Wrapper: Nicaraguan Corojo ‘99 Maduro
Binder: Nicaraguan
Filler: Nicaraguan
Size: 4 x 60
Strength: Medium
Price: $10.00
These cigars have been sitting naked in my humidor for 5 months.
You cannot buy this cigar as only a small amount was released as they have been since 2009. And the average amount released has been 6000-8000 cigars.
The wrapper is the first time a Nic Corojo was used. In the past, it was a Nic Criollo.
THE WHOLE MEGILLAH:
Aromas are faint but this old nose picks up notes of dark chocolate, caramel, black pepper, strawberries, creaminess, ginger, espresso, cedar, and oats. I was planning on adding the sentence, “I expect that with a Nic puro, I’m going to smell the same ol’ aromas.” Wrong. Glad I didn’t add that.
A very dense ‘yippy dog’ turd-like appearance. That won’t stop me. I saw Divine eat dog shit in “Pink Flamingos.” A very heavy little cigar. I’m guessing at least a 90 minute, or more, smoke.
The draw is wonderful. Ergo, therefore, et. al…perfect construction. Won’t need my PerfecDraw draw adjustment tool this fine morning next to the gloriously, gorgeous, brown Lake Michigan. Its beach in downtown Milwaukee is 47’-0 long and 13’-0 deep.
OK. I have The Rolling Stones Redux on Amazon Music. I’m ready. Go ahead and scroll down to the rating and then feel free to call me a born-again pagan on social media.
The Belicoso tip and the 60-ring gauge makes this cigar a slippery eel to hold in one’s mouth. I feel like I’m going to spit it out by accident. All it does is reinforce my belief that you need to keep the thing from dangling in your mouth constantly or taking puffs too often. Let it rest, let it slide, let it sell you one of those magical glasses that allows you to see through women’s clothes. As a 10-year-old, in 1856, I saw the ad in the back of a comic book and paid the dough for one. Each lens of the eyeglasses has a shitty white bird feather pasted on it. I mean, what the fuck? I couldn’t tell my parents since they didn’t know I was having sex with a teacher when I was 8.
The cigar shows its age. Begins with a very well-rounded approach. The tobacco takes a bow. Flavors of cinnamon graham crackers hit the ground running while notes of mild black pepper, creaminess, ginger, beef jerky, malt and espresso are running to catch up.
Strength is straight ahead medium.
Oh yeah. “Ramble On.” Zep. One of my big faves. But then I can’t think of any tune that I don’t like…just random levels of love that are forever in a non-suicidal pact. Listen to any live Zep bootleg and be amazed at the musicianship of bassist/keys player John Paul Jones. Saw them several times before Bonzo croaked.
Half an inch in, serious complexity reaches my palate. I read one review and they didn’t care for it. And the reviewer wrote his thoughts just three months ago. But then don’t you think that the big industry reviewers are chintzy with their ratings? I mean, what does it take to impress them? Is it because their palates are God given and rank above us all? Or is it that they are bombarded with such a huge variety of cigars that their standards are not that of the regular smoker? Which does not help Joe Cigar Smoker one bit. You can’t be snobby. I see dumbass comments on social media, and whatnot, say there is no way a reviewer can taste all those things. What they should be saying is “I don’t have a very good palate, I’m inexperienced, and I’m doomed…so kill me now.” I find it hilarious that a cigar smoker would admit to being a dip shit in writing. I guess that could be applied to me as well. Never mind.
Good cigar at 15 minutes burned. The blend is climbing that hill with good intentions and keeping me interested as to what comes next. Did you ever worry the same thing when you were young and still figuring out sex with a girl? Oh, the pressure.
The sweet factor is towering over the savory portion. The black pepper spiciness is becoming a force. The cigar now tastes like a Clark Bar. I loved those things as a kid…but you had to have a drink in hand, or you’d choke to death.
Since I’m not shilling for a sponsor this morning, I’ve added another old chestnut rock story from my past.
I’ve only burned ¾” in all this time I’ve been rambling and ranting. 25 minutes. Now that’s serious cigar rolling. As opposed to piping in laughing gas into the rollers’ workstations.
The burn gets wonky.
The forward momentum seems to put the brakes on at 1” burned.
