The path is narrow so squeeze through.

Why do cigar lovers find it so difficult to change brands?  I’ll tell you why.

For years a book took up about an inch of space on my bookshelf called “The Bell Jar” by Sylvia Plath.  I showed no interest in reading it. None. I have enough books so there’s no need for me to go to the library

But I do make a trip there when I’m planning to go out of town to find one or two audiobooks, usually biographies – never fiction – to make the trip a bit more tolerable. So, I go over to the audio section and troll for something that will excite me. And believe me, I’m not easy to please. As I cocked my head sideways to scan the titles, there staring me in the face on the second shelf was a pristine copy of the audiobook “The Bell Jar.” I was stunned.

I immediately picked it out, quickly found another audiobook, this one by Lisa Dunham, and headed to check out both.  A strange vibration enveloped me and I honed in on that feeling. It was the first time in ages I began to look forward to going on a road trip.

A few days later I was packed and in the car headed for Indianapolis.  A couple hours into the trip I became bored with my favorite radio station (87.7 FM), plus reception fades and slid the first disc of Plath’s magnum opus into the slot.

Instantaneously I fell in love with the narrator’s voice (Maggie Gyllenhaal) and began to listen to the words of a book that had been just collecting dust.  I became totally engaged in the subject. Which is rare because “The Bell Jar” is a work of fiction by one of the most important poets of our time. Two disciplines I generally avoid, again especially in audiobooks.

To wit:  “This heavily autobiographical novel (and only) by the late poet Sylvia Plath unfolds the story of Esther Greenwood, a brilliant, beautiful, and successful junior editor in New York City who undergoes a tragic nervous breakdown.” (Jacket)

To further explain, “the main character uses the bell jar as the primary metaphor for feelings of confinement and entrapment. She feels that she’s stuck in her own head, spinning around the same thoughts of self-doubt and dejection, over and over again, with no hope of escape. But she also uses the bell jar as a metaphor for society at large, for the way that people can be trapped inside stale social conventions and expectations.” (www.Shmoop.com)

Each time the disc paused, melodious, soft music in the minor mode gave me the heads up that I was going to have to slip in the next one.  How could I have been so myopic to allow this book to just sit? “The Bell Jar” is steeped in Sylvia Plath’s own life, only she could call it fiction.  And if truth be told, much of the content is from the mold of her very life.

I’ve read plenty of fiction, too, such as Stamm, Updike, Buckley, David Foster Wallace, Diski, Highsmith, etc.  So I’m no stranger to the genre.  But I never picked out an audiobook of fiction.  I always found myself unable to concentrate on the storyline while driving.  So I’ve tried.  

What got to me was how could I be so utterly and solidly encased in a particular genre to ignore one that is a major brick in the walls of the written word?  But my habit to read fiction in book form has been de rigueur for me for, well, practically since I learned how to read.  Yes, I was in a rut.  But I am able to pull myself out every now and then.  How?

I discovered “Agnes” by Peter Stamm.  I was reading a review in “New York Magazine” and the first line in the review was the first line in the story,  “Agnes was dead.” That one three-word sentence hooked me. Then to top it off, I knew I would be traveling to New York in a few weeks and I would make it a point to stop into The Strand on Broadway, the most well-known bookseller not only in The Big Apple, but possibly the world, and seek out a copy.  

So when I got to the store located in midtown Manhattan, I walked in the door under the scaffolding. I felt as if I had entered a cathedral and was about to embrace the Holy Grail.  The delicate aroma of the thousands of books lured me deeper into the store.  A bit on the dramatic side I’ll admit?  I had to ask what section “Agnes” was in.  Instinctively I knew it would be there.  Voila!  I slid out a copy, a perfect copy and held it in my hand.  But it was the purchase of “Agnes” and then reading it that reopened my eyes to fiction many months ago.  In fact, I just bought Stamm’s newest novel, “To the Back of Beyond.”

But old habits are indeed difficult to crack.  So I quickly fell back into my rut of reading books of fiction and listening to biographies on audiobooks.  But I would be saved once again.  We all need sudden jolts at times to wake up.  And that’s how I felt when I saw Plath’s masterpiece on the library’s shelf.

