Cigar Celebration Quotes

To celebrate the fact that I don’t have lung cancer, I lit up an extra cigar.

It is difficult to describe how it feels to gaze at living human beings whom you’ve seen perform in hard-core porn. To shake the hand of a man whose precise erectile size, angle, and vasculature are known to you. That strange I-think-we’ve-met-before sensation one feels upon seeing any celebrity in the flesh is here both intensified and twisted. It feels intensely twisted to see reigning industry queen Jenna Jameson chilling out at the Vivid booth in Jordaches and a latex bustier and to know already that she has a tattoo of a sundered valentine with the tagline HEART BREAKER on her right buttock and a tiny hairless mole just left of her anus. To watch Peter North try to get a cigar lit and to have that sight backlit by memories of his artilleryesque ejaculations.13 To have seen these strangers’ faces in orgasm—that most unguarded and purely neural of expressions, the one so vulnerable that for centuries you basically had to marry a person to get to see it.

Here we all are,” said Herb Thompson, taking his cigar out and looking at it reflectively. “And life is sure funny.” “Eh?” said Mr. Stoddard. “Nothing, except here we are, living our lives, and some place else on earth a billion other people live their lives.” “That’s a rather obvious statement.” “Life,” he put his cigar back in his lips, “is a lonely thing. Even with married people. Sometimes when you’re in a person’s arms you feel a million miles away from them.” “I like that,” said his wife. “I didn’t mean it that way,” he explained, not with haste; because he felt no guilt, he took his time. “I mean we all believe what we believe and live our own little lives while other people live entirely different ones. I mean, we sit here in this room while a thousand people are dying. Some of cancer, some of pneumonia, some of tuberculosis. I imagine someone in the United States is dying right now in a wrecked car.

I still get more wedding invitations, but I find I enjoy the memorials more.’ ‘Because you don’t have to bring a present?’ ‘Well, that helps a great deal, but mainly because one gets a better crowd when someone really distinguished dies.’ ‘Unless all his friends have died before him.’ ‘That, of course, is intolerable,’ said Nicholas categorically. ‘Ruins the party.’ ‘Absolutely.’ ‘I’m afraid I don’t approve of memorial services,’ said David, taking another puff on his cigar. ‘Not merely because I cannot imagine anything in most men’s lives that deserves to be celebrated, but also because the delay between the funeral and the memorial service is usually so long that, far from rekindling the spirit of a lost friend, it only shows how easily one can live without him.’ David

So there I sat and smoked my cigar until I drifted into thought. Among other thoughts, I recall these. You are getting on in years, I said to myself, and are becoming an old man without being anything and without actually undertaking anything. On the other hand, wherever you look in literature or in life, you see the names and figures of celebrities, the prized and highly acclaimed people, prominent or much discussed, the many benefactors of the age who know how to benefit humankind by making life easier and easier, some by railroads, others by omnibuses and steamships, others by telegraph, others by easily understood surveys and brief publications about everything worth knowing, and finally the true benefactors of the age who by virtue of thought systematically make spiritual existence easier and easier and yet more and more meaningful—and what are you doing?… So only one lack remains [in our time], even though not yet felt, the lack of difficulty. Out of love of humankind, out of despair over my awkward predicament of having achieved nothing and of being unable to make anything easier than it had already been made, out of genuine interest in those who make everything easy, I comprehended that it was my task: to make difficulties everywhere. -Søren Kierkegaard

So there I sat and smoked my cigar until I drifted into thought. Among other thoughts, I recall these. You are getting on in years, I said to myself, and are becoming an old man without being anything and without actually undertaking anything. On the other hand, wherever you look in literature or in life, you see the names and figures of celebrities, the prized and highly acclaimed people, prominent or much discussed, the many benefactors of the age who know how to benefit humankind by making life easier and easier, some by railroads, others by omnibuses and steamships, others by telegraph, others by easily understood surveys and brief publications about everything worth knowing, and finally the true benefactors of the age who by virtue of thought systematically make spiritual existence easier and easier and yet more and more meaningful—and what are you doing? … So only one lack remains [in our time], even though not yet felt, the lack of difficulty. Out of love of humankind, out of despair over my awkward predicament of having achieved nothing and of being unable to make anything easier than it had already been made, out of genuine interest in those who make everything easy, I comprehended that it was my task: to make difficulties everywhere.

