If you did anything yesterday other than watch the Super Bowl, then you were certainly in the minority amongst the people of North America. Yes, even our Canuckle-headed neighbors to the north hunker down for the American Pigskin Classic. It was a well-played game between the best two teams in the NFL, and you certainly can’t begrudge the winners for their tremendous performance. If only for a short while, the city of New Orleans has risen from the ashes to celebrate one hell of an accomplishment.

To many, the Super Bowl isn’t even about the game. Chicks who don’t give a rat’s ash and non-sports fans alike use the game as a social gathering while asking every five minutes, “Now what has to happen in order for me to get 6 – 8 in my box pool?” I try to ignore them, but when it’s your wife, that’s just plain hard to do.

Whether you like football or not, the food is what brings us all great happiness. Any Bowl game party is an eclectic mix of fattening foods we feast on fastidiously. Pictured here is “yours truly” slow-cooking wings on the grill in 20 degree weather, about an hour before the game. I huddled against the Weber with liquid hops and barley in one hand, and a Nestor Plasencia Special Selection in the other. It’s tough to enjoy a cigar in the outdoors for us in the north this time of year, but I managed to stay warm enough to revel in that delicious premium stick of tobacco. I’m sure those of you in more pleasant climates smoked a number of fine stoags. You have my permission to share your smoking pleasures right here.

As far as the chow at the Z home went, this year we didn’t go crazy and stayed with traditional fare. My daughter did a crockpot of chili that simmered for hours and made the whole house smell so good. She also made homemade pigs in the blanket, and when you use a good brand like Hebrew National, it really makes all the difference in the world. I basted the bbq wings in garlic and hot sauce, and like I said, slow-cooked them to stay moist. We didn’t go nuts, but I’m sure a lot of you did, and once again, this is the place to share. What kind of ethnic dishes or foods indigenous to your region did you gorge on?

I wanted to have another cigar at halftime, but didn’t want to miss The Who, a band I’ve always loved. And while I give the old boys credit for rocking at their ages, wow – their better days about 20 years behind them. Yeah, Daltry’s 66, but hitting those highs just wasn’t in the plans, and ol’ Petey has sure packed on a few extra pounds. The light show was great the crowd dug it, and I give them high marks for effort… but not so much on the execution. Me thinks I’m being “too” kind.

And then there were the commercials… the coveted Super Bowl spots that ran at 2.5 million dollars for 30 seconds. As and ex ad man of 20 years I tend to look at the commercials with a critical eye. And with that being said – as a whole: they totally sucked. There is NOTHING funny about a guy in a coffin full of orange chips. The problem is that the ad agencies got a little too self absorbed this year, trying WAY TOO HARD to be crazy/clever/wacky, and fell flat on their faces with their execution. The purpose of an ad is to create product recognition and brand retention. This is where the lot of them failed miserably. Inane beer ads, screaming fowl, and Betty White rolling around in the mud is just wrong. And even in satire, the Green Police pissed me off with its all “too-true” politically correct message.

Oh yeah, there was a game, too. I was admittedly sticking with the Manning family while rooting for the Colts. Unfortunately, Peyton threw one bad pass all day – at thee most inopportune time. I think EVERYONE believed he was going to tie the game and send the Bowl to it’s first ever overtime. No denying, Drew Brees has become one of the NFL’s elite and to think that the Chargers just sent the guy packing. And that onside kick was a hell of a goddamned call, one that will be remembered for decades to come. The entire world was taken by surprise and even the cameramen had a hard time following it. That was an incredibly gutsy call, knowing that the Colts could end up with the ball close to mid-field. You know, it wasn’t the greatest Super Bowl ever, but it was certainly entertaining. And what’s very cool is that I have the distinction of seeing all 44 of these matches, although I was a little dude during the first Green Bay wins. I vividly remember the Jets taking SB III and the heavily favored Joe Capp lead Vikings being embarrassed by the Kansas City Chiefs, the following January.

So another “Big Game” is in the books and a new champion is crowned. Around 4:30am the acid reflux set in and it was a hell of a reminder that getting older sure has a way of f’ing with your body. Did I forget to mention the barnyard type flatulence? Okay, okay, no need to stink up a perfectly good blog.

Til next time,

TOMMY Z

JR CIGARS Blog With the Zman

February 2^nd is Ground Hog Day. In Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania, the local folk gather round for the bizarre celebration of yanking a groundhog named Phil from his hoggish abode and determining whether the lil’ f@#ker can see his shadow or not. If he does, legend has it that there will be six more weeks of winter. Yeah, and monkeys will fly from my fat Polish dupa.

Tradition is sometimes strange and this certainly is a wacky one. The people of this little western PA town get all worked up as they gather in Gobbler’s Knob, dancing, eating, and celebrating the existence of the pudgy little quadruped. The town has a little over 6,000 residents, yet a good 40,000 people have turned out for this yearly display of celestial prognostication. It’s pure fun and merriment, so what could be the possible harm in that?

