Labor Day is kind of a cool holiday. Actually, every day off is a damned good day, but I really love this one. I always thought, man, does it suck for anyone who has to actually work on Labor Day. Hey, now that I think of it, I’m writing this blog today! Well, at least it doesn’t suck because I love doing this stuff, as you might be able to tell.

This holiday kind of officially says that summer is over – the kids are back in school and our vacation days are basically done – but it’s kind of also the last hurrah, the final excuse to barbecue some charred flesh and guzzle your favorite swill. I picked up a big-azz three and a half pound London broil from Costco and slow-grilled that hunk of bovine till the juices were squirting me in the face when I poked it. Nothing better than the Weber for a little indirect carcass cooking! Dayum! And accompanied by some Belgian Chimay Ale, things just don’t get much tastier ‘round these parts. Oh yeah, a little roasted corn on the cob sure didn’t hurt, either. Stop it, Zman, you’re making yourself hungry again, ya Polish pig face!

Hey, one thing ya gotta dig as a sports junkie is that this weekend is the official start of college football and this past couple of days did not disappoint! Michigan had over 113,000 people show up for their opening day upset victory over UConn. And the Boise State vs Virginia Tech game is as good as it can get for an opening season match! Of course, there’s always a couple of bull-squat games to pad some of the big boys early schedules like Ohio State’s 45 – 7 pounding over Marshall and Nebraska’s ass kicking of Western Kentucky, 49 – 10.  Oh yeah, the Oregon Ducks quacked the living Shinola out of New Mexico by a score of 72 – zip. That is just plain evil.

Did you think for a second that I’d get through this holiday happy-fest without talking about the ample amount of cigars that were devoured by yours truly? The Labor Day weekend is truly a time for smoking your brains out I did my part like the great American that I am. It’s one of those situations where you open up the humidor and have to make some serious life-impacting decisions. Will it be the Ashton VSG, the Camacho 10^thAnniversary , the Bolivar Cofradia, an El Rey Del Mundo Olvidados, an Excalibur 1066, the H. Upmann Bankers Series, a JR Ultimate, a Siglo Limited Reserve, or the most elegant Montecristo White? How about if I just smoke all of them for an amazing weekend of tobacco toking goodness?! That’s MY personal fantasy league line-up, boys! Let’s just say it was a glorious holiday at the Z-mansion.

So, what did you guys do for celebration and enjoyment? Care to share with your brothers and sisters of the leafiness? I say go for it! Hey, I’ll light one up to that!

Have a kick-ash shortened week,

Tommy Z,

JR Cigars BLOG With the Zman

A rare event took place this past weekend where my wife and I were invited to two barbecue parties on the same day. There was one early Saturday afternoon and one in the evening. Actually it’s rare that I get invited to anything at all. I think the fact that I smell like a blend of smoldering Central American tobacco and foul kielbasa farts, 24 / 7, has a little something to do with it. I really can’t think of anything else, and yes, God bless my wife and kids, is right.

I love barbecues and the weather was spectacular – mid to high 70’s, crystal blue sky – making for a beauteous day of gorging, drinking, and smoking until my head and stomach imploded. My wife knows all too well to stay clear of my animalistic rituals and to just hang with her friends. I am not a pleasant site once the chow is served. I’m always first in line and admittedly have a problem with leaving food for the other guests. Hog, horse, wolf, whatever kind of wild creature you want to label me is just fine and dandy as long as my trough is filled and liquid grains are flowing.

The first party had a lot of great home cooked Italian delights on the menu such as chicken parm, sausage and peppers, and ziti with vodka sauce – traditional fare for an outdoor fest here in northern New Jersey. Only Paulie Wanuts and Christopher Moltisanti were missing from the picture. I did my double stack load on several reinforced paper plates and headed for somewhere in the shade to consume. After several helpings of pure foodie goodness, a nice cigar was in order, and a dark little Honduran flavor bomb by the name of the Punch Champion was the choice for my mid-chow, palate cleansing.

So I stoke up this oily little plum bob shaped figurado and enjoy it paired with a tasty Belgium brew. Damn this is nice… so peaceful, so fulfilling, so relaxing… until the shrew from about 25 feet away comes over and asks me – no get this – tells me to either move or put it out. I look her in the eyes and ask with total innocence, “Put what out?”

That disgusting weed you’re poisoning the children at the party with.  I said you mean the kids who are inhaling the nitrate laden fat filled weenies, heavily salted deep-fried snack treats, and cans of soda that contain no less than ten teaspoons of white processed sugar? You mean those kids?”

“I don’t need a smart-ass remark, I just need you to move, god dammit.”

