I refuse to coddle the reader.

Am I getting soft?  I asked myself this question when I read that New York film and theater critic, John Simon, had passed at 94 recently.  Simon, in an article in Time magazine, was considered to have “the most poisonous pen on Broadway.”  In fact, it was considered a rite of passage to have been skewered by the testy words of John Simon.  

Enough obituaries have been written about his caustic criticism to fill pages after pages in any magazine or newspaper.  In fact, from the AP’s Mark Kennedy it was noted that “At least one actor fought back. Actress Sylvia Miles dumped a plate of pasta on his head when she encountered him in a restaurant in 1973 – (in) retaliation (for unkind comments) he made about her body.” 

I grew up reading his lacerating literature in New York magazine, where he worked for 40 years.  I thought that the way he put words to print was the way all critics should be –  honest to a fault even if the truth hurts.

From the same article, Simon was quoted as saying “‘A critical sting is not like a slight flesh wound, treatable with ointment.  If intentionally negative, it had to sting. This is the only way it is noticeable, the only way it could make a difference. That is to say if any criticism makes a difference.’” 

And by my admission of getting soft with my own writing, I am cringing at the thought that I recently changed a few penetrating “stings” by taking the advice from my son when he suggested that if you print what you plan on publishing, you’ll be jabbing at your readership and that is the last thing you want to do – irritate your readers to the point that they no longer want to read your posts.

I am livid at myself for absorbing his suggestion and letting the piece go live with what I now can clearly see was a watered-down version of what I truly wanted to say.  In fact, I made up my mind after reading the Simon obituary that if I hurt, disturb, or crush a cigar, a manufacturer, another reviewer, or my readers – that’s their problem.  How they interpret my words, is how they interpret my words.  

And that further begs the question, “What’s wrong with the raw truth, or my so-called insensitive interpretation of the truth?”  The answer is – absolutely nothing.  If you can’t take the heat scroll down and skip my posts.  I won’t mind because it’s what I, as an independent cigar broker and writer see, hear, or taste.  The fact is, that’s life – the good and the bad. I have no obligation to any advertisers to treat anyone, any cigar, any factory, or situation with kid gloves.  I’d rather be Mohammad Ali than Caspar Milquetoast.  

The world has gotten too politically correct.  Anything that offends is a no-no.  And that’s just not how the cultures are today or back then when Simon once wrote that “‘Jesus Christ Superstar, a production so stillborn I defy God Himself to resurrect it.’”

So if a factory of a cigar comes out with a turd it’s my decision to tell the reader just that.  Or if there is a magazine that gives every cigar a 90 or above rating, and I feel that that assessment is simply because the company advertises regularly, I shall switch on the klieg lights to expose the nonsense that has been written about bad cigars being good.  The reader can agree or disagree with me, even if I rep the product.

Case in point: In a blog post I penned recently I compared the new version of a cigar to its original blend as being way off the mark from the original.  The sales manager called me up and read me the riot act as if to say – no wait, he did say, “What you wrote doesn’t bode well for the new blend that is exactly like the old blend, if not better.”  I was criticizing my own product. Why the hell not? If it’s my opinion – what the f#@k is wrong with that?  If a reader can’t take the heat – scroll down.

It’s sad to see such a great critic pass, but even sadder when the reader is fed steamy, soft bullshit just to sell a play, a movie – or a cigar.  Or is it that . . . 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uQ0SI0R-DmM

(Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.  See you in 2020!)   

A post on pot.

I really didn’t want to write anything.  But I said that I would. And I’m doing so as you read what I just typed.  Am I stoned?  Perhaps.  I just wanted to see what I could come up while on . . . .  Courtesy of . . . . 

So we went to the AEXPO art exposition at nNavy pIer sith 

E and we had a sincerely a very good time.  One problem was my feet oh God if I could. Strangle the podiatrist and that nitch who works there.  

Any way, I know it will work out.  (I slower in my typing speed because I don’t want to make a mistake.  Why that would matter is something to think about. Here is what would happen if I simply do what I feel no rather, write what I feel.  So here goes.