Enter PETA, the self imposed animal rights group who perform asinine stunts to gain attention and take it upon themselves to throw buckets of blood on fur wearers while screaming the words “Murderer, murderer!” Seems that smack in the midst of the world’s outpouring of help towards the Haitian people, the sanctimonious psychos of animal land have decreed that it is a torturous act being committed by the holders of the Pennsylvania celebration, which dates all the way back to 1886. You see, they no longer want to exploit fattie Phil… and get this… are you ready… I swear to God, I ain’t making this up… they want the ‘real’ Phil replaced by a robot.

According to PETA executive vice president Tracy Reiman, an animatronic Phil “would attract new and curious tourists” to Punxsutawney’s annual event.

“Hey honey, ya think the robot’s gonna see his shadow this year? Yer not sure? You mean you don’t care? I understand.”

The fanatical folks of PETA have once again proved that they have bats in their collective belfry, which I would imagine are being harmed and may be replaced by robots as well. William Deeley, president of the groundhog club, said that the animal was “treated better than the average child in Pennsylvania”. What I’ve personally heard is that Phil is set up in a pretty swank little place to live and even rooms with a female hog to keep his loins in perfect working order. I hear he even has his own hoggy little humidor to enjoy his favorite smokes. No, really, that’s what I heard. Where did I get this info? I don’t know, are you questioning my journalistic sources? That’s not cool and you know I’m sworn not to reveal my source. The nerve.

Of course several channels on TV are running ‘Groundhog Day’, the Bill Murray film from 1993, where Pittsburgh weatherman, Phil Connor relives the same day of his life over and over and over until the powers of the universe determine that he get things right. I did a little web search and the movie’s writers and producers estimate that Connor spent maybe ten years or more repeating that same day in PA. If that were me, I would have found the nearest smokeshops and herfed until my friggin brains imploded. You could smoke twenty cigars in a day and wake up the next morning without your mouth tasting like a garbage dump fire. I actually just looked up a list of Cigar shops in the Keystone State and while none reside in Punxsutawney, some are close enough where you could hop in the weather van and get there before the blizzard sets in. I’d pack some sandwiches, grab a local broad or two that I tricked into thinking they sat next to me in high school English, and smoke premium cigars until Sonny and Cher sung ‘I Got You Babe’ one more time.

So, Happy Groundhog Day to you all and let’s hope the pudgy fur ball is shadow free again in the 2010.

Tommy Z

JR Cigars Blog With the Zman

Pretty good chances are that if you read this blog, you are a lover of the luscious leaf. With deference to sir Quentin Tarantino. We ARE Inglorious Cigar Loving Bastids. Cigars make our lives better. The ritual of cutting, lighting, and then drawing in that first heavenly puff of smoke is one that we relish with all our hearts and souls. Dare I say that we would kill for our cigars.

A good cigar is truly like a friend who accompanies us on long car rides, a day on the links, or on the back deck when the stars litter the sky. It’s an understatement to say that we ‘love’ our cigars. So, I started thinking about the cigars I personally love – you know, my faves. My mind was all over the place as there are so many sticks I smoke. I tried to come up with a list of my top ten favorite smokes and it was too hard. So then I thought, what if I had to choose just five to smoke the rest of my days. Ooooo… now that’s getting more serous and required some intense thought. But then my brain went one bizarre step further. What if the smoke Nazis gained control and we Inglorious Bastids were only allowed to choose one cigar to make our regular everyday stogie. What would it be?

Wow, my brain started to hurt. A cloud of smoke began to seep from my ears as confusion riddled my soul. I have to pick one cigar to spend the rest of my life with. Holy crap, this is just like marriage – you have to be eternally faithful and you still don’t get laid. With my mental faculties in a quandary, I decided to seek the help of some friends. I turned to the cigar forum I frequent (or is it ‘freak’quent) on the internet for some support. I’ve been a member of Herfersparadise for a little over three years and it has become a fixture in my daily regimen. There are a lot of knowledgeable cigartophiles there – some good dudes, some weird ones (yours truly falls into that category) and a few grating assholes, just like any internet forum. (No I Am Not referring to any of my friends who post both here and there.)

So I posted my smoke-filled dilemma in a new thread in the cigars part of the forum and it read like so…

The smoke Nazi’s have cut us off at the balls and every smoker gets to choose one cigar to smoke the rest of their life. Just one to spend the rest of your days with. Price is NOT the object here, only choice. What will it be?

Now I really had no idea what the response would be, but I knew the Herfer’s faithful would enjoy lending their two cents into the kitty. Right off the bat, my bud, Kevin says, “I’ll choose none. If Tommys 8 th grade stupid question ever comes true I will be dead,” which cracked me up, and it was cool because the answers were coming in fast and furious.

