I've used the term 'atmospheric pairing' prior for a bit and both here and there. Almost always in terms of television or movies, radio, or a book. The audio/video stimulation of senses which accompanies a good smoke. The room or place you're in when you light up a cigar, however, seems to have flown under my radar. Perhaps because I prefer settings and rooms that do just that. Recently, I had a small maybe lateral (up?)grade to my home office area. It got me thinking.
It got me thinking of the taxi depot in Brooklyn I once walked into while looking for a ride home from the new school I had just ditched. Back then, NYC cabs all smelled of stale Te-Amo ghostings. Years later, due to ditching school so much, I found myself in the office of a restaurant on an interview for a line cook position. Newspapers, boxscores, race forms, betting slips, and I don't recall anything other than the sports section. The only guy with a neck tattoo had just gotten out of Joliet and that isn't a culinary school.
The smart guys at the bar always grabbed the crossword puzzle.
Cans drained of their foods, their edges sometimes bent down to act as fingers of ashtrays for cigarettes and an occasional well-masticated stogie. A small TV set, boxing. A cheap radio sounding-off crackly from somewhere, baseball. An occasional stream of muted newscasts. Order forms and lists, hand-scrawled and (rarely) printed-off--begrudgingly the latter so much as to be felt. Ideas, notions, crude drawing of private parts. The last bit a bridge too far for my liking.
Uncovered light bulbs, fluorescent tubes, and old furniture. There ya go. A big wooden desk, a broken-down couch never sat in, a table to sit around, and wooden, and in mismatched chairs. A set of three dice off to the side, most of a set of dominoes. A dog-eared deck of cards with a produce section rubberband wrapped too tight around. A bigger deeper can there with communal ashes. Back to the desk, an old phone then, later, a cell phone laid out in the general vicinity of that first phone.
Maybe a binder, a few notebooks, memo pad pages stuck all about, left hanging to ignore. Maybe a waitress pad. A free calendar from somewhere and a busted neon sign on the wall. Pretty dang sweet. My new desk is also my new table which is also my old table, repurposed. Shunned from the lovely confines of my house. The leaf is gone and it's round now, wooden and egalitarian. Three chairs, two of which match. Mine is the odd and sturdier one. The other two are there mainly for show.
One is reserved for a special someone. One is for whomever else and on a rotating schedule, sparingly-so. One is reserved, the other I have deep reservations as to filling. Out here in my office of three walls and a sliding screen door with a roof overhead and decking underfoot, there is also an unfinished wood bookshelf. A tiny unused desk with wobbly legs, and a greedy coffee table that catches whatever I throw on it. All wood with some metal. A blue ball in a spare ashtray, the all-purpose sport ball of the ghetto of my youth.
The coffee table remains with me because one morning I woke up on another couch years ago and my son put a bunch of Star Wars stickers on it to cheer me up. They apparently tell a story but he forgets now how it goes. A feather duster is playing centerpiece now, I love that thing. A big mason jar of cigar bands I fill up and then empty into a bigger tote under my bed. Some randomly-branded cigarbage some of it from defunct brands. I sometimes cannot wait till I am a defunct brand.
Ruby Vondella has a doghouse in one corner of the room and a pillow next to my chair where she spends most of her time. There's a mop and bucket, a box of empty cigar boxes, and a metal folding chair, folded. It's awfully nice here. I almost forgot to mention the ceiling fan. What's on my table? Glad you asked. A big ceramic ashtray sits in the middle on the other side of my laptop, two lighters, a broken but usable corn cob pipe, and a cigar nub I'll load into it later, when I'm done here. A couple notebooks and my headset. More cigar bands.
Not exactly what many would consider a cigar lounge but exactly what I would. I'm not a swanky fellow. I also am allowed inside at times but never to smoke. I sit in the living room then, and it's something more of a study--another fine atmosphere. It's all books and plants and a TV that I believe still works but I can't recall the last time anyone proved that. The ceilings in there are quite high and I find that to be quite bothersome. I feel like it looks like a professor of clergyman lives under it. I like to look at it through the window to my right.