Unavoidable torch to foot to stop the run.
Everything seems to be reversing on me.
The cigar resigns to just being OK. Just like that. The room is dark. My Aunt Gussie is standing in the corner with a Jewish Mohel. Uh-oh. She’s been gone for decades. I hope the Mohel’s tools aren’t rusty. I hate it when people work on my penis with the incorrect tools.
“Hey Joe.” Jimi. Man, if you were in a cover band in the 60’s and 70’s, this song was a must. Of course, it put enormous pressure on your guitarist.
The cigar is tasty but there is no progression at 1-1/2” burned. Oh no. The reviewer that didn’t like the cigar may have been spot on with his analysis. C’mon sweet spot…save the day.
I taste earth, wind, and leather.
Yeah, it was only a $10 cigar last year. Yesterday, I reviewed the HVC Black Friday 2022 that blew my panties off and the price tag is $8 and still available despite it being a limited production outing. I bought another fiver it was so good. This Viaje doesn’t come close to the HVC blend.
The ash looks like Jimmy Durante’s nose. Huge, bulbous, and ain’t going nowhere.
The Doors’ “Back Door Man.” I could never figure out if it meant anal sex or a guy slipping in through the back door when his lady’s husband was gone. Maybe both. I dunno.
Roman Polanski was a real sleaze ball. Oh shit. I looked him up. The dirt bag is still alive at 89.
The cigar continues to burn but there are no changes. It is pleasant but not intriguing. Bummer.
I take it back about the construction. The burn is embarrassing. Torch to foot once again. The wrapper cracks. Fucking great.
My apologies to the reviewer who nailed it. I thought I could show he was wrong. Nope. He was spot on.
I passed the halfway point at 45 minutes burned. I plan on giving the cigar another 10 minutes and if there is no secret momentum waiting to spring on me, the stick goes into the ash bin.
The blend started with such promise and then failed miserably. Viaje is one of those brands that are hit or miss. Variations from brilliant to WTF.
The cigar begins to look like a bum threw it away. My grandfather liked that term. He always told me to not be a bum. And if I fucked something up, yep…he called me a bum. Funny thing. The man lived to 83 and passed when I was 29. He had a great sense of humor. My dad…not so much. I think the sense of humor jumped a generation.
Well, my dears, this is the reason I now review unavailable sticks on the weekend.
The cigar has moved from pleasant to lousy. I’m done. I will mimic the other reviewer’s rating. He was right all along.
RATING: 83
And now for something completely different:
“Take the Money and Run” by the Steve Miller Band is in my ears…
I was living and working in Phoenix during the 1990’s. I ran this enormous project that was residential. All project managers that do commercial construction know that building some enormous mansion is a royal pain in the ass. This was to be the biggest private residence in Arizona up in the hills north of Scottsdale.
Normal jobs you get to deal with semi-rational folks. Professionals. But oh no, not with a private residence. Especially, when the owner is filthy rich.
Changes are made constantly. Special treatment is expected. The owner looks down upon the contractors as ferret mites. And then he fights for every dime he has in order to save $20 while conducting a meeting of project managers from the engineer of record, the architect, the general contractor, subs, and vendors. An hour of their time is worth thousands of dollars…all over changing the style of nuts and washers on his mile long worth of guardrail around his e houses.
The guy building the house owned a famous boat manufacturer and sold it for a gazillion dollars. He was spending something in the neighborhood of 100 million1997 dollars…Almost $200 million in 2023 dollars. The road to the top of the hill, where the main house was to be constructed, cost $20 million and a year to build before work could begin. It had a caretaker’s house at the bottom of that hilltop. It had a housekeeper’s house about halfway up. And his house was the cherry on top of this hill that he purchased. I don’t know how many acres, but the land alone cost him around $30 million. They had to take this huge hill and level it flat for the house to sit atop it.
His house was perfectly round. All the rooms on the exterior walls were pie cut shaped. With a huge circle for the living room, kitchen, etc. in the middle.
A few changes have been made to the house since 1997:
His garage was 150 feet in diameter and still not as big as the footprint of the house…but plenty big enough that you could drive a car into it and exit it facing the right direction. Never had to turn around to get out. If you yelled, there was an echo. I believe there was also a sacrificial altar next to the fancy party bar on wheels.
