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