After my card was swiped and I checked the audiobooks out, I began to hold onto this feeling of breathless elation as one of the few times of late I can remember actually looking forward to a lengthy road trip, one that I had been dreading for the last few days. (Yes, in the beginning, I was a travel junkie, now I’m I stay-near-home addict, so this pull was exactly what I needed to continue to do my work.)

********

We’re living in a world of incessant distractions and habitual behavior, so often it does take a thunderbolt to get our attention.  

Thank God for storms.

So get out of your rut.  In short, try a new cigar.  It truly is a moment that could change your life, open your eyes, and allow you to taste the erotic sweetness of what this short life has to offer.

GYHOOYA. An Acronym.

Choosing a cigar to rep is a crapshoot.  I’ve had a plethora of manufacturers contact me within the last few months all wanting me to rep their cigars.  Some are serious, others are not. Those who send samples within a week are serious. Those who fart around are not.

So let’s say I get the cigars.  “Winner winner chicken dinner.”

I’m excited to try new cigars or those I’ve heard about but haven’t smoked.   Problem is, these last few weeks the pickings have been abysmal. Right away I saw a connection.  I receive a lot of periodicals and magazines, TLS, The London Review of Books, Vanity Fair, The New York Review of Books, Vogue, W Magazine, and on and on.  But I noticed that all of them have been rather dull.  Nothing much to drool over. Articles such as, “Isabel Hull: When can you start a war?”  “Mary Cassatt’s Revenge by Julian Barnes,” “The Virtues of Natalia Ginzburg,” “Getting Personal: A Gun-Control Activist Stands Her Ground,” “Daniel Cohn-Bendit Looks Back on May ‘68,” “ What is Empathy?” by Andrew Scull.  Out of all of them, one stood out  “Adam Shatz on Chester Himes.” Fascinating read in the London Review of Books (LRB).

It’s been the same with the cigars.  I won’t name the duds or the manufacturers will get their panties in a wad and I won’t be on the list of brokers to call.  But here, too.  Lots of shiny bands, quirky shapes, exotic wrappers, unusual combinations of filler, double, triple binders, and more.  But most are coming up flat. Dry.  Dehydrated flavors, monotonous essences, and well, for the lack of a better phrase,  “No Pop!”

So here I have in front of me thousands of words, sentences, subjects, and one article that shines.  The Himes’ review of Lawrence P. Jackson’s book – “Chester B. Himes: A Biography. (Norton, 606 pp. £25, July 2017).  Why does this article get the nod? The article is called,’ Writing Absurdity.” It begins:

“On 21 April 1930, a fire broke out in the state penitentiary in Columbus, Ohio, a wretched, segregated prison where more than 4000 men were packed into a facility built to hold 1500. By the time it was extinguished, 322 prisoners lay dead, and the National Guard was called in to suppress rioting. Among the survivors was Chester Himes, a twenty-year-old black man serving a twenty-year sentence for armed robbery. Himes had already seen his share of troubles but, as Lawrence Jackson writes in his impressive biography, they ‘did not inspire him’ the way that ‘stumbling through the gore of two cell block tiers’ worth of burned-alive men’ did. After the fire, Himes began to write fiction on a typewriter he had bought with his gambling winnings, and four years later he published a story about the fire in Esquire. As the prison was engulfed in flames, Himes had seen its clandestine eroticism come into the open, in a carnival of the damned. A convict called Broadway Rose put on a sex show, and the prison’s ‘boy-girls’ offered their services in cells covered by red curtains. In Himes’ ‘To What Red Hell’, it’s the fire that enables this liberation of desire, before extinguishing it: ‘Oh, Lawd, ma man’s dead,’ a black prisoner called Beautiful Slim says, mourning his lover. Yet death also has a levelling (sic) effect: Blackie, the white protagonist, observes that all the dead, white and black, have the same ‘smoke-blackened flesh’.”

Are the other articles, reviews, essays, etc. worth their salt?  Of course, but just this one swept me into the full read.  I had never heard of Himes, and most likely wouldn’t have had I not subscribed to LRB.  I may never have read the first sentence.  The others all had first sentences. Why did I stop at this one?  It’s not marketing. It’s not flash and sizzle. It’s the odd juxtaposition of brilliant content written in one, some might say, a lengthy lead sentence that caught my interest.  I tasted the article, in this case intellectually.