Okay, I know I’m at a neighbors house, and I know I shouldn’t cause any kind of scene, but I have been provoked to the limit by some suburbanite house-frau with a kegger around the mid-section and a message on her answering machine that says, “Hey it’s the 1980’s calling and we want our feathered, big-poof hairstyle back.”  So what do I do? I ignore her and continue to puff while she stands there with hand on hip and a look on her face like her tampons needed changing about three full days ago.

“If you don’t move, I will put that out for you,” miss congeniality says in her atomic brazen shrew voice.

Almost motionless, I turn only my eyes upon her and utter the following words in a deadpan tone, “Touch my cigar and you will no longer be able to use those hands for stuffing Big Macs down your gullet, you incredibly rude sow.”

Her head then cocked to one side with a facial expression of horror and discontent.

Before she could get in a word edge wise, I finished my thought – I swear to the Lord I told her, “Now get the f@#k out of my face before I put YOU out.”

Holy good God in heaven, this bitch went psycho berserk – ranting, frothing, flailing her arms and screaming for the host of the party. Now I’m just sitting there, minding my own beeswax, enjoying the hell out of a glorious day, and madame hell-hole starts throwing a tantrum like she just found out that the Price is Right has been canceled.

My pal and his wife come running over, as does my wife, wanting to know what the hell is going on in pleasantville. When they see who is making the trouble my wife and friend roll their eyes as my buddy’s wife grabs Ms. Floating Turd in the Punchbowl by the arm and marches her behind the shed for a little beat down. Seems this broad is a well-known biotch in the town and doesn’t care what she says to people, and how she says it. My buddy (and my nightly cigar companion) is pissed beyond belief and my wife – who hates cigars (isn’t that special) actually sticks up for me. That crazy broad goes so bonkers that she flips over a cheese platter, grabs her ugly little horse-faced vermin she calls children, and starts screaming that she’ll never come to another party in this neighborhood again! Wow – she told us! Now how will I go on through the daily routines in my life?

Thank God that everyone at the party was on my side, and even my wife didn’t give me any grief – but she did make me promise that I wouldn’t smoke a cigar at the next party that we were headed to. So I promised, like the good husband that I am.

Oh, who am I kidding. I lit up a Camacho Triple Maduro in the woods on the side of our friend’s house.

And that’s my story, and yeah, I’m sticking to it.

Respect my author-i-tie,

Tommy Z.

JR Cigars Blog with the Zman

The entrepreneur is a risk taker – someone with dreams and aspirations of doing his or her own thing, someone that has a special kind of drive and determination to do things “their” way. Entrepreneurial spirit and free enterprise is something that America was built on and separates us from the dictatorships and fascist governments around the world. Those who take charge and show a relentless work ethic have been looked up to with a sense of honor and admiration since the birth of our nation. Well, until last week, that is.

Meet Julie Murphy, a seven year-old enterprising young lass who hails from Oregon City, in the great northwest – a girl who saw her favorite cartoon pig open a lemonade stand and thought it would be a great way for her to earn some extra loot for herself. So Julie and mom set up their own little stand at the monthly art fair in North East Portland, a very grass-roots attraction. Fifty cents for a tall cup of ice cold refreshment was the asking price as her homemade booth sat between a couple of local-yocal merchants. And the girls did everything right by keeping their operation sparkling clean, including sanitizing their hands and covering all open containers. Yes, it was an exciting day for little Julie, until one person by the name of Big Brother arrived at her booth, and life would change in an instant for the pint-sized business owner.

A woman carrying a clipboard from the county health inspector’s office asked Julie to see her temporary restaurant license – at a cost of $120 to purchase – and then promptly shut down the family operation while warning them they could face a $500 fine.

“I understand the reason behind what they’re doing and it’s a neighborhood event, and they’re trying to generate revenue,” said Jon Kawaguchi, environmental health supervisor for the Multnomah County Health Department. “But we still need to put the public’s health first. When you go to a public event and set up shop, you’re suddenly engaging in commerce,” he said. “The fact that you’re small-scale I don’t think is relevant.”

Yes, life has given little Julie lemons but unfortunately they are sour, rotten, and can make nothing more than a heaping tin of fecal merange pie.

While many in our great nation are starting their own Tea Party revolts, it seems that in Oregon, the locals have started a lemonade revolution and have bombarded county officials to the point of national embarrassment.

I really have to ask, couldn’t these belligerent bureaucrats have handled this a little better, a little softer, a with just a little more decency? Don’t the county’s paid officials have better use of their time than busting a seven year old, while looking to shake her down for $120 and an accompanying fine? My son told me about this story this morning and I instantly knew it was something that had ZMAN RANT written all over it. Which begs me to ask – why stop at just a fine? Why not bring in state inspectors and Oregon government officials, including the department of sales tax, which I’m sure would have a thing to say about a business that has not been recognized by the state registers office. I’m sure there should be penalties assessed for lack of workers compensation and obvious OSHA violations during construction of the work site. And hey, while we’re at it, I’m sure the IRS wouldn’t be overly pleased with little law breaking Julie, I mean there’s been no application for an Federal Employer’s Identification number and no set up for estimated quarterly tax payments, as well as collection of mandatory FICA, social security, bla, blab bla.

