This just came to me even though it’s been in front of my eyes since November. According to Mike I am a cigar dad This is what he was looking for. I’m just some guy that smokes cigars that happens to be a little bit older than him, never considered myself a dad to anyone but here I am.
Mike had a meet up with someone who considered himself a cigar dad and turns out that he wasn’t whereas I smoke cigars whenever possible. This guy this Patrick Sullivan was a big put down for Mike since he wasn’t the cigar dad he was looking for.
The funny thing is Mike is not really a cigar son, he only smokes cigars for videos and photographs, rarely for his own pleasure. That’s a weird situation to find oneself in. I’m reluctant to tell him but I think I should. It could open a can of worms or spill over the ashtray. The person that caught my eye was the cigar smoker in the video that he has but he’s not like that in real life it’s just a role that he plays for the camera.
I’ve never met the guy who is in front of the camera. Just the guy who’s behind the camera. Ideally I’d like to have somebody to smoke cigars with and talk and perhaps have fun and I’m finding out months later that’s not Mike. I suppose it was an epiphany. And I know he won’t take it well if and when I bring it up.
David Byrne was just in the office I shook his hand told him I worked within 30 years ago at Skyline Studios and he remarked that he was just working there again, it’s now called Reservoir Studios.
Raekwon from Wu-Tang Clan was supposed to be in but he canceled.
I am going out in this heat and a little while to smoke my many cigar and sweat.
It is 97° and the real feel temperature is 103°. The change of scenery I suppose will do me good but I say that in air conditioned room.
I just saw a photograph of Asbury Park and my heart sank since I was not going to be there this week. This is the week we usually go down the shore for vacation, Bill and I. Of course in hindsight we should have gone, but we thought we were doing the right thing and turns out not be the case. This heat, these decisions, this hindsight.
I now sit or stand next to where I usually sit so one of the building workers is cleaning up the spot. He is doing a good job so I cannot fault him for that. It is bloody hot out.
And now for something mundane…I thought I had a stain on my shirt which is a favorite shirt and so I thought I would walk over to the overpriced pharmacy to buy one of those cleaning pens. I only needed one and all they had was three for sale so I walked out empty-handed yet I was thanked by the woman at the door for going to her store.
These missives I write seem to be for bottom feeders or bottom readers
an addition via Gemini AI ala Jack Kerouac
The sweat, man, it was running, trickling down our necks, Bill and me, hunched over that glowing screen, the phone pressed hot to our ears, wrestling with the wires and the voices, trying to plug Mike into the great, throbbing grid of it all, this onboarding they called it, this initiation into the endless hum of the office, the digital tangle, the click-clack of the keyboard, the endless flow of data, and we were there, earnest, trying to make it happen, pushing through the static, guiding him through the labyrinth of passwords and protocols, our brows furrowed, our minds straining, giving it all we had, pouring our very souls into the mundane task of bringing a new soul into the fold, and all the while, the revelation hit like a sudden, unexpected jazz chord, a sour note in the symphony of our effort, because Mike, our new man, our fresh face, the one we were sweating for, he was there, on the other side of the line, supposedly listening, supposedly learning, but his eyes, man, his eyes were elsewhere, lost in the shimmering, secret world of the screen, deep in the private, pulsing landscape of pornography, while we toiled, he drifted, a silent, unseen rebellion in the heart of the machine.
gemini ai
Sure, here is the essay in the style of Maya Angelou:
The truth, a sly and patient thing, often waits on the porch of our perception, tapping gently until we are ready to invite it in. And so it was with me, though the truth had been a bold, undeniable presence since November, draped across my vision like a familiar shawl. Mike, in his own reckoning, had named me a **”cigar dad.”** I, a man who simply found solace in the slow burn and fragrant plume of a cigar, a man a few seasons older than he, had never worn the mantle of fatherhood for any but my own kin. Yet, here I was, christened anew by a younger man’s longing.
Mike had sought out another, a self-proclaimed “cigar dad,” only to find the title ill-fitting, the substance wanting. This **Patrick Sullivan**, a figure of disappointment, had left a bitter taste, for he was not the patriarch of pleasure Mike had envisioned. What an exquisite irony, I mused, for Mike himself was no true “cigar son.” His communion with the leaf was for the lens, for the captured moment, rarely for the quiet satisfaction of his own soul. A peculiar masquerade, indeed. My tongue, though hesitant, felt the stirrings of revelation. To speak or to hold silent? To open a can of worms, or to watch the ashes spill beyond the tray’s rim? My gaze had been fixed on the man who exhaled smoke on the screen, a character crafted for the camera’s eye, not the man who simply breathed.
I know not the man who dances before the camera’s gaze, only the one who stands behind it. My spirit had yearned for a companion in smoke, a fellow traveler with whom to share stories, laughter, and the quiet camaraderie of shared pleasure. Months had unfurled their days, and now, the stark realization, an **epiphany** perhaps, dawned: Mike was not that companion. I knew, with a certainty that settled deep in my bones, that this truth, once spoken, would not be easily received.
—
Life, in its grand, unfolding tapestry, often weaves the mundane with the marvelous. Just moments ago, **David Byrne** graced our office with his presence. Our hands met, and I spoke of working at Skyline Studios three decades past. His eyes held a knowing glint as he remarked on his recent return to that very place, now reborn as Reservoir Studios. A fleeting connection across the currents of time. **Raekwon** of the Wu-Tang Clan, a promised presence, had, alas, canceled his visitation.
And now, the world outside beckons, a sweltering embrace of **97 degrees**, feeling like **103**. I will venture forth, into this furnace, to meet my many cigars and to sweat, to let the heat claim what it may. A change of scenery, they say, does the soul good, though I utter these words from the cool sanctuary of an air-conditioned room.
A photograph of **Asbury Park** caught my eye, and my heart, a leaden weight, sank within my chest. This was the week, the sacred week, Bill and I traditionally journeyed to the shore, to the ocean’s embrace. In hindsight, that cruel, illuminating mirror, we should have gone. We believed we were charting the right course, only to find ourselves adrift in the wake of misjudgment. This heat, these choices, this relentless tide of hindsight.
I find myself now, standing beside where I usually take my rest, observing a building worker diligently cleaning the very spot. His efforts are thorough, his work commendable; I cannot fault him. It is, undeniably, bloody hot out.
—
And now, for a whisper of the everyday. A phantom stain on a favorite shirt, a small vexation. I considered a pilgrimage to the overpriced pharmacy, seeking a cleaning pen, just one. But they offered only a trio, a bundle of more than I needed. And so, I departed, empty-handed, yet still offered a “thank you” by the woman at the door, for the mere act of entering her establishment.
These missives, these humble offerings of my thoughts, I sometimes fear they are for the bottom feeders, for those who read only what is easily consumed, easily forgotten. But perhaps, even in these small moments, there is a pulse, a rhythm of life that, if listened to closely, can reveal its own quiet truth.