Mr. Pat. “Mr. Pat, bring Ms. Marcy a Zacapa rum on the rocks with two ice cubes, please.” “Wow, we must be celebrating. I’m glad, because I need something to cheer me up.” “Sit back and relax,” I said, taking a drag from my cigar. We opened the email from Agnes and were excited to see the results of her new research. We then discussed with Marcy everything that both Father Dom and I had uncovered during the day. Now we had to plan our presentation to the various players and I, as usual, came up with a brilliant idea. “Here’s what we’re going to do,” I said, adding, “We’ll invite the participants

Dominic Mallory had never been one to debauch virgins, but he was beginning to think he should make an exception for this beauty. He took a quick glance around the wide stone terrace before he stepped farther back into the shadows. Good, they were alone. He ground out his cigar as he blew a last circle of smoke into the cold air. If he had it his way, nothing would disturb this moment. Rushing a seduction took all the anticipation out of it. Seduction hadn't been his plan when he arrived at his family's estate. In fact, he'd come straight to the terrace in order to avoid the celebration inside. Now he knew he'd made the right choice. He could have a much more interesting party alone with this young woman. She leaned on the terrace wall, completely oblivious to his presence. He had been more than aware of hers from the moment she slipped from the crowded ballroom into the frosty night. Now she stared up at the stars, giving him the impression that her heart and mind were leagues away. Her jet black hair matched the inky sky. Somehow during the evening, a few long, curly strands had come down from the elaborate pile on her head, leaving a tantalizing trail down the middle of her back. A trail he longed to follow with his lips. He sighed softly.

want to join us in celebrating the birth of Kit’s daughter?” “Kit?” She barked a laugh. “Catherine Warner, your assistant, Elliot.” Realization finally dawned, and my stomach plummeted like a stone in the sea. “Catherine had her baby?” I asked for the sake of clarification, even though the truth was pretty damn clear. “But…that isn’t possible. She isn’t due for a week.” Davida chuckled, and so did a few of the assistants behind her. When I scanned their faces, they had all suddenly become really fucking serious with other things to look at, like the ceiling and walls. “That’s only an estimated date,” Davida explained slowly, like I was an imbecile. “The baby is definitely here. I was there when she came into the world.” Raymond waved his cigar around. “As was I.” There were many, many questions on the tip of my tongue, most having to do with why the hell Davida and Raymond had been at the birth. “She had the baby?” That was all I’d managed to shove from my brain, confirming Davida’s assessment. I really was an imbecile. “She did. Our Kit was a goddess.” Davida waved her cigar around. “The little bugger came out plump and cute.

I have confessed sin over cigars, asked for prayer over cigars, celebrated personal and professional victories over cigars, and mourned personal and professional defeats over cigars. I’ve laughed with those who have laughed, over cigars, and wept with those who have wept. That’s not to elevate the cigar to some kind of exalted religious or cultural level. Here’s what a cigar is, in plain-speak: An excuse to sit down and talk with another guy for an hour. Think about it . . . when does this ever happen outside a cigar lounge? When guys are “hunting together” they’re sitting in a tree stand being quiet. When guys are “watching a ballgame together” they’re sitting in a living room or a sports bar staring slack-jawed at a television. When guys are “shopping for antiques together”[3] they’re walking through a junky antique store making fun of all the ridiculous stuff inside and not really talking about the stuff of life. The cigar lounge removes the awkward stiltedness of the Church Lobby (“How are YOU doing Bob?”), and it’s not as formal and intimidating as a counselor’s office, yet it still works as a place to talk.

Davida caught sight of me and greeted me with a big grin on her face, shifting her cigar to between her fingers. “Good morning, Elliot.” Crossing my arms, I leaned against the doorjamb. “Good morning. What’s the occasion?” She slung her arm around Raymond’s shoulders. “Ray and I are daddies now.” “I—” I had no answer for that, and I was fairly certain I didn’t want clarification. “Well, all right. Congratulations. Have you seen Catherine?” Raymond’s eyes bugged. “Uh…” Davida took over. “Elliot, what do you think we’re celebrating?” She let go of Raymond and walked over to me. Slipping another pink cigar from the breast pocket of her blazer, she held it out to me. “Here you go. It’s only made of gum since you won’t allow us to smoke in your building.” I hesitated, taking it from her. “Why are you giving me this?

cheers from the crowd when I said yes. And then my fiancé was off for cigars and bourbon with our fathers and others in the same social sphere to celebrate the uniting of our families. It wasn’t as if I were forgotten. No, I now had an important role. I was immediately surrounded by our mothers and all the ladies in Chicago’s high society who could welcome me into the married world of Chicago’s finest.

If we look at Buddhism and other pantheistic religions, we see that they celebrate sterility, fasting, celibacy, virginity, and other anorexic, world-rejecting practices. The same was true of the religions of the Mediterranean at the time Christianity was born. It is not surprising that such world-rejecting counterfeit spiritualities infected the Church. The Reformation wisely and rightly returned to the world-affirming, earthy, joyous, musical-instrument-worship, wine-drinking, cigar-smoking, pro-marital worldview of the Hebrew Scriptures. The Reformation was profoundly correct; Rome and Orthodoxy are profoundly wrong. (I mentioned fasting. In the Bible, the goal of fasting is to break the fast when the Bridegroom arrives, just as the purpose of virginity is to get rid of it with the bridegroom. In anorexic religions, fasting and virginity are prized statically for their own sakes.)