And why stop there? I’m sure the department of Homeland Security would want to know about a possible terror plot involving tampering with the county’s lemonade supply. Concocting food born illnesses is a real threat within our borders and I would think that Julie and mom will be facing interrogation, including tactics such as waterboarding, as no stone should be left unturned when there is the grave possibility of a national security breach. Hey, I’d go as far as putting them on the international no-fly list, I mean you don’t know what these two criminals are capable of doing. And just to let you know, Julie and mom have been released on two-million dollars bail with a court hearing set for later next month.

What in the name of God is happening to this once great nation of ours? When did someone jam a bug so far up our collective asses that everything is a under a microscope and the word freedom is losing its intended meaning with each and every passing day? Light your cigars, pour your scotch and enjoy it while you can, my friends, as we face a fatalistic epidemic involving grotesque political correctness and rampant Big Brotherism. And sorry, bro, I’d invite you in for a refreshing glass of lemonade, but mine was taxed and confiscated in yesterday’s early morning raid. But I’m sure I have a hunk of Soylent Green to share with you.

Damn the torpedoes and full steam ahead,

Tommy Z.

JR Cigars Blog With the Zman

For those of you who have sided with Steven Slater, the Jet Blue employee who went bonkers last week over an “alleged” unruly passenger – then all I can say is that you are truly every bit as big a moronic ass as he is.

For the past week, Slater, the 20-year career flight attendant has been called a hero by many, is a man who stood up for his convictions and told his employer to take this job and shove it. In the 1976 film, Network, Peter Finch’s character, newscaster Howard Beale told the world that he was “sick and tired, and not going to take it anymore!” In the 2010 reality re-make, Slater was supposedly bonked on the noggin with intent by an unruly passenger. He grabbed the mic and admonished the customer with a tirade of obscenities, then activated the plane’s emergency inflatable chute, then slid down and fled the runway in what I personally would have to term a “self-absorbed hissy-fit.”

“Free Steven… Steven’s a hero,” were the cries of the American public, as online polls showed that 80% were in approval of his actions. This number is very telling to me as it proves beyond shadow of a doubt that 80% of the world is messed in the head and needs to take a good hard look within as their morals, principals, beliefs, and general mental faculties have seriously taken the last goddamned train to f@#king Clarksville.

Yes, it is in the opinion of this cigar blogger, a simple son of Polish / Italian decent, that if you think Steven Slater is a hero, then YOU are part of the problem with this world gone awry. But if you side with me, believing that he is indeed himself the unruly turd who should be permanently flushed from the corporate world, then please cut and light your cigar and take a seat next to me in the land of the most smoky and righteous.

The Wall Street Journal reports that Jet Blue’s chief operating officer Rob Maruster has labeled Slater’s actions “unacceptable” and “still questionable”. Hey Rob, can we add cowardly and brutally selfish to the list?

Almost a week removed from the incident, other airline passengers who were witness to this little boy’s tirade are now saying that it was Slater who was the aggressor and has propagated one hell of a little white lie. Queens District Attorney Richard Brown has bitch slapped Stevie with acts of criminal mischief, reckless endangerment and trespassing. He remains free on $2,500 bail and if convicted, Slater could face up to seven years in the pokey – a place I’m sure he would find a bit more distasteful than the confines of a Boeing 737. Another fact to note is that the emergency exit chute that was deployed by Slater opens up with a ferocity of 3,000 pounds of pressure and if an airline employee would have been struck by the evacuation slide, we might just be looking at a case of reckless homicide. Maruster, in a written memo to his airline employees says, “Intentionally arming and deploying an evacuation slide for anything other than the express purpose of protecting the safety of our Crew and Customers is unacceptable. It will not, and can not, be tolerated.”

It is now circulating around the internet that our airline lunatic is being offered a reality show gig as a host to showing people how to quit their jobs. This in itself is a condemnation of the American public mindset, as an unprofessional punk with zero decorum is rewarded for his childish and deplorable actions. While many have applauded this tard for his so-called stints of bravery and heroics, I dare a single one of his newfound fans to have the cojones to pull the same kind of stunt at their place of employment. You notice that there were no copycat incidents reported in the news? And you wanna know why? Because what Steven Slater did was wrong – dead wrong, and while many of us at one time or another have wanted to deploy the emergency exit in life, we don’t – we don’t because we are well aware that it is something that won’t bode well on our remaining lifetime resumes.