**********

I just looked at my cigar and I can still see that I’m particular about the way…     wow. That was with this high I am enjoying. I wasnt sure how the two would mind adding valiun abdnhydroxide well thatbabcavavmn dish   no I am ajitnqgoing back to it. Jiam trying to write the my experrincs jusynkolkkie I sdonunensim on the ground. When nee in the ground.s.  In !am beninfbtaufght and she sits gdoi. F a vgey good job. Fir a while j could feel slightly enclosed. Buy my peripheral vision kinda ngot me out of what I call antfance.   In ts hard pin point but is it very where or. Is in just in the fortec o do nny thinking. I’m not sure where I was going with this but I also know that I have to think of sthe spacing

There as?

That was a fathe chair back qnf ntastic think. show we saw at the expo 2019 at  I think I told you that. But I’m thrilled to have gone even though it was rather e oensice thittyfdive edolkars paeprki g?  That ridulous. I’m started to. Take hold pull back the good or the ereakity.

I’m going to push the chair back and think. But not before I can see the desire to take back control is almost to hard to resist.

But I’m going to es jounthe buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz fr naminute.

Yadh I’m relaxed.a. I feel like ponly a couple thoughts are coming g through rather than two thousand.is it wrong or contrary to logic that I want not to relax..   I’m going to just sit back and let my mind I do what it decided to do.

It’s baecavgly the buzz that you get from too many beers.  I can remember walking out of Nick and. Vito’s totally glat out slosghed.

I’m really not tired. I don’t want to close e y eyes but it seems what else is there to do buy enjoy the nhu gh.  But do fall in so swiftly.

I’m  going through one of the magazines at the shows.  I picked up as many as I could that woohkd interest me.  Am I purposely messing up.. all I have to do slow ndownn.  Back in a minute

It’s wearing out.  The intensity has dimished markedly.  And I! I’m well it appears that I’m seeing rhnkeyboaarc and am able to type the right word with greater speed.  So this stuff peaks. Just like any thing for any body the is a peak. A high point that you bcsnnot exceed except death.

Now I’m thinking about horacionthe cigar and why they did not make every effort to be to get the cigar yo the states.  

It’s kinda disappointed.  Yes disappointing.

I can see how you waste or can waste time when stoned.  Nothing gets done.. maybe if you call you letting your mind clesqrbof all the wrorries.   Ytham maybe you ought re consider how your spending your precious what time time time.

I can tell.  I just repeated fucking time three four maybe five times.   So I’m coming down. 

I can fell the depression trying to roll back in it’s the tide of reality.

I’m back on the phone feel like finishing the cigar and go back in.  My experiment t I will read tomorrow.

I don’t think I tire of getting blog ideas biut there are times turn he. I’m lazy. I just don’t want to write.  Am I high?  Yes.  This what I think the words would come out like if I were (am?). You decide. I know. You don’t.

(Painting by Joan Mitchell.  Hemlock, 1956.  Whitney, New York.)

Cigar magazines have full reign now.

It’s official, Cigar Aficionado, Cigar Press, Cigar Snob, Cigar Adviser, Cigars Magazine, Smoke Magazine, Cigars and Spirits, Cigar Journal, Cigar World Magazine,  Ash Magazine and whatever ones I’m missing can now use the word “Fuck” or “Fucking” in any headline or editorial content they wish.

Why?  Because The London Review of Books has finally crossed the culture line in its 40th Anniversary Issue, (Volume 41, Number  19, October 2019) with the inclusion of the headline you see above in one of its reviews, “His Fucking Referendum” by David Runciman.  The book is “For the Record” by David Cameron published by William Collins.  

You may ask, “Why does this vulgar word used in bold lettering on page 11 give these cigar publications such permission?”  Simply because The London Review of Books, first published in 1979, might once have been considered one of the staider (“Staid indicates an ingrained seriousness and propriety that shows itself in complete decorum; a colorless kind of correctness . . . .” Wiki) literary newspapers in the marketplace today – aside from maybe The New York Review of Books, or the Times Literary Supplement.

In short, The London Review of Books has finally dribbled into the 21st Century.  And it only took 40 years. Hell, The New Yorker didn’t use “fuck” for the longest time to keep its rank in literary society.  The Village Voice (First published in 1955 and discontinued its print publication in 2017) was one of the first to use “fuck” in its editorial content but that was expected considering its reason for being on the newsstands in the first place.  (Look it up.)

