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Joshua Stephens | Apr 26

The Slow Burn: Stay In It

At PCA, surrounded by some of the biggest names in cigars, I expected the moments I’d remember most to be the ones I captured. Turns out, it was the ones I didn’t. This is about building something real, staying present, and learning when to put the camera down and just live in it.

The other day, a buddy sent me a video about art by McKay Williamson.


It referenced a scene from The Secret Life of Walter Mitty…you’ve probably seen it.


Sean Penn is tracking a snow leopard. The kind of once-in-a-lifetime moment photographers live for. The animal finally steps into frame…perfectly….and instead of taking the shot…he doesn’t. Ben Stiller asks him, “When are you gonna take it?” and he responds, “Sometimes I don’t. If I like a moment… I mean me, personally… I don’t like to have the distraction of the camera. I just want to stay… in it.”


Man…that stuck with me.


Last week, we wrapped our first trip to PCA….the Premium Cigar Association’s yearly Trade Show. If you’re in this world, you know what it is. It’s the Super Bowl.


The who’s who of cigar royalty, new product drops, industry direction, legislation, hospitality…everything from seed to ash. And this year, we weren’t just attending…we were there as media.


We met legends. John Huber, Steve Saka, Brandon Marsh, Scott Haugh, Nimmer Ahmad and more. We chopped it up with my guy James Brown and his incredible wife Angela. Matt Booth and I shared another one of those “IYKYK” moments. Kaitlyn met a queen, Karen Berger! We spent late nights in circles with Casa Carrillo, Kristoff, and Oscar Valladares.


Even got some time with the HDA guys…cool dudes.


At one point, Guy Fieri, Mr. Flavor Town himself, was within five feet.


And yeah, there were moments where I thought, hold up…lemme get a picture.


Luckily, Justin Hunter handled a lot of that for us. But the moments that stayed with me weren’t the ones I tried to capture…they were the ones where I was fully present.


It hit me heaviest on day two: our feet were wrecked. We had walked over six miles in boots, delivered the pitch more times than I could count, and earned every conversation inch by inch. We got back to the hotel room, turned the lights off, and collapsed. Kaitlyn usually falls asleep before I even get comfortable, but this time she didn’t:


Baby?” she inquired.

“Yeah?”

“Can this actually be our life?”

“It already is.” I said.

“No, I mean… I see the path. We can do this, can’t we?”

“We already are.”

“We’re going to have to sell a lot of cigars…” she said as she rolled over.

“I know.”


Then silence. A few moments later, a soft snore.


Lying there, completely worn out, staring into nothing, I thought to myself…this is our life. And it’s beautiful. That conversation is more vivid than any picture I could’ve taken. I wasn’t thinking about content, next steps, or sales funnels. I was just…in the moment.


The next two days were a blur, but certain moments still hit. When Nick from Foundation said, “Yo, you’re the Brolo guy,” I hit him with, “Look… it me!” and kept it moving. No picture, no interruption…he was mid-conversation, and it looked important. But internally, I was losing my mind. Same thing when something similar happened with Huber. It wasn’t loud or flashy…it was a quiet confirmation. Like…we might actually be onto something here.


When I first started dreaming about Brolo, I had a pretty clear vision. I wanted it to be technologically forward, but feel analog. Late ’70s energy…not campy, just cool.


Vintage garage cool. Snip toes and straight cuts. Patina over polish. No velvet ropes. A seat at the table for anyone who wanted one.


And somehow, that’s exactly what this has become.


Our community has grown to over 600+ people, and we’re just getting started. We began hosting weekly virtual herfs because I kept noticing something at lounges….guys would come in, buy a cigar, and leave. And I’d always wonder…who are they? What’s their story? Are they doing well? Are they struggling? Do they feel like they belong anywhere?


What we found is that a lot of people don’t have the time or the place to connect. So we built one. A table. And we invited everyone to it.


Now we learn together, laugh together…hell, sometimes we cry together. People have lost loved ones, lost jobs, made major life decisions…and they didn’t have to do it alone. All because someone showed up. All because we made space.


What most people probably don’t realize is that this is more than cigars. It’s ministry; It’s mental health; It’s social equity…people linking arms and choosing to be present for each other. Yeah, we’re a brand. Yeah, we want to build something great. And yeah, we’ve made like $700 in hat sales 😂. But this is bigger than that.


It’s a lifestyle.


It’s choosing to lean in when life gets hard. It’s letting your inner light cut through dark moments. And through the lens of cigars, we get to Light Up & Lean In. (And yeah…about 60% of the time we’re just roasting each other…but that’s what brothers do.)


The truth is, I don’t want to miss this stage. The small stage. The intimate stage.


Because one day, years from now, we’ll look back and say, man…that was sweet. So we’re fighting to keep it that way.


That’s why we created multiple rooms in the herfs…not for exclusivity, but for inclusivity. Because nothing would bother us more than someone showing up…and not being seen.


There were a lot of moments at PCA worth capturing. But the ones that mattered most? I didn’t capture.


Because like that snow leopard…some moments aren’t meant to be documented.


They’re meant to be lived.


Light Up & Lean In


Light Up & Lean In,

Joshua Stephens

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Born in 1983, I grew up during a strange and wonderful time to be alive.


I remember summer mornings when parents encouraged you to leave the house and didn't expect to see you again until the streetlights came on. Nobody had Ring cameras. Nobody was posting

neighborhood warnings on Facebook. We weren't worried about the "big bad wolf" down the street. We had one family phone hanging on the kitchen wall...unless your parents were absolute ballers and paid for a second phone line.