In closing, I can only wish that our disgruntled faux-hero for web weenies everywhere would be forced into therapy with Full Metal Jacket drill instructor Lee Emery.

“You know what makes me sad, Slater ? YOU DO! Maybe we should chug on over to mamby-pamby land, where maybe we can find some self-confidence for you, ya jack wagon!”

Steve, your 15 minutes of fame is almost up. Good luck on that job search, buddy.

At ease, gentlemen. Dismissed.

- Tommy Z.

JR Cigars Blog with the Zman

Every year at this time the wife and kiddies take a jaunt to the in-laws beach house at the New Jersey Shore and leave me alone to fend for myself. (Yes, the same Jersey Shore that Snookie and the Situation embarrass the living hell out of every state resident.) Even though I love the family and will miss them, it is actually pretty cool to have the Z-mansion all to my lonesome self. Not having to answer to the ol’ ball and chain and shlep the kids to friends houses, yada, yada, yada, is kind of a nice break from the everyday norm.

So what does a middle-aged cigar sucking, blog blathering Polack do to keep himself amused for a full week? To tell you the truth, I’m not really sure. The people that I thought I could rely on - all of my divorced buddies who always tell me to call them anytime – those bastids have bailed on me because of  this, that, and the other thing. Well, actually my pals, Scott and Ralph offered to have breakfast with me and hang out for the full day on Sunday. Okay, so maybe I’m a charity case, but I’ll share a few eggs and corned beef hash with the boys, I mean what the hell else is there to do, right?

So after breakfast and getting all jacked up on java, I’m thinking then what? Wait… hey, I know… let’s bounce around to several local cigar stores here in north Jersey and smoke our friggin brains out! Whoa, way cool idea there Zman. Where to, dude? Of course we’ve gotta start with JR Cigars in Whippany because I’ve gotta support the hand that feeds those wife and kids that are on vacation. It’s all settled - we break out the gps and travel the highways and byways to shops a plenty!

So we did just that, visitng three stogie establishments and firing up the tobacco happy sticks like a bunch of crazed loons. So, by five o’clock, I’ve smoked six different cigars and my mouth tastes like a garbage truck fire and black lung has started to set in. But goddammit, I don’t care because I’m a BOTL on the loose and nicotine is my only friend – well, other than Scott and Ralph that is.

Uh oh, by now my stomach says it’s time for my nightly feeding! Guys, we’ve got to do something and quick. I’m just a tad light headed from smoke inhilation and putting some charred cow carcass  into my belly sounds like a nice idea. Cigars, and red meat has been the staple of the man’s man diet for several centuries and I’m more than ready to support the cycle of evolution. (Btw, I think the reason I really love cows so much is because they taste just like steak.)

So fellas. how ’bout a good steakhouse? What’s in the area? Okay, Scott is all of a sudden Mr. cheap-ass and says he’s only got fifty bucks. And of course I ride his ass and make him feel like a hunk of trash until he gives in and agrees to eat something good and worthy of us real manly men on the prowl. Ralph agrees and the three stogie devouring goons ascend upon the local eatery like people who have never actually eaten before.

Fast forward – our plates are clean from the 26 ounce sides of beef that sat before us only 20 minutes prior. Like three pathetic versions of Monty Python’s Mr. Creosote, not a one of us could even fit one thin little mint into our swollen, smoke filled carcasses. And even though we were done and hog tied, we knew there was always room for one more cigar. So off to the parking lot we rolled our selves and delved into the ziplock bags filled to the brim with our newly acquired stashes. As I cut, lit, and puffed my seventh premium handrolled cigar of the day, I shook my head, knowing that life was good.

Wow, what a day of just hanging out and smoking my goddamned brains out with my bestest buddies. It was fun, it was great, and now all I have to wonder is one thing: What am I going to do tomorrow?

Just six more days to go. Please send cigars.

Love,

Tommy Z.

JR CIgars Blog With the Zman

Cigar snobs are a rare and indignant breed. Very particular are they when it comes to premium tobacco, and their feelings are never hidden. If you have something unkind to say about their beloved smokes, they will take affront to your words and get right in your face, like a mother bear protecting its young. But on the contrary, they will be the first one’s to advise you of your sub-standard sticks, while publicly shredding you for your poor judgment and bad taste. Yes, the cigar snob is a snob like no other.

