Cigars, Friends, and Breakfast.

Making friends isn’t easy.  Oh sure. When you’re a kid, it’s a snap.  But as you get older you either stay with the friends you’ve known since grade school, or you venture out.  I like the discoveries of personalities.  Despite the fun I had at a recent grade school reunion, I only connected with one person.  And she was in 8th grade and I was in 7th.  I guess you could call it a crush back then. In fact, truth be told, that’s the only reason I went.  To see if she would be there. And I must admit, seeing her was as exciting as it was when I fell in love with her in grade school. We continue to communicate now and then to this day on a friendly level.

There’s always some kind of mysterious chemistry that’s involved with mixing personal relationships.  But for me, the main ingredient is a cigar. I can’t tell you how many friends I’ve made since I’ve been in the business.  And I continue to make new friends almost every day.  Friends.  Not just shallow acquaintances.    

But every once and a while, the personalities of some of the people I meet in the cigar industry is like – well, like when I was publishing freelance news stories for local, regional, and national bodybuilding competitions.  

Was it easy?  Hell no. There was one promoter who had a reputation for being a complete asshole.  I mean his sphincter muscle was as tight as Rickie Gasperi.  But I was determined to drill (excuse the pun) into his personality and find out if this opinion people had of him was real or imagined.  It was real. But every competition I attended to report on the action, he could see I was a committed writer giving notoriety to the local bodybuilders with my reportage.  And before you knew it, I found out that the guy was a marshmallow.  And he wasn’t the only hard ass I was going to get to know.  There were several others that challenged me.

There’s a cigar shop where I have found a group of guys who are absolutely the real deal (sorry for using a cliché) when it comes to holding out their hands and willing to get to know you.  They have become my friends. And it warms my oftimes cold heart because I deal with a lot of personalities where you truly do become jaded in the human condition. You have to wear some armor.  And if a sales rep tells you he or she has no steel mesh surrounding their hearts – they’re liars.  Hardcore bullshit artists.

It happened to me recently.  I always visit this one shop early.  And awhile back, the guys asked me if I would share breakfast with them someday and that type of invite is extremely rare.  I figured it was the usual talk and would never happen.

But I walked in and the place was all but empty.  A rare sight because the chairs are usually filled with regulars BEFORE the store is officially open.  So I asked the owner, where is everyone?  “In the back.  Making breakfast.”  I peeked out the rear door and I couldn’t believe my eyes came over and greeted me – by name, with handshakes and warm welcomes.

I mean really, the spread was stunning.  (Thank you “Hog”)  Biscuits, sausage links and patties, hash browns, and a gravy that would put Julia Child to shame – creamy and spicy.   We all ate together, talked about whatever, and had a grand old time. No airs.  All genuine.  All friends.

The cigar is a magic wand, one like Harry Potter possessed.  But this wand emits only good vibes. And I gotta tell you, it makes me feel great and I can tell they were enjoying my company and I was enjoying theirs.  Cigars just ain’t for smoking. They reach out in so many ways and draw people together.  

I’m a very lucky guy to be in this industry.  

Rosalia fuses fashion.

Page numbers are becoming a thing of the past.  I’m thumbing through October’s Elle.  “Instant volumized lip effect.”  Page? Ah, “Mix Masters.” Page 81.  Only editorial copy receives a numeral apparently.

Cigar.  On the record.  Not in the magazine.  Hoja de Rosalia Entumb (sic) or Sepulvado.  The center is the eye-catcher.  It looks like a miniature cork sticking out of a bottle.  It is in a tomb of sorts. Habano 2000 wrapper.

“Jimmy Choo Fever.”  A new scent for the ladies.  A new cigar for the guys. Pull the tab on the edge of the page and sniff.  Floral. A bit of citrus. Unique? Eh.  Rosalia.  The cigar’s flavors tickle your palate with tangs of delight.  All the senses are involved. Touch, smell, yes . . . even hearing.  Perfect draw. Listen.

Next page.  A purse by Prada (Maria Bianchi Prada).  Surrounded by inflated surgical gloves.  Nothing. Only sight. Flip the page. More gloves.  This time there is a boot that is gingerly placed in the middle of gloves.  The boot is striped with colors of dark blue, turquoise, pink, orange, and the top is yellow.  It looks like ski jacket material. Dark blue gloves, the others are light sky blue that cradle the footwear. Then all is framed by pink gloves.  Inflated with air. (Redundant?)

The cigar is changing its delicate balance of flavors.  A rainbow of perfectly fermented tobacco. Its resultant aroma is intoxicating.  The draw is near perfect. No bitterness. No fashion statement here but a concatenated commentary on how good a boutique cigar can be despite its origin.  

Chanel.  Another purse being pawed by navy blue rubber gloves.  The purse is dyed red plunked in the center. It’s just a reproduced photo. The contrast is like a Rosalia.  But not just a photo.  I’m smoking the actual cigar.  It’s drawing my attention since I lit the foot.  The foot with the short cork of tobacco jutting out – called entubar or tubing. 

