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!)
IrvCigarBroker 
John Simon was not a great critic. John Simon was not a great anything other than a great embarrassment to his profession. You could tell by the end of his career how he relished his villainous role and leaned into it with appalling shamelessness. He was like a trained poodle who had learned one trick and then performed it over and over for decades. I never found one genuine insight in any of his reviews — which I used to pore over, by the way, out of sheer fascination at their wretchedness.
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