Smokin'

Cigars don't make much sense, but, for me, they represent a valuable sense of occasion.

On the whole, I’m not a drug user. Outside of alcohol and coffee, there’s no substance I regularly enjoy the effects of — not even weed, the favorite of the hip, the trendy. Certainly not nicotine through a flavored pouch or flash drive. You couldn’t pay me to try a Zyn, or a Juul. So I’m not a smoker, then. Ah! But I do smoke.

In today’s world, the cigar’s seen as a bit dorky, a bit pretentious. With its length, and its color, you’re begging people to look at you doing something. What’s next? Only the route of General Douglas MacArthur and Popeye: sporting a pipe from your lips.

I still remember the first time I tested a cigar, in the summer of 2019. It was one of those terrible, cheap examples, a Swisher Sweet with a minty tip. Hated the thing. Here’s a picture of my dad, my Grandpop, and I, all smoking during that fateful night:

It wasn’t until another evening later on, when I had a higher-shelf cigar, that the appeal clicked. Without the cheap taste of the rim, this one asked a little more of me, requesting active appreciation that “Mango Blast” (or whatever the e-cig flavor of the month is) doesn’t inspire. When you smoke a cigar, you don’t inhale the exhaust, as you would with a cigarette — or, indeed, a vape. Many a smoker of the latter two has had a rude awakening with a cigar, choking and coughing like a newbie. I prefer what the cigar offers, a chance to roll the cloud around with your tongue before letting go.

Grandpop and I, 2022, with better smokes

There’s a tactical, tangible quality to cigars. They aren’t addictive — I would be fine if someone told me I could never have one again — and, as a result, you won’t blow through a ton of them unless you love cosplaying as Winston Churchill. Because I have around one per month, the novelty of indulging in a long brown remains. Cutting, sniffing, lighting, and picking the right music to listen to…all life to be lived, if I need a moment to slow down and acknowledge the gift of being on this blue ball hurtling through the universe.

Not long ago, a couple of neighbors knocked on our door, panicking that their cat had leapt out of its stroller while they were on a walk. My dad and I, the only two home at the time, leapt into action, and a stressful manhunt began. We covered a few blocks of space, looking under absolutely every tree, bush, you name it. All of us began to lose hope by the time I found myself in my next-door neighbor’s back garden, dirt sprinkled on my body. Upon hearing a collar jingle, I thought “no, it can’t be.” After kneeling down, I came face-to-face with a black-and-white kitty, staring me down, motionless. Not wanting to try and grab it, and have the feline skitter away again, I yelled for the father and daughter who lost their precious pet to come running over. Mission accomplished, and they were reunited.

I headed to the beach right after, now a hero, and lit up a cigar. Its smoke produced an aroma of victory. I also savored a killer view:

Hashtag no filter

The seldom nature of cigar consumption makes it, in my book, acceptable as a vice. In an issue of Esquire (2019, summer), Dwight Garner pens an ode to cigarettes. He quotes a book called Cigarettes Are Sublime by Richard Klein: “…they are the occasion for reverie and a tool of concentration, they are superficial and profound, soldier and Gypsy, hateful and delicious.” I’d like to appropriate that sentiment for this Substack on my strange appreciate for the cigar. In a world I often struggle to grasp, they’re a reminder, proclaiming: “hey, champ, you’re a lucky bastard!” Not a healthy reminder, but a reminder nonetheless.