And what was amazing is that about 35 answers in, we had 35 different cigars listed and that really surprised me. Finally a few repeats made the list, but what truly surprised me the most was that half of the answers that the guys listed as the ONE cigar they would choose… was a Cuban made smoke. I really didn’t expect that. A lot of guys seem to scoff at Habanas, stating quite emphatically that Nicaragua, Honduras, and the DR has surpassed the Isle de Castro in quality. But after close to 100 posts on the thread and 1,700 views, there are still those who feel that a ‘real-deal’ Havana is still the only way to go.

The top picks: Montecristo # 2 and 4. Siglo VI is popular as well as the Partagas Serie D Robusto. What’s so interesting about the “legal” cigars is that the choices were spread out across the board. And I personally think that’s a great sign for the industry, meaning that a lot of manufacturers are making a vast array of great smokes..

Oh yeah… my personal pick? Papayos? Optimos? Grape Philly Blunts? Well, since price is NO object, I choose to make the everyday smoke for the rest of my life… the 1926 Pardon Anniversario. (Sorry to disappoint those of you who refer to me as the JR whore. I mean I am, but variety is the spice of life, as they say… whoever ‘they’ are.) I think this cigar is so consistently smooth, well rolled, and the flavor profile is amazing.

On a final note, some found it impossible to narrow it down to ONE brand. One guy even said he’d rather give up smoking if he was forced to stick with the same cigar choice forever. To me, that’s completely insane and irrational, but probably every bit as my proposed question.

Okay, I didn’t solve world hunger or our grotesque economical problems, but I did offer up a mind numbing proposition for you to ponder.

Yes, we are the Inglorious Cigar Loving Bastids and the Smoke Nazis will feel our wrath… and smell.

Tommy Z.

JR Cigars Blog With the Zman

Since John F. Kennedy signed the Cuban Embargo in 1962, nine straight U.S. presidents have come and gone, with so much talk of lifting it. Now we have the most liberal president in the history of mankind, and the question isn’t “if” the embargo will end, the only question is “when.” Okay, this is only my personal opinion, but it sure seems to be a popular opinion of many.

Many a cigar fan wants this embargo that is approaching half a century to end for selfish reasons. If you love your smokes from Havana, then you are excited about the availability of real-deal Monte #2’s, Hoyo DC’s, Bolivar Gigantes, and Partagas Serie D Robustos becoming a reality at a cigar shop near you.

If you are a pro-Castro Cuban, you want this to come to an end so you can visit your homeland and family again. If you are anti-Castro and your family came over in the Mariel Boat Lifts, then you are for the embargo and want the U.S. government to continue to squeeze Fidel’s cajone’s until he is as dead as a doornail.

As you can see, there’s a lot of mixed sentiment here. Now some of you reading don’t give a rat’s ash about Cuban smokes and are happy as a clam with your sticks from Honduras, Nicaragua, and the DR. But some of us really do enjoy the hell out of the cigars named two paragraphs above and would love to have them readily available to enjoy. But the question is: At what cost?

There are many that believe the cost of Cuban made sticks will double because immediate demand will be off the charts. And don’t kid yourself, demand for legitimate Habanos products will be utterly insane when they are readily available in America.

“There’s no way you can serve Europe and the US if Cuban cigars became big in the US,” Swedish Match Chief Financial Officer, Lars Dahlgren, who declined to say when the ban might be lifted.  “If consumers would demand the same quality of cigars, prices would skyrocket.”

It’s hard to say what pricing will be, but I personally think it will cause a kind of mini-boom here in the U.S. But the smoke Nazi’s will see this coming and raise taxes higher and fight to stop the Cuban invasion, but it won’t matter. People will want their Habanas and that’s gonna piss off a lot of Hidebeast and Pelosi supporters.

Now the interesting thing is, if prices go thru the roof in the U.S., that will again cause people to purchase them via mail order from outside of the country, but now it will be LEGAL to do so. So, to combat this, I’m sure the government will place some insane tariff on imported Cuban smokes and that’ll take care of that brief loophole.

At first, most people will go ga-ga and buy Cuban smokes at a crazy clip and smokes from the other countries will take an initial hit. But if the prices for Cubanos are ridiculously high, within a couple of months we’ll all go back to our favorite domesticated brands.

I think the thing that hits me the most is that it will no longer be considered an act of treason to purchase a real-deal stick from the Island 90 miles south of Miami. Travel will open up to Castroland and they are just going to love the U.S. dollar down there. And, you’ll see a boatload (poor choice of words?) of Cuban players in Major League Baseball. Wow, almost 50 years of talking about this and it looks as if it’s really going to happen in our lifetime. I remember Lew Rothman telling me that when the embargo was first put in place, all of the cigar companies completely believed that it wouldn’t last more than a few weeks. Well, a few weeks became a few months and it started a frenzy in the industry.

Well, I say get ready for a new frenzy in the industry, as handmade premium Cuban cigars are about to make their long awaited U.S. return…

… I think.

