The Slow Burn: The Art in the Ashes

So… you want to turn your hobby into “art?” Somehow bottle all the lightning that drew you to it in the first place and create a passion project? Take decades of experience on the sidelines and finally… get in the game?

Unlike Uncle Rico, I haven’t spent time wondering if “Coach woulda put me in fourth quarter, we would’ve been state champions. No doubt.”

No, I mused. I enjoyed. I beheld. I stood in awe of what cigars do for connection.

How do cigars connect people of all backgrounds, socioeconomic statuses, genders, or occupations? How does aged and fermented, rolled-up, dead tobacco leaves make people come alive?

Is it the camaraderie?
A shared focus?
Time spent with one another?
A deep, introspective, philosophical discussion?
The luxury of time and intention?

Surely it’s all of that…but also something more.

Because cigars became a bridge for me.

My childhood wasn’t picture-perfect. I had a kickass grandma and some crazy uncles who tried their best. They took me camping, gave me glimpses of joy, and I’m forever grateful. But the house was lonely, my grandma’s health kept her from walking like everyone else, and I was left with too much rebellion and too much energy to sit still.

I searched for connection in sports, in music, in church, even in the rooms of anonymous programs. After getting kicked out of a church and told not to ever return, I thought maybe that was it for me. But by God’s grace, and through the community of the leaf, I found belonging again.

Cigars became more than smoke; they were communion.

And yet, it can’t stop there.

“Okay Joshua, we get it. Cigars provided an outlet. But that’s pretty ethereal too. How do you put legs on how cigars become a place of connection?”

Let’s talk about the craft.

A great cigar affords conversation, which leads to community. And a really great cigar is designed to accomplish this on purpose. Premium brands consider everything: color palettes, surface treatments, typography, finishing effects, hinges, hardware, and interior design. Layer on top Grade A tobacco in the hands of a master blender who believes in your vision, and you’ve got something worth sharing.

But getting there? It’s no small thing. You need a factory. You need time for blends to come alive. Lawyers for trademarks. Designers for labels and boxes. Permits for distribution. And then, if you’re lucky enough to make it that far, you still have to sell.

That’s where Brolo comes in.

BroLo (Brotherly Love) is rooted in story, but not just mine. The real stories are the ones shared when smoking a Brolo…over coffee, at a car show, out on a patio, or tucked away in the back booth of a dimly lit lounge.

It’s a brand for people who appreciate fine craftsmanship…not just in the leaf, but in every detail. From the branding to the blending to the burn, Brolo is intentional. Luxury without pretense. Complex and sophisticated, but made for the real ones….the brothers and sisters of the leaf who light up to connect, reflect, and belong.

That’s not just art. That’s Brolo.

The Slow Burn: What I Learned the First Time I Visited Nicaragua

The road in Nicaragua is a holy place. Not polished, not pristine, holy because it’s alive. It’s where barbecue smoke mixes with the diesel of buses, where families pull out lawn chairs at dusk and post up roadside (yes, on the highway) to eat, drink, and be merry. The road is a drying rack for peppers and cacao, a cattle path, a marketplace, a gathering place. It’s life happening in the open.

Driving there is like playing a game I call “Is this a road?” Potholes aren’t just potholes, they’re axle-snapping craters that could swallow a sedan. Luckily, Waze has been baptized by the locals, complete with alerts for “potholes” (Grand Canyon size), police, and “sketchy bridges.” Dirt paths masquerade as highways, but the road is the spine of the country, with communities branching out like veins, each one with its own vibe.

It's worth noting, the national speed limit is 50 km/h (31 mph) for cars, trucks, and SUVs, and 40 km/h (25 mph) for motorcycles. Looking at a map, you’d have zero clue how far things are from one another that appear so close. God forbid, you get stuck behind an 18-wheeler. With “No Adelantar” posted every few miles, passing them is risking getting stopped by the policia…which also seem to be posted up every few miles.

Heading south to San Juan Del Sur, the landscape reminded me of backwoods Arkansas….beautiful, but scarred with trash and rusting cars. SJDS is a laid back, pure surf town. North toward Estelí, it’s another story: rolling green hills, volcanoes, and a sense of adventure that makes you want to disappear into it.. Granada carries scars of the revolution; colonial buildings pockmarked with bullet holes and a kind of desperation in the air, especially in low season. Estelí, though? Alive. Streets jammed with vendors, kids calling me “puta” (I fired back with my best Spanish roast and had them rolling in laughter). It was gritty, real, unforgettable.

And then there were the factories.

This is where I learned how little most consumers really know, or care, about how cigars are made. Behind the romance, there are shortcuts. Some factories “cook” leaves in pizza ovens to rush the process, others dye wrappers for better shelf appeal, or front-load the first third of a cigar with the best leaf so casual smokers think it’s “quality.” Many spray mineral oil on the tobacco to produce a “blue” tinted smoke. The color of the smoke we’ve come to love, may be anything but natural. Meanwhile, some of the brands you and I love? They’re paying their employees pennies while charging premiums for their brands.

It hit me hardest when I posted a pic on Reddit of puros I was smoking…real puros, meaning made from a single part of the plant in a specific region. Ligero from Estelí. Seco from Jalapa. True single-origin tobacco. Most people thought I was wasting money or didn’t know what I was talking about. Armchair quarterbacks, missing the point. Consumers don’t always want nuance, they want confirmation of what they already believe.

So what does that mean for Brolo?

It means I don’t play for the armchairs. I play for the brothers and sisters around the table. For the people who light up not just to taste, but to connect. For the ones who understand that cigars are more than smoke, they’re story, craft, communion.

My first time in Nicaragua taught me that the road is alive, the people are resilient, and the industry is messy. And maybe that’s the beauty of it. Like a good cigar, it’s not meant to be perfect….it’s meant to be honest.

No shortcuts.

No clout chasing.

No coattails.

Just good, old fashioned, well aged, premium hand rolled, Grade A tobacco.

Brolo is for authentic conversations. Brolo is for the early mornings and late nights. Brolo is an honest reprieve in a world focused on the “fastlane.”

So Light Up & Lean In. Smoke one by yourself or with a friend. Either way, savor the moment and the journey that brought you to it.

The Slow Burn: Living to Light Up.

I was chopping it up over cigars with my friend, Micah Edwards (aka Mr. Texas Soul), when he dropped something simple but profound: “Ya just gotta live your life, man.”

As a former professional drummer, that hit me square in the chest. Too often, creatives sit around waiting for lightning to strike. Inspiration doesn’t always come like that. Sometimes it takes hundreds of bad songs to stumble into a good one. Sometimes it’s scraps and riffs pieced together into something raw and honest. Sometimes it’s a melody you can’t shake until it consumes you.

But at the root, what Micah said rings true. You can’t pull depth out of thin air. You have to live. You have to celebrate wins, mourn losses, wrestle with injustice, embrace joy, face grief. You have to stack chapters…good, bad, messy, glorious, to tell a story worth reading.

And isn’t that what cigars are? The stories they hold and the stories they spark.

By the time you’re reading this, I’ll be in Nicaragua. Most likely drinking strong coffee, cigar in hand, staring at the Pacific in San Juan Del Sur, prepping notes for Estelí. Soon, I’ll be sitting across from master blenders, smoking the first cigars that might one day carry the Brolo name. Running numbers in my head about foil and embossing, cut dies and packaging costs. Asking myself the same question over and over: will consumers care about this story?

I’m 41 years old, and I’ve done some L-I-V-I-N. This chapter feels exciting, but I know it won’t always stay this way. There are countless hurdles between here and the day someone lights up a Porchlight, Church, or Back Booth. It’ll be a while before Halfwheel reviews a Brolo blend, or Tim at Cigars Daily raves about the brand.

But when that day comes….these are the cigars I want you to reach for when your kid graduates, when you land that job you’ve been chasing, when you reconnect with an old friend. The stick you light after a long week or the one you share after a steak dinner that makes you feel like a king.

Because to be worthy of a good story, you have to have great chapters. And Brolo? Brolo was made for the moments that write them.

Light Up & Lean In.

The Slow Burn: In the Ashes of Doubt

I had a dream.

I was swimming somewhere deep in the Amazon, jungle air thick, water brown, canopy overhead swallowing all but a ribbon of light. A small wooden dinghy drifted at the bank, but I leapt into the river. The current wasn’t fierce; it carried me just enough to feel alive, like adventure itself was flowing through my veins.