And so it goes with cigars.  Within the last few weeks, I’ve smoked more than the usual. And one stands out. The Leaf by Esteban.  I know.  I sound like a shill.  I rep it, blah, blah, blah. But it’s the one that stood out.  Why?  Flavor. Although, the first one I tried had a tight draw.  But the second one was fine.  Maybe I’m a bit of an elitist but I want cigars to be like a Bic® pen, “Writes first time every time.”  (No. It doesn’t.)  So some slack is allowed here.

But I find the entire constellation of cigars and literature so amazingly complex and strewn with thousands of choices that it’s not unusual for me to react the way I did. Someone might love the Ginzburg article or the piece on Mary Cassatt, or “When can you start a war?” But I didn’t.

Same with the cigars. I loved the Céspedes line, and I revisited the Merrero brand and found it to be quite delicious, and I’ll even stick my neck out and say Mr. Wright’s line was a surprise.    

Point being, you never know what you’re going to like until you get your head out of your ass and smoke each one for what it’s worth.  Try ‘em all and give each one the respect they deserve.  And GYHOOYA!  The cigar is easier to light.

Cigar Roulette. No Spoiler.

There’s a scene in the movie “The November Man” when Peter Devereaux (Pierce Brosnan) is trying to force the soon-to-be Russian president, Arkady Federov (Lazar Ristovski) to name the name of the person who committed rogue war crimes during the Chechen war. “We are going to play a little game I believe was invented in your country,” Peter says.  The game?  Russian Roulette.

Out come the six bullets and one is placed back in the cylinder.  And all the while, the woman, Alice Fournier (Olga Kurylenko) who was abused and was held captive as a child by Federov as his personal sex slave and who gained access to him by acting out the part of a prostitute and then trying to slash Federov’s throat with a shard of a smashed mirror before Peter bursts into the bedroom and stops her, is now recording the entire confession on her cell phone.

As Federov props himself on the bed, Peter spins the cylinder and holds the gun to Federov’s forehead. “What is his name?” Click!   Peter takes the bullet out. He reloads the chamber and gives it another healthy spin. “What is his name?” CLICK!  No blast.  He goes for try number three.  Spinnnnnnnnn.  Stop!

Finally, through the sweat and terror of the possibility of certain death, Federov clenches his teeth and spits out, “Hanley.” (Bill Smitlovich)

Action pursues the response.  Fear did its work.  Fear always does.  

The movie ramps up the tension.  You really must see this film to be thrilled or at least to know the ending.  Why would you miss that?

The thought came to me when I was saying “YES!” at the conclusion – Cigar Roulette.  Of course, that’s what all the manufacturers are playing except that the price they pay for an empty chamber is far below what Federov’s fate will be.

How else can anyone explain the astronomical number of new blends that are drenching the cigar market without a single sting of recourse from anyone?

Put one out on the market.  Who cares?  Spin the wheels of the cash register and hope for the best.  If it doesn’t click, you got a winner.  If it clicks, you don’t. But what’s the penalty? There is none. Maybe that oughta change.

It did for Hanley and Arkady Federov.

Slowly cigorganized.

Organizing my desk again, (it’s a lot easier than trying to straighten out my life).  It’s a perpetual task I abhor.  But I have so much physical information coming in I just can’t get to all of it in a timely manner.  So the papers pile up. But eventually, I do go over all the magazines, book reviews, and letters I receive on a weekly, monthly basis.  Very often I tear out articles from magazines and newspaper stories and stack them on my desk.  Which only adds to the towers of editorial content that’s already there. 

A few weeks back I had the entire office painted.  Yellowish ceiling, the clapboards are now a shark gray, and then the trim is white.

I’m going to have a sandwich. Be back in a jiffy.

Full.

The reason I bring up the new look is that it has given me the incentive to keep the desk tidy.  Plus I don’t go ballistic when I can’t find something that I know is right in front of me – somewhere.

So when I come up to the screen and my mind is on empty, I can now thumb through my “tickler file” (a file, drawer or pile of various, disparate articles I’ve torn out, or shards of notes I’ve scribbled on whatever I can find – napkins, menus, envelopes, old mail whatever) to find an idea about or connection to cigars, the industry, a person related to it, or whatever I feel is important.  Though I find that boring, so I do veer off every now and then and write about whatever I want to.  I may not know exactly what it is I’m looking for, but now I can at least find the place where I have saved all the ripped out stories from the newspapers, magazines, reviews, etc. that have accumulated.