Tommy Z

JR Cigars Blog With the Zman

So I’m walking through the streets of Little Italy, in downtown New York, enjoying the hell out of the dark, rich, El Rey Del Mundo that I just purchased at a local favorite shop. The temperature is 30 degrees and the Manhattan air is cold and crisp, but the coffee in my other hand keeps me warm as I stroll down age-old Mulberry Street. A passer by says, “Bro, that cigar smells amazing.” I thanked the man, taking his compliment as a personal one.

I stopped to read a menu board outside one of the many restaurants as the manager declared, “That cigar, she smells a so sweet.” Wow, I know Italians are passionate, but to give my stogie a gender was a wonderful gesture. It felt good. “I” felt good. I felt accepted and alive as notes of java and woody tobacco laced my palate. This is New York City, a place where compliments and warm wishes aren’t handed out on a silver platter. While New Yorkers are genuinely good people, you kind of have to “earn” their approval and it seemed my smoky Honduran treasure helped me to do just that.

I walked a bit further then stopped and stared in the bakery window as the pastry chef filled the cannolis with great patience and expertise. I took a long draw on the El Rey, leaned my head back and released a fragrant waft of swirling blue smoke into the heavens. I felt like I was in a movie. It was a happy feeling – a relaxed feeling – almost one of nirvana. And then there came that horrifying sound of a phonograph needle being dragged across a vinyl record album…

Vrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiipppppppppppp!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!…

“That’s disgusting,” blurted the old crow as she stood behind me on the sidewalk.

I slowly turned my head in pure Di Nero fashion. “Are you talkin’ to me?

She was a haggered old bat of woman – a gnarly old face and hunched over like she carried pianos on her back for a living. “That cigar stinks and I don’t need to smell it.”

Sometimes you fight back, but sometimes you are too stunned to strike. I was frozen like a lawn jockey, cigar in one hand and coffee in the other. All I could do was cock my head to the side and squint my eyes like I had just seen the face of Marley’s ghost in the door-knocker.

“Don’t give me that bullshit look,” she blurted in her raspy Mr. Potter voice. “The whole goddamned country is dyin’ of cansa and you gotta act like the shroud of death.”

I wish I could see the look on my own face – that classic “WTF is your major malfunction” look. Now I’ve had plenty of people give me shit about my cigars in the past, but here I am in the open air, in the middle of a street of a humongous world renowned metropolis – surrounded by enough bus, car, and furnace fumes to grow a tumor the size of the Biggest Loser – and this creature has me playing Brad Pitt in Meet Joe Black.

But really guys, what do you do? Do you make a scene? Do you yell back… argue… defend yourself?” Put yourself in that position and think about it. Am I going to yell at a very old woman as nearby smoke Nazis chime in and use me for a Polish piñata? Am I going to lose my cool and make it look like “I’m” the bad guy in this situation? My brain was misfiring as a proper response was not coming forth.

“You people should be castrated and put on your own island!” she snapped as saliva sprayed from her flapping gums.

YOU PEOPLE? Did she just call me “YOU PEOPLE?” I’ve never been called you people before and it was a bizarre feeling. The entire situation was as surreal as it gets as several people gathered to see why this rancid old crab was ranting.

You know, normally I’d give the shpeal about being outside in the open air, or it’s a big city, or there’s nowhere left to smoke any more, yada, yada, yada. But I didn’t. For some reason I just let this wretched shrew have her moment in the sun. For three whole minutes, she was the champion of justice and her verbal flogging was just and most righteous.

Then… it happened…

“Just stand there with yer cansa-stick… ya big pussy,” she said in all of her old lady bravado.

She called me a pussy. First I’m “You People” and them I’m a “pussy.” All I was doing was minding my own business, walking though lovely Little Italy, enjoying my time alone with a good cigar. But now… I was no longer stunned. I was goddamned mad. I dropped my coffee and as the java splashed the pavement, my hand curled up into a fist. This rancid sow actually then yelled out, “Whatta ya gonna do, hit an old woman?”

With my right hand, I slowly brought my cigar to my lips and drew in the largest puff of smoke I could possible muster, then cocked my head while raising my eyebrows. For a solid ten seconds, I stared dead into the eyes of the bullying bitch, as she awaited my response – and so I gave it to her. I leaned into her face, nose to nose, and let forth the thickest puff of billowing Honduran smoke this world has ever known.

In plain English, the broad lost her marbles. She stumbled, then fell backwards, ala Fred Sanford, into the brick wall of the bakery, clutching at her chest while calling out to her god. She yelled out obscenities that even only I use on rare occasions, coughing and hacking up a lung as if she had encountered Death, himself.

That very moment was a triumph for cigar smokers everywhere. And, as I looked around, a small crowd of people clapped and laughed as the Chinese dude selling scarves and gloves actually said, “Good for you, Mr… Dat bitch focking crazy!”

Yeah, she was focking crazy, all right. But for a small moment in time, I was a just little bit crazier.