Then I saw it.

A snake…long, dark, and deliberate, tracked me along the shoreline. Its tongue flicked, its eyes locked mine, daring me to look away. When it finally launched into the water, it wasn’t just a creature, it was a challenge. A mirror of fear, an embodiment of the things we’d rather avoid. I searched for a stick, anything to defend myself. Nothing. The serpent surged closer, fangs bared. One foot from my face…

I woke up.

Startled. Heart racing. Safe in bed. But the dream lingered.

Like a Culebra twisted tight, life knots itself around us: fear, temptation, brokenness, hidden things. Sometimes the current feels calm, and sometimes it carries serpents our way. The choice is never whether danger exists; it’s how we face it.

For me, the dream wasn’t about the jungle or the snake. It was about being willing to stare straight into the eyes of what hunts me and admit…I can’t do this on my own. That’s when you realize faith isn’t a dinghy on the bank, it’s the lifeline pulling you out of the water.

Now, I’m not usually one to lean into dream interpretation, but I did what most of us do…I Googled it. Turns out, staring down a snake means I’m staring down my fears. Facing challenges head-on. So I had to ask myself: What am I afraid of?

Brolo isn’t just an idea. It’s love poured into every groove, every ember, every connection. It’s immersive and analog, a throwback to when life slowed down and people lingered. But here I am, in uncharted waters, swimming toward purpose, and suddenly, there’s a challenger. Something that doesn’t want me to succeed. Not a clean, quick strike either, but a venom that seeps slow: draining belief, bleeding hope, suffocating vision.

Failure wouldn’t just be fangs in my cheek…it’d be the slow death of watching people see me fall short. But I’m not wired to quit. Fear is only perception. And perception, like smoke, can vanish in the wind.

Some call it a premonition. I call it opposition.

Because I’ve felt the enemy’s embrace. Fear disguised as comfort. Lies disguised as limits. The kind that pigeonholes men who forget they were created to be conquerors. But through Christ, I have a birthright. My place isn’t earned by hustle or grit…it’s anchored in the unearned grace of God.

Enemies don’t attack what they don’t see as a threat.

So here I stand. Living on a prayer, yes, but also living on conviction. Brolo isn’t just cigars. It’s guerrilla warfare. Spiritual combat in a velvet glove. A spark in the dark. A fire on the porch. A brotherhood that refuses to bow to fear.

Send the snakes. I will not back down. The anointing is upon me. Through cigars, I preach the good news: that connection heals, conversation restores, and community ignites.

Next week, I’ll be in Nicaragua, sitting at the tables, smoking blends for Brolo. And the questions keep circling in my head. What if they suck? What if they connect? What if I fail?

But the truth is…the journey matters more than the destination. Every leaf, every draw, every handshake is part of something bigger than a single cigar. Who knows who I’ll meet along the way? Each one carrying their own story, their own struggles. And deep down, whether they’d ever admit it or not, every one of us is in need of a Savior.

My role isn’t to control the outcome; it’s to carry the mantle. To pursue excellence in the craft, to steward this brand and this brotherhood with integrity, and to trust that what’s meant to be will fall into place.

Because maybe Brolo isn’t about finding the “perfect blend.” Maybe it’s about finding connection in the imperfections, the conversations that light up around the table, the people drawn together by smoke and story.

The Slow Burn:Twists, Turns, and the Culebra Connection

There’s something about catching up with an old friend that feels a little like lighting a cigar you haven’t smoked in years…you remember why you loved it, but you also notice the new notes that only time could bring.

This friend’s world had recently been flipped upside down with some heavy medical news about his wife. The situation was still fresh, with more questions than answers. He and his family are like family to us. We met at church, bonded over life’s ups and downs, vacationed together, worked together, prayed for one another. Our lives are intertwined like a Culebra cigar.

If you’ve never seen one, the Culebra is a beautiful piece of cigar history. Back in the day, rollers were only allowed to take one cigar home per day. But one clever soul twisted three cigars together like a rope and called it one. “Culebra” means “serpent” in Spanish, and it’s as eye-catching as it is unique. To smoke one, you unwrap the ribbon, separate the three sticks, and enjoy each one individually….just as you should take life’s tangled moments apart and address them one at a time.

That was my plan, to help “lay the spaghetti out straight” for my buddy. We were going to work through the emotional, spiritual, and mental knots, see where the loose ends were, and find some strength in the middle of the mess. There’s a rhythm to these moments…finding the right stick, cutting, lighting, letting the smoke curl upward as you settle in. It’s not just about the cigar; it’s about preparing the space for whatever the conversation needs to be.

I arrived early at a cigar lounge I’d never really settled into before. The humidor had a solid mix: heritage staples, a few boutique surprises, some house blends for the budget-conscious. I circled it a few times before my eyes landed on something I’d only ever read about….a La Flor Dominicana Andalusian Bull. In the wild. Finally.

Ecuadoran Corojo wrapper. Known for its mix of spices, leather, and a touch of sweetness. Cigar Aficionado’s #1 Cigar of the Year. It’s the kind of stick that, for many, is a bucket-list burn. I grabbed it for $23 and paired it with a $6 Charter Oak Habano for later.

I settled into a corner with a perfect view of the room. Ten or so gentlemen sat in the middle, and before my first puff, I caught an earful of their conversation.

"Look, I don't talk sh!t about people, BUT…"

And there it was, the “BUT” that always means someone’s about to let it fly. What followed was a pile-on of negativity about a brand and its local rep. Not constructive criticism. Not even an honest recounting of experience. Just trash talk. And leading the charge? The owner of the lounge.

The first third of the Bull? Meh. Overhyped. But the second third finally opened up, more depth, more complexity. Still, it wasn’t enough to salvage the experience. The combination of a mid-tier smoke, a conversation dripping in gossip, and the weight of what I was about to walk into with my friend left me knowing I’d never come back to that lounge. Or smoke another Bull.

Because a cigar lounge should be a retreat. A refuge for camaraderie and brotherhood. This one? It was a den of deceit. If you can speak that openly, that venomously, about someone behind their back without shame…count me out. That’s the antithesis of Brolo.

When my friend arrived, the cigar became background noise. We talked about his wife, his kids, his faith, and his fears. We unwound the tight coils of uncertainty, the knotted anxieties, the what-ifs and how-longs. We took the Culebra of his life and straightened it…one conversation, one prayer, one moment at a time.

And that’s the thing. Cigars, like life, are better when shared with people who care about you, who lift you up instead of tearing others down. The leaf itself is just a plant….it’s the people who make it meaningful. And in that corner of a bad lounge, with an overrated cigar in hand (IMO), I was reminded why I started Brolo in the first place:

Not for hype.
Not for status.
Not for exclusivity.

For connection.

P.S. I told my buddy about my recent bull experience, not the sh!t, the Andalusian. He encouraged me to let it age…that it’s the perfect stick after it’s been well kept. Maybe I’ll give it some time and revisit the cigar and that lounge. After all, first impressions don’t always reveal an accurate depiction.

The Slow Burn: Testimony, Tension, and Tapping Out

It was June of 2017 when I decided to get “clean.”

In Narcotics Anonymous, there’s a key distinction, one that hit home for me: “Alcohol is a drug.” That statement wasn’t just semantics; it was structure. Guardrails. A line in the sand that helped keep me grounded. Everyone’s recovery looks different, and for me, removing alcohol was part of the formula. When I drank, the brakes came off, and the chance of me “scoring” skyrocketed.

So I surrendered. Humbled myself. Sat in the back of a recovery room, heart pounding, and admitted I was powerless.

Now, I already had a God of my understanding…but let’s be honest: my life didn’t exactly reflect the bumper sticker. I was playing the role, telling half-truths (which, let’s be real, are just lies in costume), and trying to polish my image while hiding the rot underneath. People-pleasing was my cardio. I cared more about what people thought of me than what God said about me, and most of the time, folks weren’t thinking about me at all.

But on July 5, 2015, I met Jesus. Not in the performative, fire-tunnel, revival-tent sort of way I grew up with…but for real. If we rewind the tape, you’ll see a kid caught between a charismatic church and a chaotic childhood. There were a lot of feelings in those pews, but not a lot of theology. And feelings? Feelings can be a liar if they aren’t tethered to truth.

