Posted on by Patrick

Remembory

I generate large clouds of cigar smoke, curling purplish-gray churning vapor streams, and most people hate me for it. Actually, they probably hate me for other reasons and just blame it on the cigar smoke. They make faces at me, sometimes they give me the finger, they make those dismissive noises that people make when they’re disgusted at aspects of society that infringe upon their breeding and their sense of entitlement. They can handle the litterbug and the panhandler, they’ll look the other way at people who take up two parking spaces or gals who speak in high-pitched voices into their iPhones because their conversations about the PTA need to be shared with the general public, but they’ll seek out the cigar smoker ten blocks away to tell him he’s the main cause of global warming.

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Posted on by Patrick

To Me, A Cigar; To Them, The Devil

The Old Glory Society is a gentlemen’s cigar club that exists, not only in the physical world, but in your mind. In the Society’s formative years, I served as lead propagandist and I still write words about cigars and the groovy, historic vibe that surrounds them under the Society’s sacred banner.

Cigar Salutations From The Old Glory Society

I was at the carwash, I had an unlit cigar between my teeth, something I call a chewer (a cigar to be chewed on for an afternoon and then tossed, as the act of chewing makes it unsmokable). There was a young boy there, maybe three years old, with his mom and they were facing in opposite directions with the little dude facing me and my cigar. He stared at me with a blend of curiosity and terror. He had no reference point in his little mind for what I had in my mouth and as he gaped at me he started unconsciously backpedaling toward his mom. At the point when he backed into her she turned and looked at me and immediately clutched the boy close, spun him around as if to avert his eyes and headed off in the opposite direction.

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