One of the popular breeding grounds for this fabled ilk is the internet forum – a seedy, rough and tumble environment filled with sketchy characters who generally inhale more tobacco smoke than they do oxygen. They are the hardcore lovers of the leaf, the few, the proud, stinking. It is here that they cohabitate with others of their species , speaking in esoteric terms that the non-smoking populace will never understand. They will trade stories about their favorite barbecue recipes, annual vacation spots, movies they loved and loathed, ailing pets, painful divorce, and death of a loved one. Yes, this denizen of cyber-camaraderie will cover the spectrum of life, but it is the talk of premium handrolled cigars that has them touting, pouting, panning and exalting for hours and hours on end.

One would think that a forum filled with those who have a common love and passion, would be a forever happy and peaceful environment. While many are decent people who go about their daily business of life, it is the anonymity of the internet that turns many a mild mannered, cigar-puffing gent into a boisterous howling ape of a man, flinging his poo at those who do not agree with his unbending point of view. While politics and religion are two of subjects that cause mayhem and discontent, it is often the talk of cigars that causes the infighting filled with taunting barbs and moronic commentary. Maybe a better term for this, is all-out, unadulterated ball busting.

I believe it is in a guy’s DNA to break the balls of his fellow man. Interestingly enough, the cracking of the cojone’s is not generally ill willed, but rather a playful shot at one’s character, taking them down a peg or two while the breaker chalks one up over the break-ee. I’ll never understand what drives us sausage carriers to poke holes in another’s armor, but it does tend to make for rather entertaining sport in an online forum. When the recipient of the breaking has the ability to reject the slings and arrows as meaningless words, all generally goes well in cyber land. But when the aggressor is able to prick the skin of his target, routing around like a festering dung beetle, that is when the first salvo is fired and all-out war is waged. And let me tell you something, cyber war is ugly, my friend… especially when the combat involves a man’s beloved cigars.

If you have the guts to post a thread about a cigar you’ve just tried and enjoyed, there will be those who agree and join in on your smoking pleasures. But beware of those who will scoff at your notions of what a “good” cigar should be, and mock your choice with a belligerent fervor. In it other words, they act like complete and utter douchebags – over a cigar… really.

“That thing is a piece of crap,” spouts one person. “The thing tastes like raw hay.” Raw hay? I didn’t taste raw hay! What the hell man, I know what a good cigar tastes like. Whaddya mean, raw hay?

“ AGREED!” writes another, “Every one I tried tasted like pure garbage.” Pure garbage?! I didn’t taste garbage! What the hell, man? Why are you guys saying this?

And it only gets worse. Like a pack of alpha-male crazed dogs, they pile on one by one, picking at your flesh until bone and sinew are the only things visible. Your new favorite smoke has been chastised by the locals, while you are browbeaten for ever mentioning its moniker.

My new favorite response from the crowd is, “Damn, man, welcome to 2001, buddy! Lololol! I smoked 400 boxes of those seven years ago. Welcome to the new millennium, man!”

Jesus H. on a pogo stick! These bastids smoke 20 a day and have tried every goddamned stick ever rolled, spending tens of thousands of dollars while converting Igloo coolers into lavish humidors complete with cedar lining and stackable shelves. Bro… I can’t help that I just tried this cigar for the first time! Does it make me less of a man?!!! Does it? Well DOES IT?!!!!

Okay… don’t answer that.

Admittedly, today’s blog is a cathartic attempt to rid me of the personal demons that have plagued me on the internet cigar forums. I too am a lowly junkie who dwells the cyber-sewers looking for a little bit of camaraderie, and a ball or two to take a swing at. I am just as bad as the heathens I have publicly outed. God in heaven, please help a BOTL out. Point me in the right direction and remove me from this mindless battle of the witless. Show me the way Lord, for I have sinned as well.

Hello, my name is Tommy, and I am a cigar snob.

Til next time,

TOMMY Z.

JR Cigars Blog With the Zman

We’ve all been told from a very early age that breaking the law can get you in trouble. Get caught stealing from a store and you will be arrested. Punch someone in the face in the street and you will be put away. Sell pot near a school and you’ll be fitted for a nice new pair of handcuffs. Handing a note to a bank teller while wearing a rubber mask will sound the alarm for sure. Bring a machine gun onto the bus and people will rat on you. Hurl a brick at a policeman and you will be severely punished. Walk into church playing hackey sack in the nude and just see what happens. (Damn, the last time I tried that, Sister Mary Margaret reached out and confiscated the wrong ball.)

But guess what my fine brothers of the grand leafiness… Smoke a cigar in Denville, New Jersey and yes, you will be imprisoned.

WTF you talkin’ ‘bout, Willis?