Next page thus further down the cigar.  Changes again this time to jellied coffee.  Thick and accented by the bonny bouquet. Not as attractive as the photo.  But satisfying and subtle. Specifically? Nothing precise –  or exact. A combination of errant essences.  I could write down all sorts of descriptions, but I won’t. Supercilious insanity.

Imperfections were never a part of fashion.  Now, gaps in teeth, freckles, little or no makeup, make up the attractiveness of the model. The burn is a bit crooked.  Who cares. Not Anna of Vogue.  Give everyone a chance.  Like this cigar. Somewhat full-bodied, yet smooth, silky.  A Hermès fabric contribution, yet less expensive.  Rare. Not found in every department store.  Not even on Rodeo Drive? For sure a Macy’s offering.

Every humidor doesn’t need this cigar.  But everyone ought to try it just once. Nothing on the tongue to annoy the transference of pleasure.  Why smoke a cigar if you are not in the mood for that certain ejaculation of relaxation.  

Pond’s cold cream cleansing balm.  A schmear of proof. Creamy. Both are wanting to be absorbed.  A draw of escalating and divine purity. Both will dissipate, but only one will outlast the other.   Addictavitely alluring as you go through page after page after cigar after cigar of what actually is and can be had.  Rosalia combines the sensuality of tobacco blends and produces the subliminal erotic sensation of desire.

Nothing is bitter.  Nothing is blind. Nothing is going away.  Particles remain on your taste buds emanating from huge clouds of smoke filling the air with invisible dripping ecstasy.  

“Not your average hair spray,” for TRESSemmé.  An ad so no page number to follow up. Spray it on.  Blow it out. Smoke producing micro mists of invisible flavor combinations that are continually dancing on your tongue.

If this is what you want, then buy the products, smoke the cigar, delight in their uniqueness. 

Shakespeare Sparks Selection.

I’m not a fan of Shakespeare, but that doesn’t make me a literary dolt?  He was a genius in his own time and has remained so today. In fact, according to the Oxford University Press’s Academic Insights to the Thinking World, in an article written by Chris Laoutaris, he writes, “during his own age, Shakespeare was primarily known first and foremost as a poet.”  But he is almost exclusively known as one of the greatest playwrights of our time. Yet, all his contributions to the theater were not linear in content.  His dramas, comedies, and tragedies were not always the smooth butter on the bread. There were crumbs.

Seth Lerer wrote a book, “Shakespeare’s Lyric Stage: Myth, Music, and Poetry in the Last Plays.”  (University of Chicago Press, 2018 276 Pp.) His premise, according to the review by Michael Dobson in The London Review of Books 6 June 2019, tilts the board to another side of Shakespearean literature that may not be as well known.  

Most everyone has heard of Macbeth, Romeo and Juliet, A Midsummer’s Night’s Dream, King Lear, and The Merchant of Venice.  But he wrote other plays that did not fit into this mode of then pop popularity, such as Pericles, The Winter’s Tale, Cymbeline, and The Tempest. Written near the end of his most prolific period (1590-1600), the question Dobson raises is, “Did Shakespeare know they were (would be) his last plays? . . . . For many modernists, however, (these) last plays showed Shakespeare at his most laudable and bracingly un-Victorian. They were consciously experimental, impatient with vulgar realism, aesthetically dissonant, apparently intended for an intellectual elite rather than a mass audience.”

Indeed there was a change in The Bard’s direction and maybe even his purpose for authorship.  Alas, change is inevitable – even for William Shakespeare. I mean, why try to fix it if it isn’t broken?  Unless there is a point to be made.

But because this is a cigar blog and not a treatise on the study of Shakespeare’s literary contributions and development, I will make my point: Let the cigar manufacturers (or a single manufacturer) have their day in the sun and if they decide to take up the proposition of experimentation, don’t excoriate the move – embrace it.

Recognizing Base Reality in the Industry.

Sitting here in the garage, drawing on a cigar and producing billows of thick clouds of blue smoke and releasing microparticles of aromatic burnt tobacco into the air that surrounds me from a cigar that no one will ever be able to smoke again, I feel a pent up notion will envelop the world with an aura that cannot be defined, only experienced and remembered forever. 

There’s something inside of me like the creature from the blockbuster movie, “Aliens.”  It wants to get out, but first, it must continue to mature to the point that when it does figuratively breathe fresh air it will live on its own forever.  Yes.  Immortality.  The concept is hard to grasp.  It has a lifespan that cascades into centuries. There is no telling what may be just an apparition that is fleeting into the air and can’t be realized until I take hold of it and wring out every last drop of creativity – it’s called an idea.

It’s one that I have been pregnant with for decades, and now I feel it is about time for it to be exposed to the world – and even though the universe may or may not be ready for it – it will happen.  But like a bowel movement, I cannot hold it in forever. Its length and breadth are unknown, but its feeling of wanting to break free is absolutely real.

So intense is this urge that I weep at times knowing I possess such a thought and have – for so long.  I’m not too sure at all how it developed inside and I am fearful that once exposed it will be misunderstood. But it must reveal itself or I shall splatter into a billion pieces of flesh, blood, and bone fragments that no one would be able to make any sense of or be competent to put back together.