It’s the search, the oftimes desperate mania to find the right idea, that I love the most. Then I take my intellectual thread and begin to sew the content together.  The end result is a surprise at times, and then other times I’m right on point from the start.

  

Chalk up another win for the FDA.

I found this article in Maryland’s Frederick News-Post dated August 12, 2017, written by Ezra Fieser Bloomberg.   It proves at least to me, that one manufacturer is doing what it needs to do to stay in business.  And snubbing the US market.  In short, the FDA is winning.  How does that make you feel?  

********

Radhames Rodriguez is using a rare tobacco and special wrapper to roll 50,000 of his new premium cigars, the Pulita, in the Dominican Republic. U.S. aficionados shouldn’t get their hopes up though — the limited-edition cigar won’t be on sale anywhere near them.

Named after Rodriguez’s grandfather, who started the business sixty years ago, the Pulita will only be marketed in Europe. That’s because Rodriguez can’t face the headache and cost of complying with the Food and Drug Administration’s new tobacco regulations.

“It just costs too much and takes too much time,” said Rodriguez, vice president of Tabacalera El Artista. “We’re going to focus on the German and Italian markets instead.”

Since August last year, every time Artista or other cigar makers introduce a new product, they must gain approval from U.S. authorities at the cost of tens of thousands of dollars or more. The result? Business is down by a third this year at the El Artista factory in the fertile Cibao Valley, one of the world’s largest premium and limited-edition cigar makers.

Across the Caribbean country, producers are grappling with FDA regulations. Some are temporarily cutting production in hopes President Donald Trump’s administration will rescind the rules. Others are spurning the U.S. entirely, choosing to sell their new specialty products in Europe and Asia, where China is set to overtake the U.S. as the world’s largest consumer of cigars.

Rodriguez said he would have to pay for approval for each of the five sizes of the Pulita he had planned on producing.

“We would price ourselves out of the market in the U.S.,” Rodriguez said.  

Typically more than a thousand special editions or new releases are introduced each year, though they make up only a fraction of the 315 million premium cigars produced annually. They are often sought after by aficionados for their unique taste and commemorative value.

“The FDA regulations are creating a situation in which these new, exciting cigars won’t be available in the U.S.,” said Hendrik Kelner, president of the Association of Dominican Cigar Manufacturers, and vice chairman of Tabadom Holding Inc., which produces Davidoff brand cigars. Regulators are creating a new “forbidden fruit” for U.S. smokers similar to Cuban cigars.

The FDA included premium cigars when it decided to review regulations for tobacco products, including hookahs and e-cigarettes, for health reasons. In late July, the agency said it would review scientific data and consumption patterns related to premium cigars.

Still, the number of cigars introduced at the International Premium Cigar & Pipe Retailers trade show in Las Vegas in July was down about 30 percent compared with last year, according to the cigar publication Halfwheel, the term for a bundle of cigars.

Sales in the U.S., forecast to reach about $7.9 billion this year, are projected to grow by less than 2 percent a year through 2021, off from the double-digit growth the industry had seen in previous years, according to Euromonitor International. Meanwhile, the Chinese market is expected to grow from $7.9 billion this year to $11 billion in 2021.

“The future of the premium cigar industry in the U.S. is uncertain,” Rodriguez said. “So we’re going to keep working hard on other markets where we’re not under such a big threat.”

********

Why not fight the FDA?  A sad story isn’t it?

 

Points of View. See. There.

If you’ve ever been to the Art Institute, MoMA, Chicago’s MCA or any art museum, you no doubt have ambled by a group of adults or kids who are in front of a particular work of art and there’s a docent explaining some particular aspect of a painting, sculpture, or artifact.  If you listen closely you can get in on the guide’s expertise.

I meander up to as many groups as I desire just to hear what the man or woman is pointing out.  I’m amazed what I can pick up about a particular painter or sculptor. Now the fun part is if you already know about a particular artist and what the guide is pulling from the work.  

Very often I hear about shapes, the repetition of angles and most often light and how it is used to emphasize a framed masterpiece.  Case in point, when I was in MoMA in New York recently, I happened to stop by one of the most famous paintings in the world – Vincent van Gogh’s “Starry Night.”