Like so many other small town USA’s, Denville, NJ has adopted strict smoking laws in outdoor areas – you know outdoors – where are there billions of square feet of open air for smoke to dissipate, including hundreds of miles straight up. You know, where garbage trucks, busses, and cars emit carbon dioxide and pump other toxic waste into the air we breathe by the mega-gallon. Get caught smoking on public side walks, parks, play grounds, parking lots, yada, yada yada, and first time offenders will receive a fine of a $100 or up to two days of community service. Now… second-time offenders could face a $250 fine or five days of picking up garbage along side county inmates in their flaming orange jumpsuits. But get caught a third time? You ready for this one, people? The new ordinance passed in a 7-0 town council meeting states that a third time smoking offense in public can garner you ten days of community do-gooderness, and for real – I’m not kidding here… A trip to the slammer! That’s right, you will be arrested, place in cuffs, put into a squad car, taken downtown, get booked and thrown into jail… for smoking.

Hellooooooooo… people of Denville… Stalin is calling and he wants his hammer and sickle back.

What I find terribly disconcerting is that a town council in local suburbia has wielded the power of incarcerating a person for an act that is and always has been legal. I repeat, it is not an illegal act to enjoy a cigar in public, yet this group of self-righteous demi-gods has deemed it a crime who’s punishment is the same as the acts I stated in the first paragraph. (And if you ask me, it was that damned nun who was totally out of line. Hey, I was emotionally scared and it’s hard to let this one go.)

I’m at a loss here and I’m sure it is the same for you too, that the politico climate in this country is producing such outrageous acts of socialist and communist extremism. I know I sound like a broken record, but damn people, this isn’t really about smoking… it is about the stripping away of our freedoms in a country where men laid down their lives for the pursuit of this freedom. I just spent a week in Williamsburg, Virginia and learned a great deal about the people who fought tyranny and repressive laws in order to enjoy the fruits of life. Patrick Henry had the stones to stand up and say, “Give me liberty or give me death,” and the guy meant it, no questions asked. Now, while I won’t stand and say, “Give me cigars or give me death,” I will continue to make a public stink about these draconian laws instituted by incredibly small minds.

A couple of years ago it started with the town of Belmont, California, who deemed it illegal to smoke in public. One of the councilmen, a local-yocal, small time, business goon actually said something to the effect of, “Can you imagine the lives that could be saved with this law?” I just completely lost it when I read his comments. YOU?… You want to save ME from MYSELF? Holy tobacco beetles, Batman, the world has tipped on its axis and the shit is running downstream at an alarming rate.

So what’s the answer? I say total raging anarchy, tea party times ten. We have to make noise and we have to get ugly. Unfortunately, it will probably take a group of us dumb-asses to go to alert the media, visit Denville three days in a row, stoke up our stogies and get tossed into the can. Although I’m not keen on having a record, it does seem like something that would get noticed, don’t you think? Say, who’s with me? Who are the men and who are the mice in this bunch?! To the parapets men, we have not yet begun to fight! (yeah, so I borrowed that one… it’s not like the dude is going to sue me.)

Okay, I know I’m babbling on, here, but this is serious, because as always, the logical question to ask is… WHAT’S NEXT? What will they tax next? What will they take away next? A lot of people read this blog and a lot of us can make some noise. We ARE sick and tired of this and we’re NOT going to take it anymore? Right comrades? Oops, socialist slip.

Til Next Time, My Brothers,

Tommy Z.

JR Cigars Blog With the Zman

Did the Clark W. Griswold thing this past week and took the family on the yearly vacation jaunt. This time it was Colonial Williamsburg, Virginia, home to Busch Gardens Amusement Park and a place rich in American Revolutionary War history. Lots to do in this sweltering heat pit, with daily heat indexes of around 107 and humidity you could slice with a minuteman’s bayonet.

Like a good dad, I pre-planned the trip to a tee, mapping out the attractions, the tours, the restaurants, and the directions. But most importantly of all, I strategically researched perhaps the key spot to make any vacation the very best it can possibly be – the local cigar shop and lounge.

Yeah, I had it planned perfectly – drop the kiddies and the wife off at the park, then head straight for a smoke at the nearest stogie shop. How do I get away with this after a nine-hour car trip, you say? Well, I’ll let you in on a secret… I HATE RIDES. I have ALWAYS hated amusement park rides from the time I was five when my dad stuck me on that goddamned roller coaster all by myself as I screamed in terror for what seemed like an eternity. If it were today, I would have called child services on my parents within an instant. But yeah, I have a true disdain for scary carts on metal wheels that hang you inverted over the pavement two miles in the air, then send you spiraling to what seems like certain death. Okay, I mean I’ll do a few rides like the spinning teacups and the kiddie boats where you can blow the horn, but unfortunately that stuff is always in the opposite side of the park from where my death-defying teenagers want to be.

