Transversely, a personality that jives with my own in any number of growing and often surprising ways, can compensate some for lack of quality, and just keep me coming back again and again. Sometimes against my better judgement.
But I get ahead of myself. Please, allow me to introduce
The Cigar
Hugo Cassar
Sumatra Wrapper
Nicaraguan Blend Binder/Filler
Churchill
"They say she's a little retarded, but those titties ain't retarded!"
Dave Attell, "Skanks for the Memories"
Pre-light, my schnoz is surprised by a more clear delineation of spices and sweetness than I'd expect in a sick of this price, this price being a couple and a half bucks. There are veins and upon close inspection a seam, but nothing egregious. I draw through the cap, still pre-light and am surprised at the amount of action I get. Sharp sweetness prevails. The stick is packed evenly and moderately firm.
On the bite off, there is more of the same, but not actually a lot more. It seems to have already shown its hand. The spice goes to pepper and to my palate, but finishes almost immediately. The sweetness mutes a bit. I light to begin the first third
...and the light is an unholy mess. There are sparks and there are sputters. There is fire and there is brimstone. It all ends in an uneven burn at the onset. I feel as though I've parachuted to safety, but have not been on terra firma long enough for the adrenaline to have subsided.
The smoke now leaves that pepper on my palate in near spices. Sweetness goes to dwell at the back corners of my tongue. The stick burns hot in my hand, uneven, and peppery. I just need to stay on for eight seconds, I rest myself assured, and wait to see how it all plays out.
The smoke it gives off is wispy and not overly kind. A tad more like wet spicy incense than cigar smoke. Still, I bravely forge ahead. I am a trooper and
the burn now relaxes between pulls but still heats up like a fire as soon as I next pull. Active. It feels very active and lively and almost crisp on account of the pepper. The sweet stays in one place, the almost spice, another. Balance. Barbara De Angelis says that,
The pepper and the sweet continue to stay their respective grounds on my palate and tongue. (That classic sitcom bit where warring roommates draw a line down the apartment's center.) That counts for something. I begin to putter about, clear the yard of sticks and leaves, replace tools in their proper places, and lament the loudness of my drunken neighbor. I cannot believe Sears won't honor his warranty, it's criminal.
The smoke thickens and the bite does not increase nor mature to spices, but does threaten the back of my throat. I pour a cup of coffee, and embark upon
the second third sees some mellowing all around and a general dry tobacco/hay note. Some sticks take a long time to settle. I feel like I'm first now being introduced to the real cigar. As if it spent its first third impressing me at a party by tying cherry stems with its tongue and now, post party, we're headed to Sonic for shakes. Pinkies up.
Neither sweet nor packing bravado, it is simply what it is. And what it is seems to be a nice enough cheap-o smoke, although perhaps shy of a serviceable everyday a la Casa de Garcia's fine-ish offerings.
A crack forms but does not leak and a decent enough chew starts setting in. Ash gets flakier and I've begun to simply flick it off as I see fit, or rather in quite a willy-nilly fashion.
The wrap threatens to come a bit undone now as if it has loosened its blouse over our milkshake and has designs on luring me back to its place in the
final third. Nuttiness and all it entails, in each of its meanings, enters here. And then the flirtatious hint of unbuttoned button switches to off the shoulder brazen hussiness - as the vulgar striptease of a wrapper come undone...
I'm not really hating it.
I'm back at her studio apartment. There is no bed so much as there's a kind of pile of blankets on the floor, and the TV is on a milk crate and the dishes are dirty - stacked high in the sink.
The stogie looks now like Curly's did when Moe smacked it all into his mouth.
There is cigar stuff everywhere and there are clothes strewn everywhere and her cat won't look away so I do. I look away and notice a pair of men's work boots.
There's more I want to smoke, but it might all fall apart first. There is more of her I want to feel, but I wait for a key in the door. The races, they are on and the cat tells me its name is Buzz. Or maybe I just have a beauty of one. I knew all along - no matter what - the end would come quickly.