I wish I could remember the guy’s name, but I can’t. Give me an old man pass.
I was in the Todd Hart Blues Band (A power trio) at the time and for Christmas Todd bought me a beautiful leather jacket with the band’s logo on it. Todd did vocals for English blues band Savoy Brown in the 1980’s.
At the America West Center in Tempe, AZ. Todd on guitar, drummer Eric “Stumpy” Joe, and me on the far right (with baseball cap) in the background playing my Dobro electric upright bass like a bass guitar (Makes my back hurt looking at this photo):
Scottsdale Center for the Arts festivals. (1997):
I had a meeting with the owner, architect, construction manager, and the structural engineer one morning.
The owner saw my jacket and inquired.
He asked me if I knew Steve Miller? I laughed and said no.
He said that Steve was staying at his house in Paradise Valley…an old upscale part of Phoenix. Same place where Alice Cooper lives.
I should add that the owner of the company I worked for was there as well. He was my age. A real prick. Cheated on his wife openly with some buck toothed chick that worked in the office eventually leading to his divorce. There was absolutely no way this chick could conceal her teeth so Brad must have liked his blow jobs on the rough side.
So, the owner says that Miller is quite the guitar player. I nodded. He then took out his cell phone and made a call.
He hung up and asked if I wanted to stop by his house and meet Miller when business was done. Before I could answer, Brad, my boss, said “YES!”
We met Miller and he was as gracious as all get out. He had set up a little recording studio in one of the large rooms in the house. I was introduced and gave him my background of 15 minutes in the spotlight in the music business.
Then he asked if I wanted to lay down some bass lines or just jam?
I told him that I didn’t have my gear with me. He laughed as he pointed to about 6 different basses in their stands. All were collector’s items, and I picked the 1958 Fender Precision. It felt like I had owned it forever. Talk about a sweet instrument…my fingers flew over the fret board.
My boss was impressed with me for the first time. And then a few people, that I was never introduced to, came into the room. One was a drummer.
I was freaking out. I didn’t know any of his songs. Miller graciously suggested we start with some blues changes improv. You know…1-4-5. 1 is the root chord…say the chord ‘A’. 4 is the chord ‘D’. And 5 is the turnaround chord ‘E’. Simple.
We played for an hour on one tune and took it everywhere. Miller and I and the drummer were having such fun that time lost its value.
Miller invited me to stay all day and asked if I could lay down some bass lines on stuff he was working on.
But my prick boss said we had to get back to the office. Brad didn’t play an instrument, so I guess he felt left out and jealous. I couldn’t stand the man.
Sometimes we would need to travel out of state due to some big issue with a project I was running. Brad was one of those guys who was all fire and brimstone before going…and on the plane. Always telling me he’d take care of it. We sat down with the Man, and he shut up like an unpaid whore. Never said a word. I knew the job and after being fooled the first time, knew that from that point forward, I would run the meeting. There was absolutely no reason for him to come with me…except that the contractor demanded that the owner attend.
We all glad handed each other and Brad and I left in his new Corvette. I didn’t say a goddam word to him during the 45 minutes back to the office. I was sulking. The fucker couldn’t have stayed another couple hours so Miller could get to know me?
We get back and Brad goes on about what happened to the troops in the office. But forgets to mention how Miller and I bonded and how much he liked my playing. It became all about how Brad and Steve became lifelong friends.
Of course, the truth came out during the day as I was pounded for more info.
Brad liked to leave early in the day to go fuck his sweetie…so he wasn’t there to put the kibosh on me holding court.
So, all work stopped, and I told the story of Miller and I playing together.
I got some serious street cred in the office. Everyone knew I played but had never bothered to come to see me and my band. We played out every weekend in nice clubs. Actually, the only cool guy was an estimator/project manager a couple years older than me and he and his wife would come see us and he truly liked the band. He would tell folks in the office, and they just couldn’t be bothered.
I never saw Steve Miller again. But a week later, I met with the house owner, and he told me how much Miller appreciated me being there because he had recorded the whole jam and it gave him some ideas for new compositions.
“Did he ask how to get hold of me?
“No.”
Figures
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