My best friend’s dad was a preacher, so I logged more hours in youth camps and conferences than I can count. I think the leaders were well-intentioned, but we lacked spiritual discipline. And if your theology’s off, your whole worldview bends with it.

When my foundation cracked, I drifted.

I was a musician, an altar boy with a set of drumsticks, and I believe now that’s how God kept me close during those early storms. I’d been in the system: CPS, foster homes, bouncing around until my grandma got custody. She was my anchor, even if her body was failing her. Hooked up to oxygen machines, fighting COPD, and barely present, she still did her best to love me.

But I was performative. I learned to shine for approval. Play the part. Entertain the crowd. And somewhere along the way, I lost who I really was.

Fast-forward twenty years and I became the one thing I swore I’d never be: a drug addict.

“Cocaine is a hell of a drug,” sure sounds catchy until you’re sweating in a parking lot waiting on a plug that may never show. That lifestyle is slow death disguised as fast living.

Then, out of nowhere, a friend invited me to church.

I didn’t know it then, but God was lighting a flame. I went. Did some bumps in the bathroom mid-service. But something stirred. When my wife asked if I wanted to come back, I said yes without hesitation.

The second time I showed up, God did what I couldn’t do.

It wasn’t the stained glass or the steeple. It wasn’t an emotional high. It was communion. Not bread and wine, but the deep, sacred kind that connects a broken sinner to a holy Savior. I heard the call to follow Jesus. And for the first time in my life, I saw Him not just as a historical figure or a cosmic genie…but as King. As Brother. As Savior.

And still, it got worse before it got better.

Once my eyes opened, I saw my sin. I felt the weight. But I still tried to fix it myself….through works, volunteering, performance, leadership. None of it bridged the gap. I was still trying to earn what had already been given freely.

It took nearly two years before I finally tapped out of my way of living.

Relapse is part of my story. But redemption is too.

And by God’s grace, I haven’t touched that “booger sugar” in almost a decade.

P.S.

At Brolo, we’re not here to impress the suits. We’re here for the real ones. The broken. The rebuilding. The searching. Whether on a porch with a $5 stick or in the back of a smoky lounge with a $20+ blend, if you’re lighting up to lean in, you’re one of us.

Because healing happens slowly…one puff, one prayer, one honest conversation at a time.

This is The Slow Burn.

The Slow Burn: When the Music Changed

June 1, 1999. Napster hits the internet like a lightning strike, and the whole world starts humming a different tune.

CDs that once cost nearly twenty bucks, the sacred albums we used to dig for under fluorescent lights at Tower Records, could now be downloaded with a few keystrokes… for free. No more browsing aisles. No more liner notes. No more cracking open a fresh jewel case on the ride home. Just instant gratification in 128kbps.

We didn’t know it at the time, but something precious got left behind in the rubble.

Napster didn’t just disrupt an industry, it lit a fuse that would slowly burn through the soul of music itself. Suddenly, albums, once crafted like novels, with intention, story arcs, and side B surprises, were chopped up and sold one song at a time. The tracklist became a menu. The deep cuts became afterthoughts.

The artistry got fast-tracked.

The experience got trimmed down.

The magic got lost in the margins.

See, for most of history, musicians weren’t marketers. They weren’t CEOs. They were rebels, poets, wandering prophets with six strings and a dream. They didn’t chase “hits,” they chased truth. And when truth sounded like a guttural scream or a whispered confession, they put it to tape anyway.

That authenticity? That refusal to sell out? It meant something.

Even if it didn’t pay.

What Napster ushered in, and what streaming cemented, wasn’t just convenience. It was commodification. Artists were no longer seen as sacred voices; they were shuffled into playlists by AI. Vibes replaced verses. Clicks replaced commitment. And we, the listeners, stopped sitting with the full body of work.

We lost the ritual. We lost the patience.

But not all of us.

Some of us still value the album, the whole ride, not just the chorus. Some of us still listen front to back. Some of us still light up a cigar, drop the needle, and let the record spin.

Some of us still believe in the slow burn.

Craftsmanship has taken a beating in this on-demand world.

What once took a lifetime to master, years of patience, repetition, heartbreak, obsession, can now be digitally spit out, dressed up, and shipped in 48 hours. Autotuned. Pitch corrected. Time stretched. And worst of all… sanitized.

Back in the day, you had to bleed for it.

When artists recorded to tape, there was no Command-Z. You couldn’t fix it in post. Tape was expensive, and editing it required a razor blade, steady hands, and serious skill. That meant you had to nail the take. No smoke. No mirrors. Just grit and groove.

Today, any SoundCloud hero with a cracked DAW and a decent TikTok strategy can chart overnight.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I love a good hook. Give me something catchy, well-written, and I’m in. But there’s a difference between pop done well and pop pushed. One is art. The other is algorithm.

Take Fleetwood Mac, one of my all-time favorites. They didn’t just show up and start topping charts. That band weathered storms. Real ones. They toured like mad, worked out their sound in front of live audiences, and cut their teeth night after night. Their music wasn’t composed by committee or generated by trend data. It came from feeling. From failure. From betrayal, bankruptcy, and beautiful chaos.

You can’t copy and paste that kind of soul.

You can’t AI your way into Rumours.

I know a guy, more of an acquaintance really, who’s got a cigar brand. The whole thing feels like a side hustle for his passport. It’s got a goofy name, no sense of direction, and zero staying power. Sure, the cigars aren’t bad, but they’re empty. They’re unearned. Like a synth track made with loops and no lyrics…it might play, but it doesn’t stay.

Then there’s another cat. Slick branding, cool vibe, some early hype. But when you light one up? Meh. No depth. No distinction. No damn story. It’s a mixtape made of the same three chords you’ve heard a hundred times…different cover, same tune.

It’s not personal. But it is the truth.

Those brands, like so many SoundCloud sensations, haven’t done the work. They haven’t put in the reps. They haven’t bombed in front of half-empty lounges. They haven’t rebuilt after rejection. They haven’t lived in the valleys long enough to appreciate the peaks.

See, that’s what separates craftsmanship from clout-chasing.

Craft is earned.

Not bought. Not boosted.

It’s forged in fire. Just like a great blend…pressure, patience, and time.

And Brolo? Brolo is for the ones who feel that. Who know the beauty of a perfectly imperfect take. Who crave story, not just smoke.

We’re not trying to be the flavor of the week.

We’re trying to be the soundtrack to your slow burn.

The Slow Burn: Luxury Ain’t What You Think

A luxury brand is typically defined by the presence of premium materials, impeccable craftsmanship, a clear brand identity, and often, exclusivity. It’s not just about the price tag. It’s about intention.

Now, in my last post, I took a flamethrower to the tired idea that cigars have to be exclusive to be respected. That velvet-rope mentality? Not my vibe. But let me be clear…Brolo Cigars is a premium, small-batch luxury brand. Not because it’s hard to get. But because it’s hard to make right.

See, Brolo wasn’t built to exclude. It was built to endure.

One of my buddies recently hit me with, “But aren’t all cigars considered luxury?” I stared back with the kind of face you’d make after getting slapped in the mouth with the smell of boiled cabbage. “Absolutely not,” I replied.

And he’s not alone, many folks outside the leaf don’t know the difference.

So let’s clear the air.

Non-premium cigars often use chopped, short filler tobacco (aka the leftovers), can be machine-made, and tend to burn fast and flat…think dry, harsh, often chemically treated. They’re mass-produced for convenience, not craft.

Premium cigars, on the other hand, are made entirely by hand, using long-leaf filler tobacco that's been aged, fermented, and blended with care. They burn slow, draw smooth, and offer complexity; flavor that evolves. They require more time, more patience, more people. It’s said that over 300 pairs of hands touch a cigar before it reaches your humidor. That’s not a marketing line. That’s legacy.

Now, take that premium baseline, and tighten the batch size, dial in the branding, infuse it with meaning, brotherhood, and nostalgia…and you’ve got Brolo.

Made for everyone. Acquired by few.

We’re not trying to sell you something bougie. We’re offering something rare because it’s built that way. Built slow. Built real. Built with the type of quality you can taste.

And unlike many so-called “luxury” brands in the space, we didn’t throw our name on some bulk bundle and mark it up to slap it on a shelf in a VIP lounge. We did the work. We're doing the work.