Smoke ‘em if ya gottem.

Tommy Z.
JR Cigar Blog With the Zman

It’s always sad when an era comes to an end. Whether it’s sports, business, or music, when greatness sings its swan song, it’s hard to even imagine life being the same. And so goes the story for the famed Villazon factory in Cofradia, Honduras. On December 11, 2009, the operation closed its doors as a cigar manufacturing facility, moving its revered brands six hours away to Danli.

Villazon, owned by General Cigars, was home to such legendary brand names as Punch, Hoyo de Monterrey, El Rey Del Mundo, and a host of JR premium lines. But like the rest of the world, the economy and imposed taxes have claimed their latest victims, and hundreds of dedicated people in that region of the Central American country are out of work, and God only knows how they’ll be able to survive.

As many of you know, in April of 2008, I spent several days at this facility, with Lew Rothman, as we were guests of then General CEO, Daniel Nunez. In less than half a week I developed an appreciation for cigars and the people who make them, like I had never known. The time, sweat, and dedication involved is fascinating, and we here in America could take an invaluable lesson from the people of this culture and their unrelenting work ethic.

The factory floor operations was run by a man named Manuel Zavala, who has thankfully been moved to Danli. I interviewed Manuel through an interpreter (a very cool and different experience) and was truly blown away by his love for tobacco, his company and his employees – of whom I’m sure he is heart broken over. The guy cared like not many bosses I have ever seen in my lifetime. The cigar making biz is a team operation, relying on many different parts to act as a whole. Manuel spent sixteen-hour days on the premises, overseeing all phases of the operation, while personally dealing one-on-one with those he felt needed the attention. The man had tears in his eyes, several times during our interview – tears of an unrelenting pride that was infectious to anyone in his presence. And let me correct myself, Manuel actually spent 24/7 on the premises, as he, his wife and children lived in a home on the compound, provided by General. Don’t see that in the U.S. of A.

After touring the plant and meeting just about everyone who worked there, my heart goes out to these wonderful people. They are all cigar people and I’m not sure how they’ll be able to recover. That area of Honduras is a headquarters for Chiquita Banana, as well as fish farming. More than half of the world’s tilapia consumption originates there, and at least that helps their fragile economy. One good thing is that the grounds in Cofradia will remain a tobacco processing and warehousing facility, which will be able to retain some of the employees, and, can be used again as a manufacturing plant if needed. One can only hope, but with the state of the industry, with its egregious taxes and Smoke Nazi shakedowns, it’s hard to imagine that a comeback will ever take place.

It is the end of an era. Villazon of Cofradia made some of the world’s legendary cigars for many decades, and within an instant, it becomes a memory of what once was – a time when a man’s right to chose a premium smoke was accepted and not looked upon as an act of immoral disgust.

So I ask you to light your next cigar in the memory of the people of Cofradia. Day in and out they gave their hearts and souls so you and I could enjoy one of the greatest passion that man has ever known. The attached photos of the plant and Manuel were all taken by yours truly. This last one is of me, Lew, and Daniel at Pat’s Steakhouse, in San Pedro Sula, Honduras. (The bulletproof wearing, AK 47 carrying bodyguards were cropped from the photo.)

Long live Villazon.

Tommy Z.

JR Cigars Blog with the Zman

The decade comes to a close as the Mayan Calendar tells us we only have 2 more years to live. That’s just a peachy thought. I bet right about now, Tiger Woods doesn’t think that’ll come fast enough. I’ve talked many times on this blog how time flies by… but ain’t it the truth? I remember very vividly sitting on my friends couch, counting down with Dick Clark as we entered the new millennium. I blinked my eyes and then ten years has blown by and my 4 and 8 years-olds are now in high school and college.

I’m not going to do some memory lane thing because over the course of a decade – even in just a year, way too much has happened. So since this is a blog that resides on a cigar website, I figured I’d focus on the cigar – the one thing that stays constant and withstands the test of time. Sure it costs more than it used to and the fascist anti-smoke Nazi’s are hammering harder than ever at the industry’s thinly worn armor, but the cigar itself truly remains the same. It’s is a piece of artwork, a thing of beauty, completely unpretentious and exists only to do the thing it was born to do – bring an hour or so of pleasure to the person on the receiving end of its smoky existence.

The decade didn’t start with a boom – in fact, it started with the end of a boom… the cigar boom of the 1990’s. The hoopla had finally died down and the charlatans and knuckleheads went back to selling insurance or whatever the hell they did before calling them selves “cigar experts” as their brand, the proverbial “Don Nobody” disappeared into the oblivion from which it came. All of those next great brands rolled by supposed authentic Cuban torcedors, ended up as bundled specials in the famed JR catalog for ten cents on a dollar. Who can forget everybody’s favorite Filipino brand of the boom, Fighting Cock? Little did the creators of the ill-fated brand realize that the name lost a whole lot in the translation. I so much wanted to be in charge of their marketing… “Say Smoker – Have you put one between your lips, today?”