Now the family knows quite well that I’ll not only stay away from the terror-laden so-called fun stuff, but I’ll also bitch about it the whole time while I sit as the family waits on some godforsaken two hour line. Oh, I’ll bitch and I’ll bitch, and I’ll bitch, bitch, bitch until they tell me – I mean order me to stay away from the park. “Go dad… go back to the hotel pool and we’ll see you later!” the family shouts out as I put on the sad face as if I’m going to miss everyone terribly. Yeah, miss them, my ass, as I crank up the pre-programmed gps and head straight for the closest smokatorium.

I always love finding a new cigar shop in virgin territory. Makes me kind of feel like the Jamestown settlers from 1607, except I’m not being attacked by Indians or starving to death (I mean really, have you seen me?) The sights and smells of a newly found walk-in humidor raises the consciousness level to great heights, while perusing the cornucopia of premium sticks is certainly the cigar smokers equivalent of highly erotic foreplay. Sure I’m a weirdo, but you know exactly what the hell I’m talking about.

So I pick out several staogs that I normally can’t find in my area, along with several that are just ridiculously cheaper because of the lower state taxes on tobacco in Virginia. I feel like I’ve made the ultimate score as the cashier rings up my bounty of cigarry goodness. Once I’ve harvested my selections I head to the small lounge of leather thrones as the locals are tossing the bull and trading their manly-esque banter.

“Hey guys, mind if I join in?” I ask, knowing that my Jersey accent is a certain request awaiting for my Joe Pesci, Goodfellas diatribe.

After exchanging pleasantries, the boys dive right in with their thoughts on politics, sports, women, gun control, food, yada, yada, yada. The great thing about cigar lounge prattle is that no one is there for the purpose of problem solving or saving the world, but instead, it’s just a gathering of guys who revel in the fine art of camaraderie.

After a couple hours and two really great smokes, it’s time to go pick up the loved ones at the park so we can go to bed and get ready for the week’s events at Colonial Williamsburg…like more cigar smoking and bullshitting with the locals. It’s a long and weary journey, but somebody has to make the selfless sacrifice.

Man, I just love vacation, don’t you?

Tommy Z.

JR CIGARS Blog With the Zman

I am telling you that there is nothing in this world that makes a long car trip go by fast than when you light up a good stogie. Bringing your favorite smoke along for the ride is like having a best pal in the car – one who doesn’t say a word, give you any flack, and just does his thing – and THAT is a beautiful thing.

I took a little trip this weekend to a friend’s house just southwest of Philadelphia, and thank God I had my happy sticks along for the trek. It’s supposed to take two and a half hours to get there, but torrential rains the entire way turned it into a four-hour marathon.  Yeah it was dismal, traffic was hellish and accidents were to the left and right of me, but nothing could go wrong as long as my premium hand-rolled buddies made everything just a whole lot better.

What a psycho pig I was as I toked three on the way there and two on the way home, but like I said, when the smoke is swirling from a “car-gar” everything on the roadways seem just right. I started out in the late morning with a Romeo Y Julieta Reserva Real – a golden wrapped beautiful with nice flavor that accompanied my coffee quite nicely. Unfortunately the coffee produced a rather moving experience as I took an early rest stop at a crowded Exxon in western Jersey. Whew… you guys know damned well what I’m talking about. No need to spell it out.

It’s never too early for a second smoke, and the Frank Llaenza 1961 Double Magnum was simply magnificent as the rain pounded my windshield, but it didn’t matter on bit. That dark, rich, luscious ’61 and I were having some quality time, and a little atmospheric pressure was not going to disturb a good run. God dayum that is a fantastic smoke if you haven’t tried it yet. And if you have, then you sure as hell know what I’m talking about. Of course the stomach started grumbling so I cleared my palate with an egg sandwich and immediately started debating on the next cigar to keep my taste buds occupied. With the palate already bombarded with a myriad of textures and tastes, I needed something with some serious heft and body to cut thru the rubble, and the uber dark, rich and oily Omar Ortez did just the trick, Man, that cigar is full bodied up the ying yang and by the time it was done, I was parked in front of my pal’s abode. Sweet.

There’s a lot of great things about cigar smoking, but the companionship and camaraderie a rolled up stick of smoldering aged leaf can bring is sometimes it’s own little Master Card moment. When you’re golfing, fishing, barbecuing, or partaking in any other manly ritual, the cigar is something that just makes the moment a whole lot better. So today we salute the Car Gar – a gift from the great tobacco gods to make your trip a happy happy, joy joyful time.

Smoke cuz ya gottem, Gents.

Tommy Z,

JR Cigars Blog With the Zman

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Speaking of Cars & Cigars…

The next JR Classic Car Night will be held on Friday, August 13th in Whippany, NJ from 6 – 10 pm! Come eat, smoke and be merry as you oogle these amazing works of art!