“Why do you want to do this?” He asked next.

He meant it sincerely, not combative, just curious. So I gave him the noble answer first. I said I wanted to give back to the culture that’s given so much to me. That cigars have been more than a hobby…they’ve been a sacred rhythm in my life. A grounding ritual. A bridge between strangers. A balm in the middle of battle.

Blank stare.

But that’s the thing….some truths can’t be explained. They can only be experienced.

I could describe, in painstaking detail, what it feels like to watch fireworks cascade across a July sky, embers bursting over the lake, lighting the surface like stained glass, but to someone who’s never seen color, it’s just words.

The same goes for cigars.

To those who’ve never lingered long enough to truly taste a cigar …to feel its slow unraveling, it’s just smoke. But for those of us who know? It’s something deeper. A cigar isn’t just tobacco. It’s storytelling. It’s silence with weight. It’s the long exhale after a long day. It’s your buddy cracking a joke across the flame. It’s time, slowed down. It’s connection without the small talk.

Like campfires in the wild, cigars draw people in, not just for the heat, but for the space they create. A space where status fades, and people show up as they are. Puff by puff, wall by wall, the armor comes off. What’s left is the good stuff. The real stuff. Brotherhood.

And that’s why I built Brolo.

Sure, cigars are a luxury. They require time. Discretionary income. A slower pace of life. I get that. And while I’ll never water down what makes a cigar great, the craftsmanship, the quality, the intentionality…I also believe that luxury doesn’t have to mean elitist.

Brolo is refined luxury, made accessible.

It’s the kind of brand that wears denim, not tuxedos. Think more vintage Chevy than Ferrari. More back porch than rooftop bar. We’re not cutting corners, we’re just cutting through the noise.

This is classic American luxury, in the way Levi’s are luxury. In the way a cast-iron skillet or a leather-worn baseball glove becomes priceless with time. You don’t need a VIP pass to appreciate Brolo. You just need good taste.

We're small-batch, because we care. We're premium, because we believe you can taste the difference. But we're not here to impress. We're here to invite.

To light up, lean in, and lose track of time…together.

The Slow Burn: Suits, Status, and Smoke Rings

The deeper I go into cigar culture, the more I find myself quietly resenting the traditional format.

You know the one, suited-up men swirling whiskey, leather chairs, mood lighting, talking mergers and acquisitions while the smoke curls upward in quiet reverence.
It’s classy, sure. Polished. Iconic, even.
But let’s be real, it’s not the full picture.

Cigars are often marketed as a luxury…an indulgence tied to status, sophistication, and slow living.
And hey, I get it. There’s truth in that.

Premium cigars are handmade. Painstakingly so.
They say it takes 300 people, 600 hands, to create a single cigar before it ever hits your humidor.
Break that down and it checks out:
Growing. Harvesting. Curing. Fermenting. Aging. Sorting. De-veining. Blending. Rolling. Sorting again. Banding. Boxing. Shipping.

The craftsmanship? I’m all in.
The ritual? 100 percent.

But the status signaling? The over-glossed imagery of cigars as some exclusive indulgence for guys who collect watches and “network”?
That part grinds my gears.

Yes, cigars cost money.
Yes, smoking them takes time.
But how we enjoy them?
That’s where I think the cigar industry’s marketing has missed the mark.

You’d think every smoker was out there in a tailored suit with a rocks glass in one hand and a $50 stick in the other.
Sure, I’ve burned a cigar or two in a baller lounge. And yes, sometimes a setting calls for a jacket and a little extra polish.
Weddings. Business events. The occasional fancy evening.
But that’s the exception. Not the rule.

Most of the time?
I'm on the patio.
In the lounge down the street.
Outside at a campground or city park.
Anywhere with fresh air and a little peace where nobody’s giving me the side-eye for lighting up.

I don’t need a three-piece suit and a tumbler of $200 Scotch to feel connected to the moment.
I need a good cigar, a little space, and no rush.

However, that’s exactly what most cigar brand marketing tells me I need to aspire to; a high-society lifestyle just to enjoy a premium stick.

Not to brag, but... I wore a suit damn near every day for years.
And let me tell you, suits and cigars don’t make the man.
A man (or woman) makes the suit.

I’ve presented in Chanel’s boardroom.
I’ve been inside the Nike hangar (shoutout to their jet tail number: N1KE—the ultimate flex).
I’ve sat across from hedge fund moguls and even held a meeting in Lorne Michaels’ office at SNL.

Outside of kicking it with the Clintons, flying PJs to Epstein Island (nah), or smoking with Saudi royalty, I’ve spent time with the exact people most cigar brands plaster all over their ads.

And yeah, sure, it’s cool. But they poop too.

A $50 cigar is out of reach for most people. And for the real ones…the everyday smokers lighting up three or four times a day, it’s just not sustainable.
Sure, maybe some 1%er is puffing on a million-dollar Gurkha in a G5 while floating in an infinity pool.
But let’s be honest: what do they really know about cigars?
Do they love the craft or the exclusivity?
Are they part of the brotherhood of the leaf, or are they just checking off luxury boxes?

It’s easy to poke fun at the absurd. But the truth is…they’re people too. And honestly, I’m glad anyone is enjoying a cigar, whether it’s because they’re hype-beasting for the ’Gram or they’ve genuinely fallen in love with the leaf.

Either way... they’re smoking. And that?
That’s a good thing.

Now let me hop off my high horse for a second.

What I’m really trying to say is this:
Great cigars provide connection.

Sometimes it’s introspection that leads to self-awareness.
Sometimes it’s the camaraderie of shared space that heals like a good therapist.
But it’s not about the suits or the ultra-lounges.
It’s not about velvet ropes or private vaults.
It’s not even about the price tag on the tobacco.

It’s the people.
The people make the leaf what it is.
Left on its own, it’s just a weed. But with the right hands?
It becomes something sacred.

I’m not here to pander to the old guard.
And to be clear, I’m not talking about disrespecting the legends who came before us.
I’m talking about this gatekeeping mentality…this idea that you have to be somebody to enjoy the finer things.
Or worse, that you’re not anyone until you’ve been granted access to their exclusive experience.

Brolo is different.

Brolo is a labor of love, for the everyday guy.
For the weekend warriors, the midnight thinkers, the blue collars, and the brown loafers.
It’s for the ones who know that meaning lives in the quiet, smoky spaces between moments…not behind a velvet rope.

I’ve never fit the mold. I didn’t grow up in cigar lounges wearing tailored suits and sipping bourbon with hedge fund execs.
I grew up in honky tonks under neon lights, with the smell of stale beer, jukebox heartbreak, and stories that ran deeper than the pockets that told them.

Traveling in bands, I saw real America.
Backwoods grit. 6th Street hipsters. Rail yard workers in Edmond, Oklahoma. Sunset strangers outside the Viper Room. The painted desert and the Guadalupe's slow bend.
I’ve played Gruene Hall—the Texas Grand Ole Opry—and walked the steps of Red Rocks with calloused feet and big dreams.

And you know what I found in all those places?

Real people.
Some broke. Some loaded. Some saints. All sinners.
But if they had a cigar in hand, they had a story to tell…and a seat at the table.

I’ve lived a hard life and a privileged one.
Both sides of the coin.
And no matter where I was, or who I was with - outside of my faith - the Brotherhood of the Leaf was always there.

That’s what Brolo Cigars is all about.
Not status. Not exclusivity.
Connection.

It’s about lighting up and leaning in.
Laughing. Crying. Praying. Suffering.
Together.

This isn’t some next wave, cool-kid brand chasing trends.
Brolo is about the old truth in a new voice. It’s about honoring the ones who came before while giving the everyday smoker a place to belong, without needing an invite.

So when you light up a Brolo, you're not just smoking a cigar.
You're joining a fellowship…one slow burn at a time.

The initial blends will be ready to smoke in just a few weeks.
Years of burning, dreaming, journaling, and jamming flavors together…it’s all led to this moment. I’ll keep you posted, just like I always do. But if you want to ride shotgun for the real-time updates, follow along on Instagram: @joshua.am.stephens.

Nicaragua’s calling.
Stay tuned, fam. This slow burn’s just heating up.

The Slow Burn: Blending Ink and Tobacco

So… how do you come up with a blend?

Welp, I imagined it would be a lot like getting a tattoo…
At least getting one the right way.