Vincent van Gogh painted “Starry Night” in 1889 during his stay at the asylum of Saint-Paul-de-Mausole near Saint-Rémy-de-Provence. Van Gogh lived well in the hospital; he was allowed more freedoms than any of the other patients. If attended, he could leave the hospital grounds; he was allowed to paint, read, and withdraw into his own room. He was even given a studio. While he suffered from the occasional relapse into paranoia and fits – officially he had been diagnosed with epileptic fits – it seemed his mental health was recovering.” (www.vangoghgallery.com). 

The crowd was a minimum of some 30 odd art lovers trying to not only take selfies with van Gogh’s signature painting while trying to hear the information they were privy to listen to while the guide spoke.

It was as fascinating to see as watching a torcedor roll a cigar for the first time in say, Honduras, Nicaragua, or the Dominican Republic.  Now, without sounding too egotistical, I am very familiar with the painting so hearing what I already know repeated in the discussion gave me a sense of empowerment that gave my ego a boost.

Same with the cigar roller.  I’ve seen the process dozens of times and I always notice that some people are completely mesmerized by the dexterity of human hands and pay very close attention to his or her every move.  

Others – and I observed this with both the van Gogh and the cigar roller – are not hypnotized by what is being explained or the skills of the roller.  I used to get so annoyed that I used to think, “Look at those assholes. The know-it-alls.”

But that’s not the case at all.  Oh sure, it may be that way for a few, but I’ll bet you those who are not magnetized to the museum’s speaker or the roller are either quite familiar with the artwork or the intricate process of making a cigar. So they begin taking in other things around them.  I wish I had the nerve to ask them why they aren’t listening or watching, but I just keep my mouth shut.  I keenly observe their actions.

And since I find myself oftimes in the latter group, I have discovered that I still learn – but just about something else that’s indirectly related.  I love to watch people and I find that their immediate attention is what I find so fascinating at the time and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that.  

Like when I took the shot of the painting, I was able to weasel my way right to the front of the group, take the picture and move on to other artists’ work in the gallery that caught my attention. Why?  Most of the people weren’t paying attention to me.

Same way with the rollers.  I often find myself not so much focused on the skills of the torcedor, but rather the face of the individual doing the rolling.  Is he or she bored, engrossed in the process, or feeling electric because he or she has the rapt attention of so many people? That must feel fantastic.

And it does.  

I get such a rush when I write.  I’ve seen people struggle with creating a letter or getting a homework assignment completed and it seems to take them an eternity.  Not fun.  For me the more complex, the more I get out of the end result. It’s what makes this blog so much fun to write. I get this intellectual and rapturous physical surge creating it.

I hope you’re one of those who get high when reading it.  Thank you.

Me.

Heading out!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nOVW938sr0k

Why would I do that?

A few days ago I did the most unusual thing.  I sent a text to the national sales manager of a boutique cigar I adore and came right out and asked if I could rep it.  I did at one point, but I had a bit of a rough start with the owner in the very beginning, so who knows what his impressions of me will be at this later date.  I don’t quit easily.

No, I’m not going to name the cigar.   All I’ll say is that it has the most fantastic flavor that is consistent and teeters on the point of becoming addictive. I have a few of them left from the samples he provided before, and I’m going to smoke one tonight when I walk Flo.  Give it another test run and see if it has what I am remembering.

Why would I go to that extreme?  It’s gold – 24k is pure but too soft to use, so it is mixed with other metals to strengthen it. Note that 18k gold is 75% pure.  But I think he’s using 24k to keep the temper of the cigar at its freshest. In short, akin to a puro.  

Few cigars excite me to the point of reconnecting with the manufacturer.  Too, by now I would figure a rep is in place. But by asking the right questions, the answers led me to believe that the company is in good hands on the national level.  Having a rep, however, would relieve the manager’s tasks overall – at least in the Midwest. No one can do it alone. God knows I’ve been going it alone since day one. And as Ringo says, “It don’t come easy.”  You know it.

So I’ll wait for a reply – if any.  Though I’m not very good at that skill.  But I have a choice?  Remind me, and I’ll let you know one way or the other of the decision.

Wish them luck.

The Value in Vulgarity.

That can is the direct result of absolute frustration.  I find that if I take the aforementioned emotion out on an inanimate object the reactive retort is usually predictable.  So what irritation caused the destruction of the can? Why was I so annoyed that I had to crush an object to feel at ease?  

