessary – one dot at a time.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1mjlM_RnsVE

-30-    

2012: by Oscar “The Rebirth Edition.”

There’s a time and place for everything.  And this night I had a few moments to smoke a 2012 by Oscar Valladares.  I picked the 60 ring just because it was the most accessible one in the trunk of the car.  I don’t normally care for that size.  But, I was in a hurry to feel what was left of the sun at the hotel I’m staying at and I didn’t want to futz around so – tag it.

I was alone outside in the back of the building where all the No Smoking signs are posted.  No one objected so I took advantage of the moment.  But isn’t that when most good things happen anyway?

Snip, flame on, and that cigar was in the wind.  What a flavor for a Connecticut.  I don’t like Connecticut wrappers.  I don’t care where the seeds are grown.  But this one seems to hold my attention.  It’s a soft box pressed beauty with a lightness that actually accentuates the delicate flavors of the Honduran binder, and is further complimented by the rich, sweet Nicaraguan and subtle Honduran fillers.

I was going to write something about the history of the 2012 and how this was actually Oscar’s first cigar, not the Leaf.  But it was so near the end of the day, and with the wind blowing and the sun beginning to descend on the horizon, I just decided to put the pen down, sit back and let this cigar play out its magic.  And what a breathtaking performance it was.  

-30-   

Mishagain Mirage Materializes.

For whatever reason the pistons in my brain are rusted immobile.  Usually I can come up with an idea that’s interesting, but the last two days have come up with spatial totality. Blah.  Most of the time there’s a crumb of an article somewhere I pick up during the day. Zip!  Hey, look what I’ve got to see for inspiration.  Go ahead.  I drive all day for this? You can see how bad my mind has oxidized shut.  I have the television on.  That hasn’t happened in weeks of travel.  And I mean accumulated weeks.  To me – it’s boredom.  

It could be my brain is just a jumble of emptiness that can’t seem to produce any offspring.  It takes two to tango!  But what I think it is – is where I’m at.  I’m damned if I do, damned if I don’t.  So yes, I’m in Michigan.  Alone.  So backoff.  This is my opinion.

I got up early to get here.  The roads were fine. It rained like hell right after the total eclipse of the Sun.  Coincidental, I say.  But, even though this natural phenomenon could not be seen from my car or in the state I’m in, I could tell that there was something funky going on in the atmosphere.  There was a hollow, empty, soundless indescribable, almost tactile psychological whir in the air.  A chill of death.  

My eyes are burning.  I ate my last (and only chocolate chip cookie).  I still have some of my magic caffeinated elixir from KFC – the mix that I will keep private until it’s forced out of me.  If it is ever forced out of me.  You never can tell when something is desired by others – even cigars.  Lemmings, I say, mate.  A bloody slice of lemmings.  All hearsay, too. Contrary to popular belief lemmings do not “commit suicide” by jumping off cliffs. (yahoo)   It’s the strong instinctual urge to migrate that gives them this apocryphal reputation to follow blindly to their demise.  

Tired.  Or as I was told on the phone, I sounded “flat” whatever the hell that means.  As opposed to ah, sharp?  Musicality.  What if it’s an atonal masterpiece.  Schönberg? Variations for Orchestra Op. 31 (1928)  Does that mean I sound “off?”  Of course not.  If I sounded unkeyed, there would be the absence of  “a musical or vocal sound with reference to its pitch, quality, and strength.”  This wasn’t tonal.  This was – flatlined.

Too much roughage.  Cream.  Too many cigars.  I think I had, ah three?  Not bad for the amount of driving I did.

Could be I’m just “Turd.”  Yep.  A sip of my mix and off to read I go.  Provided I can keep my mind open.  Eyes are physical.  The mind is mental.  I have greater control over the latter than I do my physical self.

Plans?  I used to target these cigar excursions as military operations.  Now it’s the blindfolded drunkard at the end of the bar trying to hit the center of the cork circle with dull darts that have been haphazardly pulled out of the wall too many times by amateurs causing the feathers or “fletching”of the mini projectile to destabilize its intended trajectory to dip down or ascend upwards.  The flight of a dart is held true by its quills provided they are in tip top shape.  (“More likely at a pub than in the basement of a friend I say ‘ol chap.”)

It’s late.  I promised myself I would get into the prone position sooner than this.  Ha!  I had to get this out of my system or I wouldn’t sleep a wink.  What?  Wink.  Wink.  The quick opening and closing of the eye with attitude.  Wink!  Get it?  Sh*t.  Maybe in a dream.  

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g7wefv98lvo

-30-

Three Little Words: A Review.

So I receive my copy of Cigar Aficionado (October 2017) and I place it on the pile of magazines I have yet to read and the hundreds of pages of torn out articles that are scattered to the left of my small writing space on my desk.