See, what most people don’t realize about tattoos is that there’s a whole world of styles out there:
Black & grey. Traditional. Neo-traditional. Fineline. Trash-polka.

And here’s the thing: not every artist does every style well.
Sure, they can, but most of the really great ones?
They stick to what they feel.
What resonates with them.
What they love so much, they obsess over it…and it shows in the work.

I didn’t know any of this when I got my first tattoo at 18. All I knew was Tommy Lee had “Mayhem” across his stomach, and I thought:
“F’ yeah. Badass.”
(Shoutout to my inner drummer.)

A few bad tattoos and a little wisdom later, I learned:
You’ve got to do your homework.
Figure out the style you like.
Find the right artist who lives and breathes that style.

And when you do land that appointment, if you’re lucky enough, they don’t want your Pinterest sketch.
They want your idea.
They want guardrails, not blueprints.

If you walk in and ask them to trace something you found online, that’s not art.

That’s a copy machine.
It’s like asking Michelangelo to fill in a paint-by-numbers workbook.

Blending cigars is the same.

Over the years, I’ve smoked across the spectrum:
Factory Smokes. Wedding rolls. 25-year-old Cameroon wrappers full of cedar and cocoa and sourdough earth.
Infused cigars (not usually my thing, but I respect ‘em).
Dog walkers and Churchills.

Each has its place. Each has its fingerprint.

Cigars and tattoos are both crafts.
And just like you start to recognize tattoo styles, who does what, who nails portraits, who lives for traditional lines, you start to pick up on cigar styles, too.

Some brands try to be all things to all people.
But the best ones?
They lean in.
They know what they’re about.
And they double down on it.

When I started digging into my own blends, I didn’t come empty-handed.

I’ve kept a cigar journal for years.
Every stick.
Every note.
Flavor. Draw. Construction. Feel.
You could call it cigar smut at this point.

But it helped.

Because when I started comparing notes, themes started to emerge.
Turns out, I have a type.

Ecuadorian Habano wrappers.
Rich. Spicy. Oily.
Earthy with hits of leather and coffee.
Bold and intense.
A little like me. 😉

I love tobacco that’s sweet, smooth, and finishes fast.
That’s aged tobacco, well-handled, well-loved.

My draw preference?
Not Perdomo-tight, not milkshake-thick.
I want that smooth, open draw that hits like a cloud and burns like it’s got something to say.
That’s the pièce de résistance.

From there, I started Frankensteining ideas together.

But not in a lab-rat way.
More like storytelling in reverse.

I didn’t start with tobacco.
I started with story.
What do I want this cigar to say?

What feeling am I chasing?
What groove?
What does it taste like to sit on your front porch and feel the world slow down?
What does brotherhood and deep connection taste like?
What does it smell like when you light up nostalgia?

Some musicians are trained. Some just feel it.
Some sound like machines. Others groove with soul.

It’s not just talent.
It’s instinct.
Feel.
The difference between knowing the beat and living on the back of it.

I think cigars are the same way.
There’s nuance in the leaves.
And not everyone can feel it.

Thinking and knowing are not the same.

But I’m going to find out.

If all goes to plan, I’ll be smoking some initial blends in the next few weeks.
I chose to work with an artist whose work I admire…
Someone bold. Unique. Complex.

Unorthodox.

Just like Brolo.
Just like me. And hey, if it all goes to shit and this ends up being a pipe dream?
So be it.

I’ll keep grinding. Keep tasting.
Keep writing in my little cigar smut journal until the right door opens.

Because I believe:
The target attracts the arrow.
The teacher appears when the student is ready.

Am I ready?

We’re about to find out.

The Slow Burn: One Moment at a Time (Pt. II)

“$21,000 and a Cigar Brand Dream”

Events can make or break a cigar brand.
Especially when the person holding the mic fails to connect.

I've pitched thousands of people over the years.
Hosted hundreds of events….some unforgettable, others... well, I probably left a few brain cells behind.

But one night still stands out.
Not because of who was there.
Not even because of what I said.

It stands out because of the tab:
$21,000.

Yup.
Twenty-one large.

Thank God it wasn’t my card, it was the company’s.
Corporate AMEX, God rest your credit limit.

The setting?
The Billionaire Boys Club, Midtown Manhattan.

No, not the Pharrell brand.

This was an ultra-lounge sitting quietly above a Ferrari dealership, because, of course, it was. One of those velvet-rope, "invite-only," high-gloss rooms that smells like generational wealth and overpriced cologne.

The mission?
Get in with the gatekeepers.
High-net-worth individuals. Board members. C-suites and their admins.
Not just shake hands, gain influence. Make them trust you. Make them use our solution.

The truth is, our company wasn’t exactly built for this kind of entertainment.
But I was.

Young, fired up, and chasing a challenge, I got handed the keys to a new vertical:
Celebrities.

No roadmap. No playbook. Just a target and a Rolodex that didn’t exist yet.
So I built one.

Within a year, I had cracked the circle. I was working with the ACPA (Association of Celebrity Personal Assistants) and the NYCA (New York Celebrity Assistants).

I connected with Steve Harvey’s assistant. Nate Berkus’s team.
Before I knew it, we had two headline events:

One at the newly opened SLS Hotel in Los Angeles, and another in New York, the night of the infamous $21K tab.

It wasn’t just about flash. It was about making people feel seen.
Even in a room full of status, people crave sincerity.

Some folks say L.A. is fake. I get it. With 243 plastic surgeons in Orange County alone, the stats kinda back it up.

But underneath the filler and flash, there are real people in that city, grinding, dreaming, and trying to make something of themselves in a place where social currency is fame, and the price of admission is exclusivity.

One of those people was Kim, a client of mine who ran operations for the ACPA, the Association of Celebrity Personal Assistants. She was also the handler for a nationally syndicated talk show host, which meant her life was a tightrope walk of managing egos, keeping up appearances, and maintaining absolute discretion.

Over time, we became friends.

I learned she loved to travel and craved new experiences.
But I also learned how lonely it could get.
How people only invited her places to get closer to her boss.
How dating was damn near impossible because she could never be sure if someone wanted her… or access.

By her own admission, she’d grown a little calloused.

Then there was Kelly
.

Kelly was—and still is—a total badass.
You know in the movies when someone says,
“Have your people call my people?”
Kelly is those people.

She’s the high-functioning bosslady behind a nationally recognized interior designer and TV personality.
Her days were packed with international travel itineraries, renovation projects, personal appearances, brand deals… and zero room for screwups.

She didn’t just keep things on track.
She made it look effortless.

I spent months flying between L.A. and New York, meeting with Kim and Kelly, building trust, and eventually co-hosting bi-coastal events that brought the A-listers and their teams together.

And somewhere along the way, I met Patrick.

Patrick worked for a star, the kind with a résumé longer than most people’s lives.
She was a legend of the stage and screen.
A Steel Magnolia.
A Moonstruck matriarch.
The voice in Look Who’s Talking.
And a force in Mr. Holland’s Opus.

She passed in 2021, but left behind a legacy of over 130 stage productions, 60 films, and 50 television series.
Working with her team was like stepping into cinematic history.

Now, a lot of folks get starstruck.
Me? Not really.

Well...
Except for that one time I choked at the urinal next to Steven Tyler.
(We’ve covered that.)

The celebrity assistants thought their bosses were high-touch.
But I was living in a different reality.
A billionaire reality.

They didn’t know that while we were setting up gift bags and lighting votive candles, I was fielding calls from the likes of Sadie Ferguson, Laurene Powell Jobs’s right hand.

Or that at any moment, the RNC (Reince Priebus) or DNC (Debbie Wasserman Schultz) might call with a last-minute ask.
Or that Philip Falcone might demand a car at the East 34th Street Heliport right now to get to the Hamptons by sunset.

Hell, one time Air Force One entered NYC airspace unannounced and rerouted every flight.
Suddenly we had heads of state and hedge fund execs scrambling for ground transportation.
Another time, a volcano erupted, and I spent two days rerouting a Bronfman (yes, that Bronfman) back to U.S. soil.

And yes...
Trump was impossible.
But I still landed the 2014 GOP Convention transportation contract.

Looking back, it’s easy to laugh.
It was wild.
It was chaotic.
And somehow…
It worked.

Not because I was “selling” something flashy.
Not because I knew all the right names to drop.