It’s because I cannot comprehend why an established cigar manufacturer would be so unaccountable in getting back to me regarding my contractual representation of one of his cigar brands.  I’m completely baffled by slothfulness.  (Or maybe he changed his mind?)

My business is to introduce new brands of cigars to prospective buyers.  The object is not only to make money, but it’s to jump-start building brand recognition.  I visit the lounge, the store, the shop and with my persuasive techniques and samples.  I have the owner or manager light one up.  And then if there is a lifted-eyebrow moment, I will be fortunate and make the sale.

Then between visits, if the cigar catches on, the next time I stop in, I will be greeted with a smile and not a scowl.  A smile means money has been generated.  In fact, I may even be offered a pop, or like the other day an invitation to lunch.

So with the prospect of making more money and slowly building the brand, why is the manufacturer not on the phone, sending me a text, or emailing me faster than the speed of light?  I DON’T HAVE A CLUE!  I do give the manufacturer the benefit of a doubt though.  Life does get in the way of expediency. 

But after what I consider a reasonable period of time, I quote Sonja who always seemed to have the right answer for this type of situation.  Do you know what her return to serenity was?

“F++k It !!!”

 

Cigar musing number 4629.

Got back from the field early today.  Having a cigar in the PRESTO Cigar Lounge (Open 24/7) because there was half a cigar left so I stopped in to finish it.  The radio is scratchy. Quite annoying really, but right now I prefer that to silence.

Finally secured an order from a shop that should be a model for all lounges. But I’m still in the embryonic stage of decision making.  

“Look at them guys lookin’’ at me like I’m a fool

But aww, deep down inside they know I’m cool

I said, “Now” I said, “Now, the moment of truth has finally come”

When I have to show you some, some of that cool jerk

Now, give me a little bit of drums by himself there

Now, give me a little bit a bass with those 88’s” (“Cool Jerk” by The Capitols)

My persona is being compared to that of Ernest Hemingway because of the beard?  You can’t think cigar, cigar, cigar.

Karen Carpenter couldn’t cope.  Sad.  That voice could soothe the Middle East.  But there’s always conflict.  Maybe it’s because they can’t listen?  Focus. Stay focused.

So when the day goes well, I take a break. The effort is worth it.  It’s the push and shove that gets to you.

Smoking a Golden Age by Saga.  Perfect burn.  Mellow flavors.  Copy reads “It narrates (cigars can’t talk) better than words can describe, the history of a family’s tradition in tobacco, delivering a cigar much like the ones they used to smoke in the times of Hemingway.”  An odd juxtaposition, coincidence, wry.  Me.  Ernest. Saga. Beard. (By the by, “according to myth, Ernest Hemingway’s favorite drink was the Mojito, which he drank often at one of his favorite bars, La Bodeguita del Medio, in Havana, Cuba.{eater.com})

Sun is out.  I’m still at PRESTO.  The flexibility of independence.  The bane of individualism. You must have discipline.  The latter is not genetic, but a sharpened highly-honed learned skill.

“Twinkle,” my phone is ringing.  Wait.   A follow-up email.  You have to stay on top of things.  Regardless.

“All I want is what I – have coming to me.  All I want is my fair share.” (Lucy from “A Charlie Brown Christmas – original track.)  Is that too much to ask you, I ask you?

Smoking a great cigar that is half enjoyed is like having your favorite song playing on the radio (87.7 FM) just as you pull into your driveway or spot and it grabs you like a magnetar would attract iron filings – it’s virtually impossible to get out of the car.  You stay put and listen to the whole damn song. I sit there and smoke the whole damn cigar. Could I toss it? Turn off the radio? Sure. But what’s a molten moment of sizzling ecstasy worth to you, uh?  

Madonna sucks on this fingernails-on-the-chalkboard staticky radio.  Buts that’s why I’m out here – to finish my cigar. My choice. Not the sales manager, boss, or the “Massa.”  My doctor once said to me, “Your business. Your plan.” Spot on.  Gorgeous.

But this isn’t made up.  This is my mind whizzing through thoughts – impressions of an independent cigar broker.  I just have had to learn to like roller coasters – tall, scary, vertical vomit comets.  I hate ‘em.

Ja, the radio has lost the guttural, electronic insolent chatter.  It’s custard. Kopp’s. Smooth.  An anteater’s delight. It’s stupefying.  A lot more pleasant to listen to.  “Take it – to the limit, one more tiiiiiiiiiimmmmme.”  I’ve adapted.

