Stream of Consciousness
“You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself in any direction you choose.” – Dr. Seuss
Cigars. What is it about cigars? Cigars and brandy. Manliness. Nothing says, “manly”, like cigars and brandy. “Let’s withdraw to the drawing room and have a brandy.” Do people really draw in drawing rooms? None of the movies of the royals show easels with partially completed drawings in the drawing room. Mostly just dark paneled walls, overstuffed chairs and crystal brandy decanters. I went to a conference not too many years ago, depending on how you interpret ‘not too many’, and after an elaborate dinner with multiple courses paired exquisitely with wine, the hotel set up a cigar and brandy room for those who chose to participate in such manly endeavors. Not being a cigar smoker, but occasionally enjoying a snifter of brandy, I opted to demonstrate my macho side by joining my fellow conferees in the hotel’s Fireside Room for a brandy.
By the time I arrived, there were approximately 20 men and one woman in the Fireside Room smoking cigars, sipping brandy and regaling each other with manly stories of hunting, fishing, hiking, biking, sailing and other adventures. The room had a high coffered ceiling, mahogany paneled walls, leather chairs and sofas and was filled with so much acrid smoke I could barely see across the room. I knew in an instant this was not my thing. Yet, once I had breached the entrance, retreat was not possible. Don’t show weakness, I thought. Have a brandy, tell a story and then excuse yourself and put your suit out to be laundered to get the cigar stink out of it. “Hey, Rich. Come on over. I have an amazing Cuban cigar. You won’t believe how good it is!” “Shit”, I think. I just want a brandy and then to leave. “Sure, I haven’t had a good cigar in years”, I heard myself say. That part was true. I had only had one cigar in my life and that made me sick. Maybe I’m not up for all this manliness. “How did you get ahold of Cuban cigars?”, I asked. “I went to Cuba last spring and came back with two dozen.” “How did you get into Cuba?”, I ask. “Doctors Without Borders.” “When did you become a doctor?” “I was a tag-along volunteer.” I was sure there was much more to this story but I could hardly breathe and wanted to light the cigar, cross the room, snuff it out and maybe have a brandy in the lobby bar.
My fellow conferee presented me with a cigar, pulled an exquisitely carved cigar cutter out of his jacket pocket, made a perfect snip on the ends of this classically rolled cigar, flipped out his 1968 vintage Zippo lighter, and flamed the end of my cigar. I took a puff, coughed, tried to appear sophisticatedly cool, thanked my friend for the lovely stogie, and turned to leave. He gently touched my arm and said, “sit awhile. Let’s catch up. It’s been awhile since we’ve seen each other.” Oh, crap. No escape. “How do you like the Cuban? Quite amazing, isn’t it?” “Quite”, I said. And so, for the next half hour, I pretended to smoke, sipped some brandy and listened to the ramblings of my fellow conferee.
Between the brandy, the wine and the cigar, I awoke the next morning with a crushing headache and the inside of my mouth felt like the lint trap of a commercial clothes dryer. Never again.
Husbandry 