But because I understood what people really wanted.

Genuine connection.
And a baller service or product to back it up.

That’s it.
That’s the whole play.

And it’s the same thing I’m building with Brolo.

Because no matter who you’re dealing with…celebrity, billionaire, boardroom boss…
People remember how you made them feel.
They remember the experience.
They remember the connection.
They remember the moment.

And the people who remember those moments?
They come back.

It’s not about being the loudest.

It’s about being real.
Present.
Human.


The best brands aren’t built in boardrooms.
They’re built at the bar.
In lounges.
Over stories and smokes.
One moment at a time.

Light Up & Lean In,

The Slow Burn: One Moment at a Time (Pt. I)

“Take my card. No seriously—take my card. I want to work with you.”

That’s what Ricky Rodriguez said to me.

If you’ve spent any time in lounges across the country, or across the world, you’ve probably crossed paths with some characters. I’ve met the quiet types, the know-it-alls, the collectors, the “this one time in Cuba” guys, the purists, the punch-cut diehards.

But Ricky?
Ricky stands out.

He’s got a pedigree that fills a room.
Sure, he has a legacy; his grandparents laid the groundwork. But his reputation? That was earned.

Ricky spent 25 years at General Cigars, the largest premium cigar manufacturer on the planet. (Yes, the same General under Scandinavian Tobacco Group.)

If you’ve ever lit up a CAO OSA, Flathead, or Amazon Basin, you’ve tasted his work. He’s a Master Blender; a craftsman, a showman, and a genuine soul.

So when he rolled through my local lounge to present The Dark Time, I wasn’t gonna miss it.
I listened. I watched.
And when the dust settled, I caught him for a quick chat.

We started talking shop,…not just about cigars, but about something deeper.
The disconnect between the quality of the product and the way it’s sold.

We talked about how modern business development seems to have skipped the cigar industry entirely.
No data capture.
No pull-through strategies.
No real structure to how most brands track, follow up, or build anything scalable.

Just gut and grit.

We talked about consumers. About story. About connection. About how fickle this business can be.

And then, something I said must’ve landed.

Because Ricky handed me his card and said he wanted to stay in touch.

Honestly?
I played it cool.
I told him I had a day job that more than paid the bills (true).
Tried to act like I didn’t need the attention (also true, kinda).

But the full truth is:
I need all the help I can get.
Especially as an outsider.

A few messages later, we were texting.
Then… Facebook friends.

“Is this really happening?”
I kept asking myself.

I didn’t want to get too excited, so I did what any seasoned sales guy would do:
Put Ricky in a sales cadence and hoped for the best.

Reflecting on it now, I keep circling back to that famous phrase:
Carpe Diem — Seize the Day.

But here’s the thing most people don’t talk about:
“The Day” isn’t some epic, one-time event.

It’s not a singular, cinematic, slow-mo moment.
It’s a thousand small ones.

Waking up.
Making the ask.
Taking the call.
Sending the follow-up.
Responding when you’d rather scroll.
Pushing through the doubt.
Choosing to show up, even if you don’t feel ready.

The real wins?
They’re found in the minutiae.

The seconds.
The tiny choices.
The next best thing, done over and over again.

Seize the Moment
Now that’s the truth.

(And yeah… Eminem did warn us.)

Change doesn’t come in a thunderclap.

It comes in the flick of a lighter,
the flicker of a flame,
and the slow burn that follows.

The Slow Burn: Buc-ee’s, Bourdain, and a Shot in the Dark (Part III)

The conversation starts to stall.

Not awkwardly, just that quiet moment where everyone runs out of small talk and starts wondering if it’s time to wrap things up.

And then, Kaitlyn saves the day.

She casually nods toward one of the owner's watches and says something like, "Beautiful piece, you don’t see that in the wild very often."

Now, I should mention, my wife works in luxury goods. Big-time. She’s a leader at a global luxury conglomerate that owns, let’s just say… some of the most coveted names in horology. If it’s bougie, rare, or built by hand in a Swiss mountain village, Kaitlyn knows about it.

And she doesn’t just know it, she lives it.

Meanwhile, I’m over here happy if my watch tells time and doesn’t smell like campfire.

The owner perks up instantly. Like, watch-nerd awakened. He jumps up, walks over, and suddenly they’re off to the races.

Within minutes, the other owner joins in. Now it’s a full-on luxury goods summit in the back of a boutique cigar HQ. I’m just in the corner, smoking an unrelased version of one of their blends (it was fantastic), nodding like a guy who knows something about balance springs. I do not.

They’re dropping names like Panerai, Vacheron Constantin, IWC, brands where the complications (those little features beyond basic timekeeping) are borderline magic.

Minute repeaters. Tourbillons. Moon phases.
We’re talking precision engineering on par with Formula 1.

Turns out, these guys aren’t just into fine cigars; they appreciate craft in all its forms. And Kaitlyn? She’s fluent in the language of craftsmanship.

She’s got them absolutely eating out of the palm of her hand… or her wrist, I should say.

It’s not just that she knows her stuff, it’s how she carries it.

Graceful, sharp, totally unpretentious.
She’s not trying to impress anyone.
She’s just being herself, and they respect the hell out of that.

Meanwhile, I’m sitting there watching this all unfold and thinking,

“If this ever works out, it’s because she closed the deal.”

Sometimes the magic doesn’t come from pitching or posturing.
Sometimes, it comes from authentic connection.

From shared passion. From mutual respect. From knowing when to shut up and let the person next to you shine.

So yeah, I may have lit the spark, but Kaitlyn fanned the flame.

And in that moment, sitting in a cigar sanctuary deep in Central Texas, surrounded by espresso, horological flexing, and a room full of good people…

I felt the slow burn catch.


In between inquiries about limited productions, a command cut clean through the hum of espresso machines and watch talk:

“Take a seat.”

No hesitation. No smile. Just an unspoken vibe: We’re shifting gears now.

So I sat down. Quietly. Ready.

The conversation settled into cigars. Finally.

“So… you’re the Brolo guy?”
“Yes, sir. That’s me. In the flesh.”

“Where are your cigars made?”

“Well… quite honestly, I’m living on a prayer right now. I don’t have any sticks yet, but I’m in talks with a few notable factories.”

I could feel the pitch slipping, so I tried to pivot.“Do you guys do any private label projects for others?”
“No.”

Short. Definitive.

Later I’d find out they do private label work, but only for a select few. People they trust. People who’ve earned it.
Not… outsiders.

“Who are you in talks with?”

I rattled off a couple of names.
They looked at each other.
That silent look that says more than words.

Surprise. Curiosity. Respect.

But then came the gut punch, with a twist of grace:

“I’mma shoot you straight. I don’t give two shits about what you got going on... but because your wife is so awesome, I’mma drop some knowledge on you.”

(Legendary opener, by the way.)

“We get a lot of people through here ‘starting’ cigar brands. We smile and wish them luck. But the reality? There’s way more to this than having a loaded wallet.

Anyone with $10K can fly to Nicaragua, slap a band on a cigar, and try to flip it. Almost all of them fail.”

That hit.
Not in a discouraging way.
In a truth cuts deep kind of way.
Not aggressive. Not rude.
Just real.

This was the moment where dreams meet the industry wall. The part where most people pack it up and say, “You know what? Maybe this isn’t for me.”

But I didn’t flinch.

Because I’ve heard this before.
In other rooms. In other industries.
From people who couldn’t see the vision, until they could.

They weren’t trying to break me.
They were trying to see if I’d break myself.

And I didn’t.

I smiled. Nodded. And kept my seat.

And then something unexpected happened:

We kept talking.

For the next two hours, we dug deep into blending philosophy, distribution strategies, consumer behavior, brand DNA, production pitfalls, running lean, value props for factories...
We nerded out hard.

And slowly, the energy shifted.

I wasn’t just “that Brolo guy.”
I became the little brother, still on the outside, but invited closer to the fire.

I could feel it.
They saw the passion.
They heard it in the way I spoke about storytelling, strategy, connection.

I wasn’t some schmuck with a few bucks and a Canva logo.
They saw the flicker.
Maybe they even saw the flame.

We bonded over our shared reverence for the leaf.
For the process.
For the people.

I’m forever grateful to Skip Martin and Michael Rosales of RoMa Craft for the generosity of their time, wisdom, and straight talk.