Corporate is being cooped up like a chicken in a cage.  You can see the outside, but you ain’t never gonna walk “da Earth, like Kung Fu.”  Sun is down. Getting chilly. Gray. Cigar sill smoking great. One more chorus and I can get my ass into the warm house.  

Maybe the air, the sun, or lack thereof has allowed the radio waves to penetrate the sound gristle thereby smoothing out the Tom Waits cackle.

Ending the day feeling good.  Like chocolate with hot peppers in it.  Close those eyes. “California dreamin’ (California dreamin’).” (Mamas and the Papas)

“No matter how they toss the dice, it had to be.”  (Turtles)

Finish that Golden Age.

To a close, man.

Buttery in-the-shell escargots.  (Elitist Gastronomy)

Right On Henshaw Street.

Flatbed’s (latest) release: HENSHAW STREET (is) a back road tribute. (No.  I don’t know what the latter means and the latest is 2016.  I printed this straight from the copy.) Perfectly rolled with a perfect burn…razor sharp.  An earthy, countryfied, old-school blend.  It’ll take you back to when cigars were cigars.  Just leaf.  No coloring, no flavoring, no “infusing.”  No trying to hide, flavor, or cover up an inferior leaf.  This cigar is going to rival our “Kentucky Fire Cured”, and “Peacemaker” meteoric releases!  Flatbedders have been ravin’ ’bout (sic) it already! Grab this cigar and your favorite chair.  Put on some Allman Brothers or Lynyrd Skynyrd and just kick back.  You”ll see why I call it a …back road tribute.  (I’ll have to give that phrase some serious thought.)

The dark, chocolaty (sic) wrapper is from Mexico’s San Andres Valley.  Binder is Cuban seed, Dominican grown.  The filler is Pennsylvania 41; Dominican and Nicaraguan Ligero, and Seco Cubano.  

Box of 20!

Cigar Size is 6 1/2 x 53

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Ok.  That’s what Paul Bush of Flatbed Cigars has to say.  Now it’s my turn.

Clip!  Spicey from the first draw.  Habanero. West Virginia.  Decent draw.  (I never could figure out why “Moon River” was included in Capote’s classic short story “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” that morphed into a movie anyway.)

What does smooth and creamy really mean? Synonymous with smooth: mellow, mild, agreeable or pleasant.  I chose the latter. Creamy: velvety, whipped, or buttery.  I’ll go for velvety.

I don’t get the chocolate yet.  I get more of a coffee lilt.  And countrified?  What did Billy Joe McAllister throw off the Tallahatchie Bridge?  No answer since the sultry Bobbie Gentry released her classic hit “Ode to Billie Joe” in 1967.  Similar, uh?

Burns like a champ.  No distasteful bitterness despite the PA tobacco that weaves its way through the Dominican and Nicaraguan ligero.  That’s an art.  Pennsylvania tobacco can be a bitch to blend with balanced success.  I’d say Paul has this challenge behind him.  

The beginning offbeat rhythm of Simon and Garfunkel’s hit “Cecilia” reminds me of this cigar’s resultant experience.  Unbalanced?  Né rather teetering on an Ellington-like counterpoint in the beginning but it eventually finds its tempo.  

I have to say it’s a bit rugged halfway through.  Now if that’s what Paul’s referring to when he says “back road tribute,” then he’s right on target.  If not then I’ll switch the experience to the dictionary’s definition: “rough, hilly, jagged.”

It’s the William F. Buckley etymological-based rule.  Every word has a specific origin, ergo meaning.   Be cautious.  Henshaw Street.  Why?

You decide.  I’ll go for Paul’s interpretation.  Like the late Mayor Daley of Chicago once said to a reporter during one of his infamous press conferences, “Don’t write what I said, write what I mean.”  They had to “Chuckle, chuckle.” 

The cigar may be beginning to head down that “tribute”  road now.  Still spicy, but it’s dragging along some of that royal characteristic Pennsylvanian machismo.   How do you define that?  A man’s smoke.  This is not a bad thing.  I’m sure he knew exactly what he was going for when he wrote his description and thankfully it wasn’t an attempt at Johnny Cash’s monotonous vocal pulsation of, “I Walk the Line.”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xObSJWIWui0