THE CHARM OF CIGAR SMOKERS

Over two weeks ago someone told me something which, the more I think about it, the more it excites my brain. I lead a shallow life, and am easily amused; minor matters become obsessive mental percolata.

Freddy solemnly informed me that I was a jinx. He averred that my conversations with women at the cigar bar chased them away, and ruined everyone else's chances of getting laid.
That night. Or any other night. Ever. Again.
Kind of a massive bad karma effect.
Stop doing that, dude.

Well colour me flabbergasted. I had NO idea that men came to the cigar bar to cruise for chicks. Seeing as there are hardly ever any chicks in the place, their chances of a bit of nookity are slim.
Virtually nil. Not quite an absolute and scientific zero, but so very unlikely that they might as well resolve to be monkishly chaste and pure for the rest of their lives.

It's a cigar bar.

I go there to smoke. I bring pipes and a positive attitude, intending to enjoy some fine tobacco and excellent conversation.

Probably the last thing on my mind at those times is the hugely unlikely prospect of romance ambushing me there.
It is, as I stress, a cigar bar.


The "chick" whom I allegedly chased away was in her sixties. And she's a cigar smoker.
Freddy is in his thirties. And also a cigar smoker.

A match made in heaven?

Dude, I didn't know you liked blondes that much!



If, exceptionally, I end up in conversation with a female at the cigar bar, it is because I expect that she can hold her own. That cheroot in her mouth indicates that she is there for a smoke. And she may very well hold strong views. Or have insights. Conceivably backed-up by knowledge and experience.
It's possible.

Besides, I do not "pick up women in bars".
Any decision fuelled by nicotine and alcohol is guaranteed to be bad. Whichever side of the male-female dynamic leaps upon the opportunity.
It's just not a wise thing to do.

I will admit that the idea of finding a cigar-smoking mate is strangely exciting (despite being a pipe-smoking man), but there are other things that are as important. More important.
A woman in her sixties, with grandchildren, who is bigger and taller than myself, lives in Los Angeles, and works for a big banking firm, and is Christian besides, is not exactly the ticket. By a wide margin.
Even after half an hour of discussion, I still did not know what she reads. What she watches. What she eats. What she does for fun.
Or whether there might be odd psychoses or neuroses.
The liking for cigars becomes a minor detail.
No, I'm not narrow-minded.


As a further consideratum, at any given time, women are outnumbered at least twenty to one in the cigar bar. And many of them go there to smoke cigarettes. The fact that it is the last remaining place in San Francisco where one can have a quiet hour with a smoke and a drink seems like a crucial detail, and was very likely fundamental to their decision to enter the door. Cigar-smoking women are even rarer.
Despite our false self-images as fabulous cheroot-bearing Don Juans, we should respect their desire to enjoy the profoundly stinky ambiance, and welcome them.

Hi. How are you? What are you smoking?


But hey, Freddy, if you want to offer grandma a drink, several drinks, and then tempt her with your humidor filled with illegal Havanas, go right ahead.
Don't blame me if you wake up with your throat slashed.
She's in finance; she might be an axe-murderer.
And she's from Los Angeles, dude.
They're unbalanced there.
We'll miss you.



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