Weekends were spent at sleepovers. We'd roam the aisles of Family Video or Blockbuster looking for the perfect movie. If we got lucky, we'd stop by Little Caesars next door and grab a Bigfoot Pizza before heading back to somebody's house.


Late nights meant MTV, TRL, Beavis and Butt-Head, and Twisted Metal tournaments that felt like they carried the weight of the world. Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness played through cheap speakers while we argued over who cheated and who got robbed.


Then, seemingly overnight, everything changed.


Dial-up.

24k modems.

The internet exploded.


Half my childhood happened before the online world. The other half happened after it arrived. The soundtrack of my life changed from guitars and arcade machines to the sound of AOL connecting.

You know the one.


Suddenly there were chatrooms. Screen names. Endless possibilities. Every conversation started with the same question: A/S/L?


As a tweenager, I found myself staring into a world I wasn't quite ready for.

I came from humble beginnings.


My Grandpa T-Mack…better known as "Smokey" Stephens…passed away around the time I was born. My birth father was never in the picture. My birth mother was just a kid herself, carrying a responsibility no fifteen-year-old should have to carry alone.


I spent time in foster care and bounced between homes before eventually landing with my grandmother, Joyce.

Joyce was a firecracker.


She worked at the county courthouse, where she met my grandfather. But by the time I came along, life had taken its toll. COPD. Asthma. Brain aneurysms. Most of my memories of her involve oxygen tubing and a wheelchair.


But none of that stopped her.

When she gained custody of me, she and her husband Bobby owned a little honky-tonk in East Dallas called The Junkyard Club.


To a kid, it was magic.


The place wasn't fancy. About 2,500 square feet. A full-service bar and kitchen. Cheeseburgers and fries served in hubcaps. Pool tables. Shuffleboard. An Elvira pinball machine. A Galaga cabinet tucked in the corner. Live music every Friday and Saturday night.


Grandma would bring me to the club after school while she worked the books.

I'd spend hours wearing out my wrists on Galaga while the cook fed me an endless supply of grilled cheese sandwiches. Every plate came with maraschino cherries.


The regulars all knew me.


One afternoon, an older gentleman dared me to eat a handful of jalapeños. Since Grandma didn't raise a quitter, I accepted the challenge. A few seconds later, I was sprinting through the bar screaming while tears rolled down my face. The regulars laughed. Grandma never looked up from her paperwork.


But the coolest thing in the entire place wasn't the arcade games. It was the school bus. After getting past security, you'd walk inside and immediately see it sitting on the right side of the club. A full-sized yellow school bus.


Somehow it had been disassembled, moved inside, and put back together as the centerpiece of the bar. Inside were booths and tables. But at the very front, beside the driver's seat, was The Table.


You could look out over the entire room from there.


It wasn't elevated much, but it felt like it was. To a kid, it looked important. It felt important. Like some kind of white-trash luxury suite. A little reserved sign sat on the table.


But here's what I eventually learned:

It wasn't reserved for the people with the biggest wallets.

It wasn't reserved for the loudest people.

It wasn't reserved for the owners.

It belonged to the regulars.

The people who knew everyone by name.

The ones who threw twenty dollars into the jukebox and played Creedence Clearwater Revival until everyone else was sick of hearing it.

The ones who showed up.


Again.

And again.

And again.


They had earned a seat at the table simply because they were part of the story.

Early in the evenin', just about supper time...

Down on the corner, out in the street...

Willy and the Poor Boys are playin'...


That was our place.


A place to know people and be known by them. As a kid, I didn't have the words for it. I just knew it felt different.


The smell of cigarette smoke hanging in the air.

The beer-soaked bar mats.

The sound of live music echoing through the room.

The laughter.

The conversations.

The feeling of belonging.

I felt connected.


When my grandfather died from cancer, Grandma sold the club. Eventually the building became something else. These days it's called The Lone Star Cafe. It's still there.


Back before I got sober, I'd stop by every December 21st…Joyce's birthday. I'd order her favorite drink. A margarita. No mix. Just tequila, fresh lime juice, a salted rim, and a lime wedge. Then I'd feed a few dollars into the jukebox and play CCR.


The school bus is long gone now. But when I close my eyes, I can still see it.


The band is playing. People are laughing. Someone just beat my high score on Galaga. Another guy is staring at Elvira. Pool sharks are running the tables. Sherry the bartender slides me another cup of maraschino cherries.


For a moment, life is exactly as it should be.


That's what Back Booth is about.


Back Booth is our boldest core cigar. A 5x50 Robusto wrapped in Mexican San Andrés. Medium-plus in strength. Full of character. Rich, dark, and unapologetic. My friend Austin described it as tasting like the best barbecue bark he'd ever had. Granted, he's from New York, so we'll take that review with a grain of salt.


But he wasn't wrong.


Because barbecue and cigars have a lot in common. Neither can be rushed. The best briskets aren't built in minutes. The best friendships aren't either. Both require time, patience, smoke, and a willingness to stay put longer than everyone else.


That's what the Back Booth represents.

Not exclusivity.

Not VIP status.

Not some velvet-rope version of cigar culture.

It's a seat that's available to everyone.

But it takes time to appreciate why it's special.

It's for the people who understand that the best conversations happen after everyone else has gone home.

The ones who know that community isn't built overnight.

The ones who keep showing up.

Again.

And again.

And again.

So pull up a chair.

Look out over the driver's seat.

Watch the crowd.

Catch the glow of the neon signs.

Listen as some up-and-coming band works their tail off trying to move the room.

Then take a look at the person sitting across from you.

Because moments like those don't last forever.

And that's exactly what makes them worth savoring.

So Light Up & Lean In.

Enjoy the moment because the "good 'ole days," well…you don't know you are in them until they are gone.

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