Thoughts on Candela Cigars on St. Patrick's Day
[The following is a re-worked version of a post published five years ago tomorrow.]
Cultural appropriation be damned & blarney'd, I had my St. Patrick's Day another year & still sans a drop of Irish blood. I watched The Quiet Man, as I usually do. That's really the bulk of it. See, I'm a traditionalist, but also lazy. John Wayne engaging in once-a-year fisticuffs with Victor McLaglen is tradition enough on this, the O'Day of days. Although we all know Barry Fitzgerald stole & steals the show.
Every March 17th as my social media feeds become a dare I say kitsch-fest of Pickle Juices, Filthy Hooligans, and my otherwise mainly sane brethren in ridiculous fucking hats, I lament and am made to feel rather peeved that a once-proud American Icon is sadly relegated to this. I mean schtick is natural, schtick is good. Not everybody does it, but everybody should. However, a bit of decorum is all I ask. Lest it teeter-on-over into schlock.
I do believe you'll then have a deeper appreciation of the leaf. You might not end up loving the green as much as Ms. Piggy and/or Donald Trump each do, but then again, you just maybe-might. And next year, do schtick not schlock... I'll be ever so happy to simply point & laugh at your choice of head-wear alone, ya maniacs, ya. "You know [fill in name] he's such a wildcard!" & "Remember that one time..."
I'll leave you w/ this, then... I am not as old as the coming yarn might make me appear, but I come from a poor and cheap family. As such I recall vividly my first colored TV. My inaugural taste of it was the opening credits of Little House on the Prairie. Green rolling hills with bright yellow flowers. I recall too, screaming-hurling down the highway at nearly 40mph in my Hyundai Accent some decades later. My phone rang and I received my first picture thusly. It was a photo of my sleeping daughter wrapped in pink, sent by her mom.
You see, I at first did not have a picture. Then my phone 'rang.' Then I had a picture, materialized. Amazing! (I was late to that game, too.) My second MMS followed quickly on its heels -- it was a shot of her mom's, pardon my French, tiddies. Such a beautiful language, French. Romance. I killed my A/C, pulled a Huey post-haste, and managed to gun the thing up to 43 -- pointed in the direction of breasts and the promise thereof.
Yes, I watched The Quiet Man today. On something called Netflix. You may not have heard of it yet, but it's a thing. A thing new (late) to me. Oh, time. Oh, another trip around the sun. I do hope you had a good one, gentlepersons. With many more coming down the pike.
Regardless, the takeaway from this opening paragraph is thus: I am a traditionalist. My take-away from the flick? To quote my own well-aged Facebook status "The Quiet Man is the longest premium tobacco ad ever filmed. Also: Mary Kate had to have made the rest of Sean Thornton's life a living-breathing hell of high-level tsuris. Every year, I see the movie differently. How interesting." (I was married at the time.) #HotTake
My further cigar-centric takeaway? Glad ya asked, gentlepersons. It never changes. It's hard to tell when exactly the Dbl Claro/Candela wrapper became the green beer of the cigar world, but I'm sure it happened quite early on as it is a somewhat unfortunate and entirely perfect fit -- but the traditionalist in me wants it known that Candela is a serious thing. Full-on deserving of consideration in the remaining Gregorian 364 -- not just be relegated to schtick and kitsch & shamrock-novelty of that ilk.
Candela wrapper leaf, in fact, owned the cigar landscape of the mid-1950s to the '70s US. So much so, those Candela offerings were dubbed "American Market Selection." If that black and white flick you're watching includes a stogie -- chances are it's green green green. This might be hard to fathom in our flavor-bomb era ushered at least partially in by improper tastings and taste -- but the Candela is quite flavorful in its subtle nuances. Please don't make me discuss the retro-hale for another hour. No, I won't share a link. Look it up. It shamefully exists.
Every March 17th as my social media feeds become a dare I say kitsch-fest of Pickle Juices, Filthy Hooligans, and my otherwise mainly sane brethren in ridiculous fucking hats, I lament and am made to feel rather peeved that a once-proud American Icon is sadly relegated to this. I mean schtick is natural, schtick is good. Not everybody does it, but everybody should. However, a bit of decorum is all I ask. Lest it teeter-on-over into schlock.
Please then, allow me to act as tire chains and slow/secure the roll with a good bit of traction, gentlepersons. (An attempt.) How? By asking you to nurse your today's [day after] near-certain Amateur Hour hangover with a bit of the hair of the dog that done bit you -- and pair it with Candela smokes like perhaps an Illusione CG-4 Kaplowitz Media Candela, a Fuente 8-5-8 Lonsdale, or a Puros Indios Churchill. Yes, I did place that list in ::: very ::: particular order.
I do believe you'll then have a deeper appreciation of the leaf. You might not end up loving the green as much as Ms. Piggy and/or Donald Trump each do, but then again, you just maybe-might. And next year, do schtick not schlock... I'll be ever so happy to simply point & laugh at your choice of head-wear alone, ya maniacs, ya. "You know [fill in name] he's such a wildcard!" & "Remember that one time..."
I'll leave you w/ this, then... I am not as old as the coming yarn might make me appear, but I come from a poor and cheap family. As such I recall vividly my first colored TV. My inaugural taste of it was the opening credits of Little House on the Prairie. Green rolling hills with bright yellow flowers. I recall too, screaming-hurling down the highway at nearly 40mph in my Hyundai Accent some decades later. My phone rang and I received my first picture thusly. It was a photo of my sleeping daughter wrapped in pink, sent by her mom.
You see, I at first did not have a picture. Then my phone 'rang.' Then I had a picture, materialized. Amazing! (I was late to that game, too.) My second MMS followed quickly on its heels -- it was a shot of her mom's, pardon my French, tiddies. Such a beautiful language, French. Romance. I killed my A/C, pulled a Huey post-haste, and managed to gun the thing up to 43 -- pointed in the direction of breasts and the promise thereof.
Yes, I watched The Quiet Man today. On something called Netflix. You may not have heard of it yet, but it's a thing. A thing new (late) to me. Oh, time. Oh, another trip around the sun. I do hope you had a good one, gentlepersons. With many more coming down the pike.
Ultimately, as I suppose my aforementioned finality was merely penultimate in the 'end' -- nevertheless, here goes: some things should never be schlock. Off the top of my head? Nudies and Candelas for two (three?). Why? They, in the cases provided, mark moments that should live larger in memory than any single day.
McL'chaim!
@kaplowitzmedia
PS: Did you like this return to longer-form content not of the review/rating genre? Let me know in the comments below. PPS: Comments have been disabled prior to publishing.
::: very :::