I started writing for Cigar Magazine in 2004, in their second issue. The article was a 5,000 word epic entitled: The Cuban Mystique and it took me a month to research and then write. There are many incredibly cool things about writing for CM, as you might imagine. Of course, the very first is hanging with Lew Rothman, which is one hell of an experience. I have never met a more straight forward person in my life – a guy who would tell the Pope to STFU if he was talking during a movie. I have gained an incredible amount of cigar knowledge from the man, the kind of stuff you could never learn in a book, the web, or a magazine. The guy took me to the DR and Honduras for a week and as James Earl Jones said in Field of Dreams, “The memories are so thick, I’d need a brush to wipe them from my face.”

Then there’s the industry people I’ve met, interviewed, and befriended – Christian Eiroa and Dylan Austin of Camacho, Bobby and Eric Newman of JC Newman Cigars, and not a finer gentleman in this world than former General Cigar CEO, Daniel Nunez (who I hung with as well on my Honduras and DR excursion.)

I started this here bloggy in October of 2007 and have fraternized with all of you. Writing this thing once a day, five days a week was an unbelievable challenge and I can’t believe I was able to come up with something every single day. Not sure how the bloody hell I did it.

Last year I got to go to the Cigar Show in Vegas, the former RTDA Show, now the ICPCR. That was a hell of an experience, meeting tasting, talking, and comparing. Going home with about 200 premium sticks was a wonderful thing, for sure.

But now we’re all aware that the cigar industry is in the fight of its life as legislators and Smoke Nazis look to put an end to out happy time. Between that and the smoldering taxes, the pastime we love is in serious trouble, my amigos. I just found out that the famed Villazon Factory that I spent three days at in Cofradia, Honduras has shut down all operations and moved it’s product six hours away in Danli. I met every worker in that facility and those hard working, dedicated people are all out of jobs. And of course our legislators don’t give a rat’s ash, as long as they retain votes and public favor by riding the PC wagon.

Who knows what the next decade brings for those of us who light the leaf. With the FDA in charge of tobacco, this just might get brutally ugly like it is in Canada and parts of Europe. We CAN NOT let that happen, my brothers. This is the land of the FREE and we can never forget that. It’s hard to even comprehend that a man can be shipped to a foreign desert to defend our freedom, but he soon may not have the freedom to smoke the cigar that he loves.

Thanx for all the support from the readers of the Blog and I really do hope those Mayans were stoned out of their fucking minds when they created that calendar. Oh yeah… my birthday is Wednesday December 30th, so wish me a happy, happy!

Til we meet again in 2010!

Tommy Z,

JR CIGARS Blog With the Zman

“Hey dad, you’re making me sad,” my eighteen year-old, love of my life daughter said to me, yesterday. She’s home for the one month college winter break and has been feeling incredibly festive – baking cookies, singing carols, and watching her favorite Christmas movie, Elf, over and over and over.

Bottom line: she wanted to know why I hate Christmas. “How can anybody HATE Christmas?” she demanded to know from me.

“Honey, I don’t hate Christmas and I love the holiday season…really.”

The Grinch-like lie fooled the child, as I got her a drink, patted her on the head and sent her to bed.

I’ve talked about this openly for the last couple of years – about the debacle that this debt-inducing holiday has become. Christmas is a celebration of the birth of Jesus Christ – not a celebration of $60,000 cars with giant red bows on them. Every time the wife tells the husband how much he loves him because he got her a Lexus, makes me want to hurl my morning Corn Flakes. Every time the two pretentious bitches get all loopey because “HE” went to Jared, I want to hit something with a bat. Every time I hear that “every kiss begins with Kay”, the response is always the same: KISS THIS!

They say that retailers rely on their sales between Thanksgiving and Christmas, typically doing half of their year’s business during that one-month period. But guess what? That’s not my friggin problem. I have to pay my mortgage and the brutally outrageous property taxes to enjoy life here in Jersey. Like most Americans, I’m in debt up to my colon and it is a very shitty feeling.

“Dad, I want a 16 gig Ipod Nano… Dad, I want to kill people in the realistic World War 2 war game… Dad, I want, I want, I want….”

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!!!

There is no doubt that getting older turns you into one slimey green, mother f@#king Grinch. There’s a reason that bastid hated all the Who’s down in Whoville – because their wild and carefree spending was driving the local Who economy into a recession. The First National Who Bank went belly up after giving loans for Pimplookas and Tatinkas that couldn’t be repaid. Who Motors took a hit and put a shit load of blue and orange people in the poor house. Now no one has even a goddamned nickel to buy a can of Who hash, and the corner market is stuck with 500 pounds of rotting roast beast.