The REAL Politico Agenda

On October 2^nd, 2008, in only my second blog ever here at JR, I wrote the following words…

“Career politicians are scum. They are liars, thieves, scoundrels, and whores. There isn’t a one of them that doesn’t have three sixes branded on the back of their necks. They suck up to special interest groups like the anti-tobacco lobby and do not care about lumping cigars in with cigarettes. It is time to put an end to career political stoogery. It’s time the people were heard.”

My feelings haven’t changed any since then – well, actually, my contempt for these jackass’s has grown even stronger if anything. Something is fundamentally wrong with these people – ethically, morally, and spiritually and for the life of me, I can’t understand what motivates these dirtbags to go into this line of work. Okay, money, power, fame, prestige, yada, yada, yada. I get that. But why put your cojones on public display like that? Do they really think they are going to change the way things run in the political system? Do they really think they’re going to make things better for the people? And lastly, do they really believe that imposing more and more taxes upon the American citizens is the way we will crawl out of this economic sink-hole?

Meet David Paterson, friends. If you don’t know him, he’s the governor of New York State and he’s as blind as a goddamned bat. Now, I’m not referring to his eyesight, but yes, the man is legally blind. I was referring to his classic politico tax and spend lunacy that he has thrust upon Albany ever since his ex wing-eared, bald boss, Eliot Spitzer got caught with his hands in the nookie jar. Patterson proposed a tax for New York state on all soda, juice, and candy products – anything with sugar. Of course the lobbies for these industries went ballistic and Patterson took a verbal beatdown for his blatant idiocy. But now dumbass Dave needs a “fix New York quick solution”, so the state has passed a tobacco tax increase that will raise the all ready horribly high tax rate from 46% to a smothering 75%. And to make matters worse, this clown initially proposed a 90% increase.

Now I don’t smoke cigarettes and I don’t care for them, but a pack in New York is going to be around $12. But what I do care for are cigars, and the increase to 75% is going to put a hurt on the state’s retailers like nothing they have ever felt before. Let’s put it this way…. You Mr. cigar lover can sit in front of your computer, press a few keys, and purchase a $150 box of your favorite stoagies for – yes $150. But come August 1^st, walk into a tobacco store in New York State and try to purchase a $150 box of cigars and the cost will be $262.50. So, I ask the ridiculous question… where would you choose to buy your precious smokes? While it doesn’t take a rocket surgeon to figure this out, it seems that New York’s clueless leader doesn’t understand simple economics. It’s very easy to digest dopey Dave… people will either log onto the internet or purchase their premium handrolled cigars out of state. When this happens, the State of New York will not collect the tax revenues that you thought it would. And to make things infinitely worse, cigar & tobacco retailers in New York will see a massive decline in sales, forcing many or most out of business. You will destroy small business across the state and not make up for the state’s deficit in the least. You will hurt New York. Mr. Patterson, and for the rest of you boneheaded legislators of the Empire State, I ask you… if everyone else can see this to be the truth, why the hell can’t you?

Ah, and now for the REAL truth…

The answer… because politicians WANT to eradicate smoking all together. THAT ladies and germs is the real agenda. You heard it from Tommy Z. These politico jackals pander heavily for votes and to the anti-smoking lobby, and they know quite well that raising taxes to the point where no one will be able to afford to purchase tobacco products is what gets them elected. There is no doubt in my mind that THIS is the method to their sickening madness as we just pull down our trousers, bend over the closest desk or chair and take it firmly in the place it hurts the most (Sans lubricant, of course.).

And may I just note… isn’t it funny that that most of these fat cat politico bastids smoke cigars? WTF…right? Uh-huh.

So, what’s the answer? Well, preventing this, years before it happened was the real answer, but the cigar industry waited WAY TOO long and then reacted in a panic when Pelosi and the Hildbeast got the SCHIP bill in place. I think the only real thing left to do is to scream aloud, take to the streets and create complete and utter anarchy. Guys, if you think this stops at tobacco, YOU’RE WRONG. Our freedoms are being stripped away at an alarming pace and the only real question we can ask is… WHAT’S NEXT? Soda, red meat, liquor… when tobacco is eradicated the government will go after the next thing then the next, then the next. This isn’t about cigars, people, it’s about the preservation of our society – a society that is being gagged and bound by the unholy agenda of the political correct.

In closing, one day after Independence Day, I challenge YOU to grow a pair and make some real noise. Oh… okay… so you shake your head and say that you think it won’t help? Then fine… turn around, drop ‘em and take it like a man, bro. Personally, I’d rather go out kicking and screaming with my dignity in tact, clutching to the rights that our forefathers fought and died for.

Give these bastards bloody f@#king hell.

Tommy Z.

JR CIGARS Blog With the Zman