Their insights on cigar consumers hit deep:

“Consumers today want more than just a good cigar. They want a reason to care. They want connection. They want to know who’s behind it, and why it matters.”

That stuck with me.

Side note, RoMa comes from Rosales and Martin.
Brolo? Same roots. Brotherly Love.

It’s funny how some things just align.

And by the end of the conversation, they dropped one more gem, an opinion on the two factories I was considering.

They didn’t know my preference…
But they picked the same one.
Perfect alignment.

In that moment, I didn’t walk away with a deal.
But I walked away with something far more valuable:

Direction. Clarity. Confidence.

Everything they told me not to do?
I had already decided not to.

Maybe, just maybe…

I actually know a little something about this game.

The flicker’s getting stronger.

The slow burn continues…

Pictured from left to right: Mike Rosales, Joshua Stephens, Skip Martin

The Slow Burn: Buc-ee’s, Bourdain, and a Shot in the Dark (Part II)

Call it ancestral, call it instinctual, maybe it’s something buried deep in our DNA, but the camaraderie of the leaf draws us in like those who’ve gathered around fire for millennia.

The light flickers.
Smoke dances in the wind.
Time slows.
And for a little while… all feels right.

Whether I’m alone or sitting among a tribe, the ritual is the same. My breathing slows. My thoughts shift from “what’s next” to “what’s now.” Cigars have this rare power; they pull you inward while gently nudging you outward, inviting reflection and connection in the same breath.

In the deep, we connect.

Of course, that wasn’t how it felt when we first walked in.

Despite the warm welcome from the family, kids, wives, the whole crew, I found myself standing there, glassy-eyed and awkward, watching the owners work quietly in their dimly lit HQ like monks at morning prayer.

Did I misread the invite?
Was this one of those “come by” invites that doesn’t actually mean “come by”?
Was I the guy who brought a plus-one to a secret handshake?

Before I could overthink it any further, we were gently pulled into the orbit of hospitality.

“Espresso?”

Now, we’re not talking about whatever comes out of the pod machine in your Airbnb. This wasn’t a countertop appliance you order with one click. No, they had somehow acquired a European, commercial-grade, Italian espresso machine; the kind usually bolted down behind marble counters in a Roman café where the baristas wear ties and judge your order silently.

Apparently, these machines aren’t available to us common folk unless you know someone who knows someone... or unless you're them.

It was beautiful. And terrifying.

Operating one of these machines isn’t just pushing a button; it’s an art. You’re dealing with water pressure, grind consistency, tamp weight, milk frothing angles, boiler temps. There’s no room for error. It’s part engineering, part witchcraft. And, according to the stories they told, they had broken it, multiple times, just learning how to master it.

Eventually, a perfectly pulled doppio was handed to Kaitlyn. Smooth crema. Golden brown. Just the right bitterness.

Like everything else in this place, it wasn’t for show. It was about care. Precision. Craft.

After a bit of small talk, we were offered a tour of the facility.

The owners still hadn’t said much but the silence didn’t feel rude. It felt intentional. Like they were measuring the moment. Listening more than speaking. Letting their work speak for itself.

We walked through shipping and receiving, where the bones of the business are stacked and sorted. Boxes, labels, tape guns…everything you need to keep the hustle moving.

Then came fulfillment, a space filled with finished product and curated details. Efficiency with soul.

Then... the humidor.

Except calling it a “humidor” is like calling a vault a closet.

It was sacred. Quiet. Like a museum of the modern cigar movement.

Every release. Every size. Ever.

Shelves stacked with boxes, accessories, swag, and branded ephemera that made me want to drop my wallet and whisper “take what you need.”

This wasn’t just storage. It was storytelling. History. A timeline of how far they’d come.

It reminded me that great brands aren’t built overnight. They’re built one handshake, one stick, one box, at a time.

As we walked through the final room, I felt the nerves fade and something else take their place.

Respect.
Gratitude.
Drive.

I wasn’t just touring a facility. I was being given a glimpse into what’s possible when you stay true to your craft, your culture, and your calling.

This wasn’t a pitch. It wasn’t an interview.

It was a beginning.

And as always…

The slow burn continues.

The Slow Burn: Buc-ee’s, Bourdain, and a Shot in the Dark (Part I)

Reaching out to cigar factories and brand owners for the first time felt like being a Yelp Elite Reviewer requesting a seat at Anthony Bourdain’s dinner table.

Not because I deserved one…but because I wanted in.

I suppose Bourdain’s famous disdain for self-proclaimed experts proved that even the real ones sometimes listened to the critics. But I wasn’t pretending to be a critic. I was just a fan trying to turn this wild little idea into something real.

My wife and I had planned a trip with my uncle to float the Comal River, a Texas summer tradition, complete with sunburns, smoked meats, and slow drifts. But at the last minute, he backed out due to medical issues. So what was supposed to be a family float turned into a romantic getaway.

We packed up the weenie dogs and hit the road Thursday morning. A change of plans, sure, but no complaints.

Then, the night before we left, somewhere between doomscrolling and insomnia, I stumbled across something in the digital abyss that stopped me cold

One of my cigar heroes was in town.

Not just in town, in the exact area we were headed. This guy lives in Nicaragua. What are the odds?

So I did what you do when a window cracks open:
I slid into the DMs.
From the Brolo Gram.
My first ever message.

A swing. A pattern interrupter. A shot.

“What’s up Chief?!
I’m Joshua, founder of Brolo Cigars—a boutique brand rooted in brotherhood, nostalgia, and small-batch craftsmanship. I’ll be in [your area] Thursday night through Sunday and would love to connect if you're around.

I admire what you've built, especially the way you’ve elevated small-batch production while staying authentic to the culture. I'd be honored to meet, even briefly, to hear more about your approach and share a bit about what I’m building with Brolo.

Hope we can light one up and talk shop. I'll work around your schedule if you're open to connecting.”

I figured it’d end up buried in that weird “Message Requests” graveyard, never to be seen again.

But then:

"For sure, brother. You should come by our HQ on Thursday or Friday afternoon."

Hold up… is this really happening?

Greenlight (as McConaughey would say).

I looked over at Kaitlyn, ready to pitch the world’s quickest change of plans. Before I could get the words out, she was already nodding.

“Let’s go.”
Ride or die.

So Thursday morning, we loaded up the pups, pointed the truck south, and headed toward destiny... or at least New Braunfels.

Buc-ee’s, of course, was a required religious experience. Kolaches, jerky, beaver merch. Texas communion. We hit our Airbnb, unpacked, and I spent the rest of the afternoon nervously burning through cigars on the patio; mentally rehearsing every possible thing I could say… and maybe more importantly, what not to say.

Even though I knew this brand inside and out, even though I’d heard this guy on podcasts and respected the hell out of him, I couldn’t shake the nerves.

It reminded me of that time I ran into Steven Tyler at the urinal at Fogo de Chão in Addison.
(Yes, that Steven Tyler.)

The day after Aerosmith and Lenny Kravitz played Dallas, rumors were flying he was still in town. I’d scanned the dining room between meat sweats and trips to the salad bar, but no sign of him. Then, just when I needed to “wipe the dew off my lily,” there he was.

Now, if you’re a guy, you know the rules. Three urinals open? You go 1 or 3. Never the middle. It’s just a code.

I picked 1.

He walked in… and took 2.

I froze.

Looking back, part of me wishes I had turned to him mid-stream and said something unforgettable. Like, literally unforgettable. Because you can’t forget the guy who peed on you.

But no, I froze. No pee, no words, no memory made.

And that’s exactly what I was afraid would happen again.

That I’d choke. That I’d clam up. That I’d be just another schmuck poking around their headquarters, wasting a rare opportunity.

But then came the secret weapon: Kaitlyn.

Cooler than a cucumber. She carried the entire encounter like she belonged there. (Spoiler: she did.)

We pull into a nondescript business park. No signage. Just one of those places where big things happen quietly.

We step inside, expecting awkwardness…

Instead?

We’re greeted by the whole crew: wives, kids, family.

Suddenly, we’re not strangers, we’re guests.

Arms wide open.

(Under the sunlight... just kidding.)

To be continued…

The Slow Burn: The Dance

Like anyone standing behind a closed door, before you decide to open it, you ask:

“Who is it?”