The magic of Christmas was tremendous when I was my kid’s age. Movies like A Christmas Story, Rudolph, and It’s a Wonderful Life brought me such joy. But Grinches don’t care for that sort of fluffy mush any longer. Grinches know their wife would love the Lexus with the bow, but he wonders how he’s going to afford four new tires on the Sebring with the bald tires. And when those commercials air, the intention is to make us all feel like chumps and lousy providers. And of course, my wife always let’s out a “yeah right” when that asshole went to Jared.

“And so this is Christmas and what have you done?” Hey John Lennon, STFU already. I put food on my family’s table and keep the friggin mortgage company off my back by some miracle of God… and THAT’s what I’ve done. I don’t need some deceased Beatle busting my balls any longer. Capiche?

So, ho, ho, ho and all that good shit from the Zman. Make sure to pick out some cigars that will bring joy to all the little herfers in your life – including yourself. Eat lots of fattening shit and send your cholesterol level into orbit. And if you’ve got loving kids like mine, fake it the best you can and get to January first.

All kidding aside, be healthy, safe, and go for the merry. It can’t hurt.

Curmudgeonly yours,

Tommy Zman

JR CIGARS Blog with the Zman

I swear I never intended to become one, but it just kind of happened. Out of the total blue, when I was least expecting it, I, Tommy Z, became a cigar snob.

I think I’ve been one for quite some time but could never admit it. All the signs were there but I just continued to ignore them. Like every time I lose my patience when I light up and some clueless boner asks me, “Is that a Cuban?”

Why does every turd who knows absolutely nothing of the fine art of puro enjoyment, feel the need to ask if the tobacco stick dangling from my lips, is a Cuban cigar? I really do get all uppity and act like a pompous ass, inquiring why they need to know? “Are you with the Feds?” I’ll ask, “I mean you do know that obtaining Cuban cigars on U.S. soil is an act of treason?” That’s when they kind of do an awkward half chuckle, not knowing if I’m a total asshole or not. Of course I realize that they’re just trying to make conversation and that they know zilch about the fruits of the Isle de Cuba. But it’s such a novice question and the fact that it does peeve me, truly shows that I am indeed a goddamned cigar snob.

Okay, NOTHING pisses this snob off more than the blithering idiots who bring out the fake Cohibas at a party or an outdoor function. “Hey Zman… have I got some great contraband for you,” says my well-intentioned neighbor, who breaks out the glass-top humidor box, chock full of “faux-hibas” that his buddy got in Ontario last week. “Wow,” I’ll say with a dagger full of rye sarcasm, “A Cohiba with a gray colored wrapper. I’ve never seen a goddamned gray wrapper before. You order these special?” Of course my pal gets all indignant, swearing that they’re real and that his buddy is Cuban. “I don’t care if you’re buddy is Castro’s f@#king lawn guy, these are fake pieces of  mierde, and get them out of my presence!”

Goddamned snob. I know it.

A friend of mine claimed he uses tap water and a sponge to keep the stoags in his $7 POS humidor, fit. When he opened it up at a barbecue at his house this past summer, every single premium stick was covered in grotesque mold, and I proceeded to bang him over the head with a ring of uncooked kielbasa. Stupid bastid! And yes, he tried to convince me, “Uh… it’s something called plume… or bloom… and it good for the cigars!” Friggin moron! The only thing that they’re now good for is curing gonorrhea. (Blogger’s note: I had to look up the spelling of gonorrhea and unfortunately, the first dictionary I found was complete with vivid photographic images. Yow.) You simply cannot cheap out when attempting to care for your prized, hand-rolled smokes.

Then there was this morning, where my snobbery reached an all-time high. I was taking my daughter back to her college dorm, when I passed a convenience store with a sign that said, “Humidor Inside Filled With Premium Hand-Rolled Quality Cigars.” Okay, I made the mental note and knew it would be a definite stop on the way back. I’ve found over the years that sometimes these out of the way bodegas have some hard-to-find primo smokes and I have scored some great stuff in the past – including a bevy of legit Cubanos, complete with the appropriate brown colored wrappers.

So I walked in and Apu asked if he could help me. “Just point me to the humidor,” I said with some early morning fervor. Instead of leading me to a back room, harboring a glass-encased walk-in shrine filled with Padron Anni’s, VSG’s, and Monte Edmundos – the dude pulls out a dusty, old wooden box from underneath the counter, and proceeds to show me ten POS brands that I never heard of, wrapped in crinkly, yellowed cellophane.

“You have GOT TO be yanking my cobra, chief!” Damn, I was not a happy feller.

“Deese are delicious hand-rolled cigars,” he assured me. “I get dem from reliable source.”

“Goddammit, Apu! This is pure crap! You put that sign in the window and make me stop in here for crap! You’re a liar, that’s what you are!”

“Boolsheet!” he yelled out in his defense. “ Deese are made from Cuban seed!”

“Yeah, well I was made from human seed, and your cigars are utter worthless Shinola! Do you even know what that means, you liar?!”

“You get out of my store! You insult me!” he bellowed, while pointing a can of Raid Ant & Roach spray at me.