So instead of taking that risk of wanton recklessness, I will allow it to speak, if that is the correct verb considering it is inanimate and will exist perpetually on its own. And even though I may be long gone, its ramifications will be felt for millenniums to come. Idealistic momentum.

The only sad part that makes me want to cringe, change and challenge its efficient efficacy of exposition is that I will not be around to see it grow (an oxymoron in and of itself) or its full potential without my inner intellectual and creative guidance.  But since I am convinced that this notion will fly, I will be the eternal father of the concept that has been internally gestating for close to half a century and bulging over the last 10 years.

So I must attempt to calculate its inevitable eruption.  But I can only do this by closely monitoring the mounting pressure it is placing upon my existential intelligence, prototypical psyche, and optimistic tone until that fateful day when I choose to make the change.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IJSv6JXKS_I

Changes

Oh, yeah
Mmm

Still don’t know what I was waitin’ for
And my time was runnin’ wild
A million dead-end streets and
Every time I thought I’d got it made
It seemed the taste was not so sweet
So I turned myself to face me
But I’ve never caught a glimpse
How the others must see the faker
I’m much too fast to take that test

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes
Turn and face the strange
Ch-ch-changes
Don’t want to be a richer man
Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes
Turn and face the strange
Ch-ch-changes
There’s gonna have to be a different man
Time may change me
But I can’t trace time

Mmm, yeah

I watch the ripples change their size
But never leave the stream
Of warm impermanence
And so the days float through my eyes
But still, the days seem the same
And these children that you spit on
As they try to change their worlds
Are immune to your consultations
They’re quite aware of what they’re goin’ through

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes
Turn and face the strange
Ch-ch-changes
Don’t tell them to grow up and out of it
Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes
Turn and face the strange
Ch-ch-changes
Where’s your shame?
You’ve left us up to our necks in it
Time may change me
But you can’t trace time

Strange fascinations fascinate me 
Ah, changes are takin’
The pace I’m goin’ through

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes
Turn and face the strange
Ch-ch-changes
Ooh, look out you rock ‘n’ rollers
Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes
Turn and face the strange
Ch-ch-changes
Pretty soon now you’re gonna get older
Time may change me
But I can’t trace time
I said that time may change me
But I can’t trace time

Cigars are the only tools I need.

Recently, I was asked by a highly respected cigar manufacturer, whose brand I represent, “What tools do you need to promote the brand that is so well known in Europe, but is virtually a stranger here in the United States?”

“Cigars.”  

Then I elaborated on the best form of advertising ever – “Word of mouth.”  And to do this, I must have access to an avalanche of cigars, thus generating the hotbed of conversation about the brand without any printed prompting.  I need to bring the cigar to the people. 

I become an evangelist?

In a sense, yes. Or as the dictionary offers, “someone who talks about something with great enthusiasm.”

Of course, this only will help the future of the brand if the cigar is any good.  

(Pause)

And it is – that good.

Filmmaker, James Gray (“Two Lovers,” “The Immigrant,” “The Lost City of Z,” and his newest “Ad Astra”) was quoted during an interview in the September 6th issue of The New Yorker by Nathan Heller writing, “‘The Godfather’ came out (1972) in five theaters in New York and two theaters in L.A., and played for about a year,” Gray said.  “Word of mouth was very important. By 1990, movies were coming out in a thousand theaters – now it’s five thousand – over the first weekend. A movie that is a big hit will last only five or six weeks, so they stopped having a central place in the culture.  You can’t quote lines from huge hit movies now. Whereas, if I say to you, ‘I’m gonna make him an offer he can’t refuse . . . .’  He shrugged.”

So I was asked what I needed.  I told them.  And if my horny desire is consummated –  the brand will give you – the cigar smoker – the satisfaction you can’t refuse.

Voila!

Jauntily Justifiably Jaded.

I used to write and post a blog a day.  Lots of ideas, lots of work, lots of effort.  I’m publishing once a week now. I found that there is just too much stuff, some useful, some not so useful beating us to a pulp in all the platforms.  I remember when I first encountered TMI on a message I sent out. And there is just too much insipid information being slammed in our faces every second.  

I’ve stopped checking the phone as often.  It’s a business tool now. Period. I use it for (gasp!) making calls, receiving calls, sending/receiving texts and emails, and writing an occasional comment that I can’t pass up.

I became entangled in the gooey, sticky web of thin strands of ephemeral data that are the mainstay of social media. Duh. I found that one blog, possibly two a week gives the reader a chance to receive it first, read it, absorb it, and then comment on it – if he or she so desires.

Ok.  So you might say I’m attacking my own stream of how I get the blog to you – the reader.  Yeah, I guess I am. But so what? Social Media is a miracle in getting information to people and I appreciate that.  What I don’t appreciate is the inanity of the almost obsessive need some have to publish every tick that comes across their brain wave pattern.

And, I suppose you could say I’m doing the same thing.  But what I write aren’t sparks that glow for a few seconds and then cool to ash.  I’ve made every attempt to write what a cigar broker does, how he feels, how he perceives this industry in our culture, and how to do it in such a way that will force the reader to think. 

I’m a writer.  Not a sparkler.

Peace.