Wrapper: Florida Sun Grown, grown by Jeff Borysiewicz in Clermont, Florida
Binder: Connecticut Broadleaf, grown by John Foster in South Windsor, Connecticut
Filler: Pennsylvania Type 41, grown by Mennonite family farmers in Lancaster, Pennsylvania and Connecticut Havana, grown John Foster in South Windsor, Connecticut
Size: 6.125 x 52 Torpedo
Strength: Medium
Price: $20.00
Factory: J.C. Newman’s El Reloj, Tampa Ybor City

My cigars received 4 months of naked humidor time.

THE WHOLE MEGILLAH:
The cap looks like a nose cone. Originally, I was thinking of calling my company Snow Kohn. It was the wrong time in America to advertise that bad habit, so I settled on Pine Kone Productions.

The wrapper smells of barnyard, smoked meat, hot peppers, and your mama’s spice cabinet.

Airflow is a little bit on the doughy side but with some prodding, it should be fine. My PerfecDraw mopes. I offer it candy. Its expression doesn’t change. Just what I need, another woman in my life.

The cold draw amplifies the aroma portion with red hot cinnamon, poopy barnyard, peppermint, black pepper, cloves, and creamy root beer.

My favorite part of the cigar experience is the initial lighting ceremony. I get an immediate sense of what lies ahead. Traditionally, I make a too early judgment call…I shift and soak it all in while my brain goes Ahh. If I’m lucky, I receive several more favorite parts.

And here it is: toasted grain, barley, malt, creaminess, black pepper, caramel, milk chocolate, and hefty nuts.

So far, so good. Truth be told, this is my third cigar. Loved them all. Scroll, my babies…scroll.

Strength is mild but going places. I don’t know if it’s because I’m in the decaying portion of my lifespan, or I’ve just evolved. The perfect morning choice of blends. It’s just a shot away.

In order to gain cred with my musical associates and recording studio personnel, I let them believe I was a big time coke dealer. In fact, my ‘drug’ money came from the inheritance in my grandfather’s will. The nosecaine I spread around was small time but present enough to make everyone think different. It was the 80’s man.

Critiques of The American are all over the place. Some loved it and others thought it was a pedestrian blend. Funny thing is that guys like me who are solo efforts loved it. Our judgmental betters were the ones who sent a message to J.C. Newman that they should have done better. And people think I’m the asshole.

I read one review that mentioned fig. I immediately taste fig. How’s that for the suggestive and the receptive?

Creaminess is ball busting. My socks are full of gonads. But they are clean and sober and amenable to being approached.

I loved Colombian marching powder during sex. Unfortunately, my bulbous endeavor failed to heed the general’s call. The girls didn’t care.

I was living in the same upscale forest cabin with a bunch of musicians. One of the renters was a chick who dealt 21 at Cesars Lake Tahoe. She worked the graveyard shift. One night she had a lone customer that played for about an hour and then took a pistol from his coat and blew his brains out in front of her…slumping on the table. I was there that morning when she came home. She was covered in blood and brain matter. The girl spent 3 days in bed. She was so traumatized that she went inward and was fucked up from that day forward. I didn’t appreciate finding funky debris in the sink afterwards. My boys spent most of their time not being in the cabin for the duration. Nothing bums out a musician more than reality.

Some of my associates in the biz got me into places of high regard because I always had blow. The moment I didn’t, they were gone.

The nuttiness takes over. Minding the store are notes of milk chocolate, dried pear, malt, caramel, a docent of black pepper, and a hint of mint.

Strength becomes medium quickly, which is a good sign. Mild is fine but it must be chock full of flavor and depth. Medium power is normally where complexity and richness find a good home.

I’ve told my Andy Kaufman story a million times. I left out that as we sat together at the nightclub’s booth, he went through an entire gram of my shit in about 10 minutes. It was like boiling a wolverine.

A creamy rich bastard isn’t obtainable in many premium cigars. Maybe hints but rarely does it drive the show. The buttery equation marks time. The American experiences some nice transitions. A steady depth that keeps me wanting to huff and puff…but I don’t.

I visited every radio station in the country to promote my national projects. There were two requirements for airplay: cash and cocaine. It was like the 1950’s. Things never change. They go underground. Get Back.

Another $20 wonder. The going rate these days. I feel for the average Joe who can’t afford the luxury that cigar smoking has now become. They are forced to buy seconds from Cigars International or JR. And then hope they’re not atrocious.

When you’ve heard everything out there, your only rational choice is to choose deep cuts.

A good friend didn’t stop his reckless snorting of the white death upon returning to the straight world. He had a heart attack at 54 and died.

Some critics reported that this cigar flounders in the last third. It’s not been the case with my previous two sticks. A lot can be said for choosing the right vitola. Have I lucked out with the torpedo?

Florida Sun Grown has not seen serious acceptance by the sophisticated smoking public. In the right hands…

The first half was damn fine. The second half creates a possible heartthrob.

Only two members of the original Byrds are still alive. My meet up and interview with the band was almost 60 years ago. There was no drug usage at The Golden Bear that night. I was the only soul given full access to the band backstage for their two shows. The seats out front were filled with Hollywood types who weren’t allowed to enter the band’s domain. I knew how lucky I was. I just didn’t know why. Sometimes the right questions work.

Flavors transition to an impressive depth. I can’t stop thinking about the fig factor. I tasted pear too. The black pepper spiciness is perfectly staged for meting out the right juxtaposition for the blend’s balance.

At this point, I don’t anticipate the demise of the blend’s performance. The hatches are battened, and the crew is accounted for.

The first time I tried cocaine (1972), I had the look of a cool dude so naturally I made my best friend go first. If the powder killed him, I’d have an excuse to pass.

Ooh, ooh…creamy sweet lemon enters for the first time. Nicely done.

Bass players aren’t grown, we are born that way.

I made it a rule to never use coke when I worked in my studio, or when I had dates for other sessions as a bass player. It was a treat for after hours. My people were expected to do the same. But when a session ran into the early morning, the occasional toot was expected here and there. And sometimes, after hours became extended.

The American reminds me of the Casdagli Daughters of the Wind. My go-to for my morning smoke.

The last two inches. Fingers crossed.

Drummer Hal Blaine didn’t do drugs. At least in front of me. I never did them when I worked with him. He did tell me on more than one occasion: ‘Maybe I should start.’

The last time I saw drummer Stewart Copeland was at a platinum record party for Ghost in the Machine. I had a nice buzz when I ran into the man. He saw me first. His eyes were wild from too much blow. He was running all over the place. Instead of having a nice conversation with him, I found Sting who put out the aura to the crowd of don’t bother me. Naturally, I approached. He remembered me from our last few encounters. He always pointed and said, “Curved Air!” He hated the band. We spoke for a while, and it was fun because we spoke of life, not music…turned out that he really didn’t mind me bothering him. We shook hands and he gave me a hug. People stared. “Who the fuck is that guy?” As I left, I did the Richard Pryor/Gene Wilder walk: “We bad, that’s right, we bad.” Sting just didn’t want to deal with it all…the deadness of the biz.

Creamy pretzels, caramel, malt, lemon twist, nuts, milk chocolate, slight mintyness, slighter black pepper, dried fig, and a touch of honey.

This is not an explosive blend. It stays on point. You know where it’s going from the start. I guess you gotta pay two sawbucks for this type of pleasure in the 2020’s. If you have the dough, grab a fiver and let your cigars rest. You won’t be disappointed if your palate is anything like mine.

Glamorizing rock and roll is a fool’s errand.

RATING: 95

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