“You’re the one who insulted decent gentlemen everywhere, with your ridiculous claim of ‘premium’ hand-rolled goodness! I eschew you, you broken-Englished son of a bitch!”

“GET OUT!!! I CALL COPS!!!” he started screaming while flailing his insect killer, about.

So, I wisely high-tailed out of that hole, as I didn’t think a face full of pesticide would help my morning commute, any. But god damn… why couldn’t I just politely smile and say I’d be back, or that I forgot my wallet, or any other friendlier response, than the one accusing our shop keep (with the incredible nudie book & scratch-off lottery selection) of vile tobacco laden atrocities?

What the hell is wrong with me?

I am a cigar snob… that’s what’s wrong with me. I’m not sure exactly when it happened, but I do now admit that I am ass-deep in full-fledge snobbery, and some sort of 12-step intervention may be the only way out of this gut-wrenching conundrum.

Say… are you a snob, too? Hello, My Name is Zman and I am a Cigar Snob…

Tommy Z.
JR Cigars Blog With the Zman

It is always hard for the regular everyday, working stiffs like us to understand the mindset of the wackos in Hollywood, and the media that covers the “beautiful people” on a daily basis. You see some of these talentless slugs and media creations and wonder why they are so adorned, and better yet – why the hell they make millions of dollars a year.

This weekend I was in a CVS store, scoping out the magazines, and the covers are usually a pretty good indication of who Hollyweird thinks is hot. First off, it befuddles the mind to great lengths that I found Sarah Jessica Parker on the cover of two prominent magazines this month, one being GLAMOUR. If there was ever something that fell under the “Goddamnit, I don’t get it” category, it’s the media’s portrayal of this woman as the pinnacle of charisma and romantic style in our society. Okay, I admit that this is just plain old mean…  the god’s honest truth, though… but that woman is one seriously hideous beast. Every time I see that long face and protruding beak I want to feed the bitch a sugar cube and send her out to plow the fields. The big star of Sex in the City is one of the unsexiest chicks I have ever seen and even Maxim Magazine voted her number one in that terribly offensive category. Madonna also appeared very high on that list and for good reason. Oofah. What the hell do the so-called beauty experts see that make us regular folk want to hurl our Chalupas?

Then there’s the infamous Jon & Kate fiasco that still dominates the media rags. Okay, she’s not bad to look at, but HE is a roaring turd whose 15 minutes of fame is so log overdue to be snuffed out. This blow-hole keeps saying it’s time to grow up, but it’s his immature, fifth grade antics that have slaughtered the golden goose. Supposedly the show has ended because Jon the jackass doesn’t want his kiddies on camera anymore because it’s “bad” for them. Funny how he came up with that deduction “after” the network tossed his sorry ass off the show. So why are these people still I the magazine aisle? Because America needs serious help, that’s why.

Say, did you know that Oprah is a fattie, again? The mag covers don’t lie, as the Queen of all TV has been dipping into the Little Debbies once more. She’s goes from rail to whale so much that her mirror-mirror on the wall must be awfully confused after all these years. Just what the hell does this hog-jowled harpie have to say that is so important? Why do woman mindlessly follow her like lemmings of a rocky cliff? Her show is going to end, but now the ruler of mindless house fraus everywhere will have her own network of estrogen based programming. “I don’t get the Oprah Effect and I will NEVER get it,” is truly an understatement of massive proportions.

Now a person that is getting her 15 minutes is Jillian Michaels from the Biggest loser. She’s got a chick’s tight body and a harsh and hideous man-face. She’s far from beautiful and she’s not a licensed anything, but she’s now lecturing on PBS about woman’s health.

Hannah Montana … please somebody make it stop. Please somebody tell her achy-breaky daddy to stop force-feeding his over acting, no talent, media creation down our children’s gullible little throats.

Michael Jackson – STILL on one out of every three covers and each photo is scarier than the next. Let this guy die in peace for crissakes. He obviously led a tortured life and the media continues to serve him up from the grave.

I saw Al Gore-knob on one of the rags talking about the movie 2012. After all, he is the purveyor of doom as he force-feeds his greens to the Prius driving believers of the apocalypse. If ever someone is full of super charged Shinola, it’s uncle Al and his cottage industry of ozone death and destruction. Remember, the big guy gets like a quarter mil to speak for a half an hour. Do you blame him for believing in his own fecal fallacy?

Damn, enough is enough. I don’t get it, you don’t get it, and none of us regular folk will never really get it. But the reality swill will continue to rear it’s ugly keester as long as Chloe Kardashian, and Jessica Simpson continue to do seriously stupid shit in their lives. And, did Sarah Palin leave the room yet? Lord, help us all.

The answer… snip, light, and smoke your favorite cigar. Having your head in a cloud of smoke is better than having it up your ash, like the American drivel drinking public.

Thank you, and may God bless,
Tommy Z.
JR Cigars Blog With the Zman