Several days go by and I just keep building the stacks of copy I will use someday in a story.  But today was different.  For some unknown reason, I decided to pull the issue out and strip off the protective plastic cover.  I take a quick look at the front of this cigar magazine.  “Inside the NFL: Who will win the Super Bowl?  Danny Sheridan picks the winners.  How to beat the Bookmakers.  Jay Glazer and Dean Blandino – The Fox insiders speak.  Super NFL Stadiums.  Featuring: Dick Butkus, Jason Taylor, Robert Kraft.”  Hmm.  I glanced back at the masthead – Cigar Aficionado: The Good Life Magazine for Men.”

Cigars.  Cigars.  CIGARS!!!  WHERE ARE THE ARTICLES ON THE CIGARS?

Insouciantly I flip open the publication and my fingers happen to stop on page 124.  In the back – where the cigar reviews have been relegated.  Subhead:  Churchills.  I scan the first five to my left.  HEY!  Will you looky dat!  Third from the top.  Nat Cicco’s Anniversario 1965 Liga No. 4 Churchill.  Holy shit!  A 91!  A bloody good 91.  And I rep that line!  Would you look at that?  And I did.  You might say I stared at it.

The copy reads: Squarely, symmetrically pressed with an oily wrapper (Ecuador) and chopped pigtail cap (I can see that).  Up front acidity (?) disappears (Did it ever appear???)  for a leathery, meaty smoke sweetened by notes (What do-re-me?) of molasses and toffee.  U.S, $6.50.”  Well, I’ll be damned.  And wouldn’t you know it, I have that exact same size.  So what do you think I did?  Thaaaaaat’s right.  I went to my humidor and pulled it out.  Let’s see how close these guys are to the real thing.  (Read my Blog titles, “I think; therefore I am.” just to gain perspective as to why I’m doing this.)

Ok.  The CA review has a photo of the cigar, so why bother to tell me it’s square-pressed?  Too, it’s quite evident that the pigtail has been clipped.  Agreed description so far.  But unnecessary to write down.  The wrapper is gorgeous, a chocolate-brown hue that invites your lips to start quivering upon entry.  Nothing said there.  Why?  

Now, here’s where the review goes awry.  Where does this taster come up with acidic?  Even though the “acidity” disappears, why bother to mention it because it isn’t there.

The reviewer tastes a “leathery, meaty smoke sweetened by notes of molasses and toffee.”  Ok.  I’m smoking this cigar.  I have put fire to the folded-in foot (not mentioned in the original review and should have been) and I’m drawing in some of the most luscious (meaty?) smoke produced by the combination of fire, tobacco and Mother Nature.

I get a refreshing dose of viscous chocolate syrup, a hint of cinnamon powder, and a squiggle of sassafras extract.  A bubbly blur of spice appears and hovers in the smoke for the remainder of the experience.  There’s even a bit of seasoned tobacco pipe residue taste upon the final exhale of smoke – the type of essence that one can get from the first crunch of the sizzling burnt edges of crème brûlée.  My palate does detect a dash of toffee.  Toffee, as you know, is “a hard but chewy, caramel colored noncrystalline candy made by cooking sugar, water (or cream or milk) and usually butter or other fat. Other ingredients such as nuts or chocolate are sometimes added (Google), but not in this case.  And what kind of toffee, Dark English Butter, English Butter Toffee, White English Butter Toffee and who knows how many more.  Each has their own unique flavor enhancements.

Ah, and don’t forget the bouquet (but this reviewer did).  One of the prime elements in the flavor of any cigar.  The bouquet, the whipped cream that tops a sundae with its drizzle of dazzle.  

Now I know the editors can’t go into so much detail and I dare say I feel like a jackass just writing this somewhat lengthy personal description.  So you know what I would have said had I had the chance to give this cigar a review?

Damn!  Great Smoke!

Ah, the serenity of sublime simplicity.  

Too, it should have gotten a 95 or better.

Ta!

-30-      

You can go to Hell!

Punctuality was drilled into me since I was a kid.  I was taught that being on time, or better yet – being early was sacred, holy, and divine.  It was not something I was born with, this devotion to promptness had to be taught and observed.  But I found out, after many years that being somewhere or completing a project by a deadline was not the point. What was really being ingrained into my psyche was understanding and applying the notion of respect.

This, of course, was before cell phones and mass communication.  Now you can change plans at the tap of a finger.  No, when I grew up, obviously I was expected to keep my appointments or find a germ-laden public phone to call the other party and tell them I was going to be late – or not show up at all.  

I really have to give my canonical penchant for being on time to my Dad.  He was a stickler for being accountable to your word. What else is there?  He taught me to always be on time.  So I just – did it.  And then to back him up was the catacombs of rhapsodic concatenations of the Catholic Church – “Kyrie eleison mei.”  Oy vie!

Now, I’m not going into the minutiae of being “bullied” by the catechism of growing up in a strict Catholic household, I’ll let John R. Powers do that.  Read his 1975 novel, Do Black Patent Leather Shoes Really Reflect Up?  To get a swipe of what we had to deal with – pre Second Vatican Council and beyond!  But I will add to his memories mine about being an altar boy. Now there’s where you learn discipline – and the Fear of Almighty God!