I'm neither of those things, professor or clergyman. In my mind, I run a taxi stand maybe a deli. Dispatcher and 'kosher style.' It's a living. (I've always felt my name should have been Izzy.) I was recently asked what I do and I answered. I was then asked when I became interested in cigars. My mind flashed to my maternal grandfather stuffing an unlit cigar in my mouth in my playpen. My dad snapped a picture. I answered it was just always something I dug.
He said that it must be nice to have found something like that. I agreed. I was then asked when I became interested in writing and I told my inquisitor that I'd let them know as soon as it happened. "Where do you like to smoke?" I asked.
The smart guys at the bar always grabbed the crossword puzzle.
Cans drained of their foods, their edges sometimes bent down to act as fingers of ashtrays for cigarettes and an occasional well-masticated stogie. A small TV set, boxing. A cheap radio sounding-off crackly from somewhere, baseball. An occasional stream of muted newscasts. Order forms and lists, hand-scrawled and (rarely) printed-off--begrudgingly the latter so much as to be felt. Ideas, notions, crude drawing of private parts. The last bit a bridge too far for my liking.
Uncovered light bulbs, fluorescent tubes, and old furniture. There ya go. A big wooden desk, a broken-down couch never sat in, a table to sit around, and wooden, and in mismatched chairs. A set of three dice off to the side, most of a set of dominoes. A dog-eared deck of cards with a produce section rubberband wrapped too tight around. A bigger deeper can there with communal ashes. Back to the desk, an old phone then, later, a cell phone laid out in the general vicinity of that first phone.
Maybe a binder, a few notebooks, memo pad pages stuck all about, left hanging to ignore. Maybe a waitress pad. A free calendar from somewhere and a busted neon sign on the wall. Pretty dang sweet. My new desk is also my new table which is also my old table, repurposed. Shunned from the lovely confines of my house. The leaf is gone and it's round now, wooden and egalitarian. Three chairs, two of which match. Mine is the odd and sturdier one. The other two are there mainly for show.
One is reserved for a special someone. One is for whomever else and on a rotating schedule, sparingly-so. One is reserved, the other I have deep reservations as to filling. Out here in my office of three walls and a sliding screen door with a roof overhead and decking underfoot, there is also an unfinished wood bookshelf. A tiny unused desk with wobbly legs, and a greedy coffee table that catches whatever I throw on it. All wood with some metal. A blue ball in a spare ashtray, the all-purpose sport ball of the ghetto of my youth.
The coffee table remains with me because one morning I woke up on another couch years ago and my son put a bunch of Star Wars stickers on it to cheer me up. They apparently tell a story but he forgets now how it goes. A feather duster is playing centerpiece now, I love that thing. A big mason jar of cigar bands I fill up and then empty into a bigger tote under my bed. Some randomly-branded cigarbage some of it from defunct brands. I sometimes cannot wait till I am a defunct brand.
Ruby Vondella has a doghouse in one corner of the room and a pillow next to my chair where she spends most of her time. There's a mop and bucket, a box of empty cigar boxes, and a metal folding chair, folded. It's awfully nice here. I almost forgot to mention the ceiling fan. What's on my table? Glad you asked. A big ceramic ashtray sits in the middle on the other side of my laptop, two lighters, a broken but usable corn cob pipe, and a cigar nub I'll load into it later, when I'm done here. A couple notebooks and my headset. More cigar bands.
Not exactly what many would consider a cigar lounge but exactly what I would. I'm not a swanky fellow. I also am allowed inside at times but never to smoke. I sit in the living room then, and it's something more of a study--another fine atmosphere. It's all books and plants and a TV that I believe still works but I can't recall the last time anyone proved that. The ceilings in there are quite high and I find that to be quite bothersome. I feel like it looks like a professor of clergyman lives under it. I like to look at it through the window to my right.
I'm neither of those things, professor or clergyman. In my mind, I run a taxi stand maybe a deli. Dispatcher and 'kosher style.' It's a living. (I've always felt my name should have been Izzy.) I was recently asked what I do and I answered. I was then asked when I became interested in cigars. My mind flashed to my maternal grandfather stuffing an unlit cigar in my mouth in my playpen. My dad snapped a picture. I answered it was just always something I dug.
He said that it must be nice to have found something like that. I agreed. I was then asked when I became interested in writing and I told my inquisitor that I'd let them know as soon as it happened. "Where do you like to smoke?" I asked.
::: very :::