I promise myself never again, knowing I fib.
Final Grade: B- (but if my pals ask, she's a B+)
(She's probably really a C+)
On the bite off, there is more of the same, but not actually a lot more. It seems to have already shown its hand. The spice goes to pepper and to my palate, but finishes almost immediately. The sweetness mutes a bit. I light to begin the first third
...and the light is an unholy mess. There are sparks and there are sputters. There is fire and there is brimstone. It all ends in an uneven burn at the onset. I feel as though I've parachuted to safety, but have not been on terra firma long enough for the adrenaline to have subsided.
The smoke now leaves that pepper on my palate in near spices. Sweetness goes to dwell at the back corners of my tongue. The stick burns hot in my hand, uneven, and peppery. I just need to stay on for eight seconds, I rest myself assured, and wait to see how it all plays out.
The smoke it gives off is wispy and not overly kind. A tad more like wet spicy incense than cigar smoke. Still, I bravely forge ahead. I am a trooper and
the burn now relaxes between pulls but still heats up like a fire as soon as I next pull. Active. It feels very active and lively and almost crisp on account of the pepper. The sweet stays in one place, the almost spice, another. Balance. Barbara De Angelis says that,
"Women need real moments of solitude and self-reflection to balance out how much of ourselves we give away."I flick the ash at 3/4" before it winds up in my lap. It flakes, doesn't clump. I'm pulling none too often but the hot ash cones out from the stogie as if I'm over smoking. It simply burns too darn hot. Also very unevenly and too fast to correct. I made it, I say aloud. As off in the distance, the plane meets the mountain in an inferno not unlike the one I stick into my smoke-hole and pull. I made it.
The pepper and the sweet continue to stay their respective grounds on my palate and tongue. (That classic sitcom bit where warring roommates draw a line down the apartment's center.) That counts for something. I begin to putter about, clear the yard of sticks and leaves, replace tools in their proper places, and lament the loudness of my drunken neighbor. I cannot believe Sears won't honor his warranty, it's criminal.
The smoke thickens and the bite does not increase nor mature to spices, but does threaten the back of my throat. I pour a cup of coffee, and embark upon
the second third sees some mellowing all around and a general dry tobacco/hay note. Some sticks take a long time to settle. I feel like I'm first now being introduced to the real cigar. As if it spent its first third impressing me at a party by tying cherry stems with its tongue and now, post party, we're headed to Sonic for shakes. Pinkies up.
Neither sweet nor packing bravado, it is simply what it is. And what it is seems to be a nice enough cheap-o smoke, although perhaps shy of a serviceable everyday a la Casa de Garcia's fine-ish offerings.
A crack forms but does not leak and a decent enough chew starts setting in. Ash gets flakier and I've begun to simply flick it off as I see fit, or rather in quite a willy-nilly fashion.
The wrap threatens to come a bit undone now as if it has loosened its blouse over our milkshake and has designs on luring me back to its place in the
final third. Nuttiness and all it entails, in each of its meanings, enters here. And then the flirtatious hint of unbuttoned button switches to off the shoulder brazen hussiness - as the vulgar striptease of a wrapper come undone...
I'm not really hating it.
I'm back at her studio apartment. There is no bed so much as there's a kind of pile of blankets on the floor, and the TV is on a milk crate and the dishes are dirty - stacked high in the sink.
The stogie looks now like Curly's did when Moe smacked it all into his mouth.
There is cigar stuff everywhere and there are clothes strewn everywhere and her cat won't look away so I do. I look away and notice a pair of men's work boots.
There's more I want to smoke, but it might all fall apart first. There is more of her I want to feel, but I wait for a key in the door. The races, they are on and the cat tells me its name is Buzz. Or maybe I just have a beauty of one. I knew all along - no matter what - the end would come quickly.
I promise myself never again, knowing I fib.
Final Grade: B- (but if my pals ask, she's a B+)
(She's probably really a C+)