Discipline was the key word for a boy who wanted to please his parents.  Being an altar boy was almost a rite of passage in a Catholic household.  And the perks were well received, like serving at funerals.  Not only would I get out of a weekday class at 10 am, but the family of the deceased usually offered us an envelope with a ten spot inside.

But I digress.  The regular schedule for any 11-year-old boy (no girls were allowed back then to be altar b-o-y-s!) was grueling.  Every f*cking day, Monday through Saturday masses were held at 6 am, 7:15 am, 8 am, and finally 8:45 am.  Every F*cking day.  Except for Sunday.  But that’s a whole ‘nother matter.

The fact was, there had to be three altar boys at each service, the cross-bearer and two acolytes to hold the candles before and after the service for adoration. (Except when you received a call from the Mother House, where the nuns lived. Then it was up to one altar boy to do everything – and be there at 5 am!)  Bless you, Sinister Mary Peter.  

But I had no choice!  Not only was I made to feel guilt-ridden if I did not become an altar boy, but Catholic lads were expected to be a part of this holy, traditional ritual.  Come hell or high water.

The priest would get to the church and enter the sacristy about 15 minutes before the mass started and you had better be there or your ass was going to hell. Think about it. Tell an 11-year-old that if he’s late for celebrating mass he’s going to be bosom buddies with the brotherhood of Beelzebub for the rest of his f*cking existence!  That’s eternity man!  Punishment in perpetuity!

You bet your sweet ass I was an “on time” altar boy!  Fear is quite a motivator as is going to Hell!  And that discipline has carried over to my adult life.

********

So it has become obvious to me within the last few months that some store managers and shop owners in the cigar community will never – ever, have to worry about missing one another after their time with the living is up.  It’s so simple.  When the rapture comes – I’m going up.  Some are going down!  And just think, they’ll never be at a loss for a f*cking cigar lighter ever again!!!  LOL!!!

-30-

“Somewhere Over the Rainbow”

After the storm of memorable magnitude hit the other day and then subsided, a lithe, cotton-candy colored rainbow formed in the sky.  An immense convex-shaped natural palette of pastel pinks, blues, yellows, whites, greens, and violets, drew people away from what they were doing in their houses, restaurants, and even from their cars (me) to see.  Yes, people, still mesmerized by this mystical, natural phenomenon pulled off to the side of the road to take their best attempt at an Ansel Adams moment with their puny phones this ephemeral phenomenon that would soon dissipate into the misty sun-outlined clouds of love-induced Brigadoon dreams.

Ordinary people, still impressed with the reflection of light against billions upon trillions of water droplets that produced every conceivable shade that the spiritual prism had to offer being released into the now brilliantly lit,  sun-drenched sky for our pleasure, took time out to gaze upon its splendor.

Nature is unresponsive to man’s control.  Nature does what it is meant to do – soothe us, scare us, satiate us into states of awe and wonder, fear and terror.  She is the master of sight, sound, and sensations.  She is responsible for tastes that we sense.  She is Mother Nature.  The latter – taste –  was my impetus of an idea that was resurrected by the sight of this spectrum of beauty.  The Googleplex of tastes.

Of course, I tend to think of taste in concert with cigars – as ephemeral and obstreperous the interpretation of this gustatory perception is.  How elitist of me to use this term from the Latin gustatus “sense of taste; a taste” , the noun – use of past participle of gustare ‘to taste;’ from PIE root *geus- ‘to taste; to choose. (Wiki)  I apologize.

But to my point, hidden within the aristocratic mélange of words is the one we can lift out – “choose.”  Or the one I prefer – choice.  We have a choice of what tastes we define, or perceive, or catch.

These, too, of course – are a product of nature.  Yet, they do not draw people to their camera phones, out of their houses, or into the streets with screams of delicious delight. It is a private moment that takes on gargantuan proportions while smoking the cigar, though the gusto of gastronomy cannot be seen.

These lip smacking guesses take the avidity out of smoking a fine, premium cigar: descriptions of dried fruit, cumin, cardamom, leather, venison, yeast, (yuk) humas, iodine, hot steam, cold shower, aged barnacles, foaming sea water, crystallized hazelnut shells, humid lavender, hot lead, stale bread, dry toast, white noise, filtered heat, wavey wheat, beer breath, mushrooms, mice feces, cardboard, hell I could go on forever, and some reviewers do for whatever purpose, I cannot say – other than to gush verbal garbage to get a reaction they cannot see?

It’s simple.  Look at the rainbow while smoking the cigar.  A duo delight. 

It’s one thing to observe the natural beauty of a rainbow, still another to dissect the tastes of tobacco when all we really want is a pleasant smoke that we like and are comfortable with.

Excuse me if I’ve stepped on the toes of the cigar connoisseurs, the premium aficionados, the lisps of luxury that trickle into an experience that is meant only to please with a rounded satisfaction void of analysis and asininity of arising anise.