But heavens!  My Gawd! Bloody Hell!  The London Review of Books??? 

Yes.  We can all breathe a sigh of relief in the cigar industry and now get to some real, down-to-earth, hardcore, honest, slick licorice cigar reviews and gut-punching, antithetical articles.  Imagine Cigar Aficionado’s headline to a cigar review, “Here’s a Real Fucking Good Smoke.”  Now that’s shit-stepping into the real world. 

Will any of the aforementioned magazines, be they print, or online have the cajones to print it?  Hell no. Of course not. They have to retain their appearances of propriety. I mean cigars are a luxury item for those with money and position.  Oh sure, the cigar reviewers and bloggers have been using “fuck” all along. But do we take them seriously? They’re just a bunch of guys and gals who have an opinion and they could care less about linguistic decorum or being “prop’-er.”  And we thought the Brits had class? (Another ruse rammed ruthlessly into our belittling bastardized belief system of what social order really is.)  

Paul Fussell, who wrote the satirical tome, “Class: A Guide Through the American Status System,” was honored with its cover blurb, a portion of which states, “Class is guaranteed to infuriate and amuse, whether your class is so high it’s out of sight or you are, alas, a sinking victim of prole (i.e. the working class) drift.

Well.  Welcome to the real world London Review of Books – it finally is moving along with the rest of the raffish rabble in its downward spiral to the nadir of crass societal norms.  

Cigar Aficionado, Cigar Press, Cigar Snob, Cigar Adviser, Cigars Magazine, Smoke Magazine, Cigars and Spirits, Cigar Journal, Cigar World Magazine, Ash Magazine?

Which cigar publication has the chutzpah?

 

Cigar compulsion vexes literary lust.

“Stronger than a man.”  Page Three. The UK’s September 27th issue of The Times Literary Supplement. Subtitle: “The complicated life of the ‘loveable, not likable’ Susan Sontag.”  I read the entire article top to bottom. Rare, that a story of interest to me is on page three (Page one is the cover. Page two Contents, publisher data, etc.)  

Immediately I thought of the odds of my walking into a humidor and picking out a cigar, paying for it (gasp!) and immediately lighting it up in the lounge.  It never happens. Partially I don’t buy cigars (Ta!) and I’m not usually walking into a humidor to contemplate a purchase. But what if I did?

I read the article with fury and interest such that I haven’t experienced in quite some time.  

Susan Sontag was a writer, author, intellectual, as well as brassy and “narcissistic” (borrowed from the author/reviewer Elaine Showalter of Benjamin Moser’s, Sontag: Her life.  I’m a latecomer if you can call reading my first Sontag tome in 1977, Illness as Metaphor.   

The closest I can honestly say I’ve come to this type of behavior is when I receive cigar samples in the mail and I open the box with great enthusiasm, but more often than not I just look at them, read the materials (if any are provided) and wait.  For what?  To smoke the cigar!  Usually, it’s a time issue.  

For example, just today I received a box of samples from a manufacturer that I’ve worked with before but there is a new kid on the shelf that I’m anxious to try.  But, unfortunately, I am not able to do what I did with the Sontag article. I have to wait! Timing is everything?  

The excitement is the same, but the opportunity isn’t.  Yes, we all seek immediate satisfaction.  But reading an article and smoking a cigar are on opposite sides of the spectrum, yet both are pleasures that are palpable and participatory.  One is intellectual the other sensorial. Though I suppose you could make the argument that smoking a cigar can be a cerebral exercise.  Though, I doubt very much that the average smoker, even the seasoned connoisseur’s interest is in the realm of a cognitive orgasm while or anticipating smoking a cigar.  Whereas, the reader is activating the subcortex of the brain while it receives and processes thought, twitching the intellect.  

The fact is, all I wanted to do was to satiate my thirst to know as much as I could about Susan Sontag in a short period of time without buying the book.  (But I eventually did.)  Whereas by smoking the cigar, my purpose is to stimulate the parietal lobe of the brain, a pseudo-intellectual pursuit of sorts, but one of an entirely different order and end result.

So will my dream of battle ramming my brain with an immediate intoxicating smoking experience be possible as is my drilling information about an author into my brain’s lobes sooner than later become a reality?  Choice, darling.  It’s always a choice.