Except this time, it wasn’t about my name. Let’s be honest, my name has zero credibility in the cigar industry. I’m not a third-generation anything…well maybe, degenerate but thats for another blog entry I suppose. I’m not an heir to a tobacco dynasty. I’m just the gringo who keeps showing up.

On the other side of that door was an experienced, savvy factory owner. A person who has probably seen more cigar dreams die on the vine than most of us have had hot dinners.

Ahh, but this was familiar territory. In sales, we do this dance every day. Sometimes it’s a waltz…graceful, rhythmic, effortless. Other times, your dance partner is stepping on your toes and you’re misreading every cue while pretending you aren’t.

But me? I’m a seasoned dancer.

(Man, the bros are never going to let me live that statement down.)

The questions came in rapid-fire succession:

“Please tell me what cigars from our brand(s) you like.”
“Have you been to Nicaragua before?”
“Are you looking for a single factory to produce all of your cigars?”
“What’s your desired timeframe for product launch?”

And then…the dreaded casket killer:

“Do you have a background in the cigar industry?”

If you’ve ever pitched anything, anything at all, you know this is where you either try to spin a fairy tale or tell the truth. I knew bull shit wouldn’t get me far.

This was not a moment to polish the turd.

However, if you wanna see me dance, you're getting a show.

So I took a deep breath, and I gave it to ‘em straight (with just enough heart to show I’m serious):

“Do I have cigar industry experience? The short answer, 0%.

But my background is in sales, branding, and startup growth. I’ve helped scale multiple companies from early-stage to maturity, and I’ve spent the last few years preparing to bring Brolo to life.

While I may be new to the cigar industry professionally, I’ve been smoking for nearly 20 years. Cigars have been a huge part of my life and my relationships.

I’ve spent a great deal of time in lounges around the world and am deeply involved in my local cigar community. Over the years, I’ve had countless conversations with brand reps. What I’ve noticed is that many operate with a lot of passion but not much strategy.

My background in sales and branding gives me a different lens. I see a chance to help shift that narrative: to elevate boutique cigar brands through better systems, deeper brand alignment, and more meaningful engagement with the people who light up every day.

Brolo Cigars is rooted in nostalgia, brotherhood, and storytelling. Think late ’70s aesthetics, old-school connection, and slow-burning moments that matter.

I’m not just looking to sell cigars. I’m looking to build something with soul.

From everything I’ve seen, [your] factory shares that kind of creative DNA.”

I hit send, fully expecting the polite “thanks, but no thanks.”

Instead, this landed in my inbox:

“I would like to say that all this seems very impressive, and we picked up on the 70’s vibe right away. We think it’s very unique.”

We’re dancing now, baby.

I felt a little pep in my step. But in true cigar-industry fashion, the next volley came quickly:

“Are you the sole owner? I’d like to understand more about your distribution and sales plan, as I mentioned—this is crucial to the success of any brand. Also, what experience do you have blending cigars, or what attributes do you think will help you in this process?”

This is how it goes.

One step forward, one question deeper.

You keep moving, you keep showing up, you keep dancing, even when you feel like an outsider in the room.

Even outsiders have a place.

Keep showing up, trust your story, and savor the slow burn…one moment at a time.

The Slow Burn: A Gringo with a Dream

So, how do you start a cigar brand?

Well, first things first:

I’ve never farmed a day in my life.

Over the years, I’ve read more about tobacco cultivation than any reasonable person probably should. I’ve dug into the variables that shape a quality priming: climate, sun, rain, humidity, soil, elevation, shade, curing, fermentation, aging…the list goes on. And on. And on. I’ve learned about how even the angle of shade cloth can make or break a harvest, the delicate balance between tradition and innovation, and the endless debate about how long tobacco should rest before it’s rolled.

The truth is, generations of families have devoted their entire lineage to getting it right. Every crop is another chance to fine-tune the process…one season, one leaf, one priming at a time.

Me?

I’m just some gringo with a dream.

I’ve heard more cautionary tales than I can count; stories of people burning through mountains of cash chasing the smoke. Some started with the best of intentions. Others saw dollar signs. Most never made it past the first few production runs.

Why? Because the cigar business is, in a word, unforgiving.

Consumer preferences shift. A blend that’s hot today is forgotten tomorrow. Crops get lost to hurricanes, fires, disease, or mold. Even the most seasoned industry veterans aren’t immune to the random hand of fate or the slow creep of bad luck. Production strategies shift. Distribution deals fall apart. Costs skyrocket.

You don’t have to look far to see how quickly it can all go sideways.

Yet, here I am.

Not because I think I’m smarter or luckier than those who came before me. But because I believe there’s still room in this industry for something honest, something built on respect for the craft and the people who keep it alive.

Like many cigar aficionados, I spent years as an armchair quarterback. I was quick to pass judgment on a blend or a brand without any idea what actually went into it. That’s how it goes in this world: everybody’s got an opinion, and opinions shape perception.

If I tried something new and it burned sideways, even if the flavor was fantastic, strike.

If the burn was razor thin and stacked dimes but the draw felt like sucking a milkshake through a coffee straw, strike.

If the wrapper color looked “off” to my eye, pass. Strike.

But unlike baseball, cigar smokers don’t usually give you three pitches to hit a home run. They give you one proverbial swing. Maybe you connect, maybe you don’t.

And here’s the kicker; it might not even be the brand’s fault if the experience disappoints. Cigars are subjective by nature. Maybe the retailer’s humidor was out of balance. Maybe the consumer didn’t store the stick right after they bought it. Either way, brands can’t control those variables but those variables still break consumer confidence.

Side note: If your local tobacconist ever hosts a Humidor Discovery Night, do yourself a favor and go. It’s the purest way to experience a cigar. They’ll take two cigars that look similar, remove the bands, and have you smoke them back to back. No preconceived notions. No brand legacy to lean on. Just you and the tobacco. You might be surprised how often you’ll love something you never would’ve picked for yourself. If your in DFW, check out Viso Cigars on Tuesday nights from 6pm-9pm. Great staff. Great people. Unique experiences.

Anyway, back to the gringo with a dream.

Considering everything I’ve just laid out, you’d think I’d have tucked this idea away in the “nice thought, never gonna happen” category. But at some point, you’ve got to put legs on your dream. Carpe Diem.

After months of research, I narrowed my search down to a handful of factories that seemed like the right fit. How did I choose? I wanted something different but familiar. Cutting edge but rooted in tradition. A little unorthodox. A little Brolo.

And yeah, there’s always the question: What if consumers don’t have a good association with that factory? Maybe they don’t like a certain brand that comes out of the same production floor.

This is the part where I channel my inner Steve Saka and say:

STFU and try the cigars.

Then… it happened. I shot my shot.

I sent the email.

And I got this back:

“Hi Joshua,
Thanks for reaching out. Your approach seems intriguing and interesting (in a good way)….”

Could an outsider like me actually get a foot in the door?

The door creaked open.

So no, I’ve never farmed a day in my life. But I’m here. Listening. Learning. And taking the slow burn one leaf at a time.

The Slow Burn: Finding Myself in a Cloud of Smoke

I spent most of my twenties being everything to everyone. Chameleon. Sales machine. Perpetual traveler. I had a killer job that paid me to crisscross North America and Europe nearly 45 weeks out of the year. On paper, it looked like success. The kind you’re supposed to chase. The kind that convinces you to ignore that little voice in your head that whispers:

“Who the hell am I, really?”

When you live on the road that long, you start to lose track of yourself. Airports, conference rooms, hotel bars…it all blurs together. You learn how to smile on cue, close deals over steak dinners, and pretend you’re exactly the person your client expects you to be. It’s exhausting. It’s easy to forget the parts that make you, you.

My introduction to smoking was less than glamorous. My grandma was the original chain smoker. She’d burn through a pack and a half with an oxygen mask strapped to her face. The woman was tougher than a coffin nail, but the sound of her wheezing still echoes in my memory. Then there was my uncle, whose mantra was basically “wake and bake.” He had a pretty functional relationship with the green stuff, but he smoked everything like it was going out of style. Between them, smoking was something I swore I’d never touch.

Well, until I did.

There was a brief, regrettable stint with clove cigarettes. Djarm Blacks. They were a staple of whatever scene I thought I belonged to at the time. I guess we all have our “trying to look cool” phase. If I’ve learned anything, it’s this: If everyone thinks it’s cool, it probably isn’t.

Then, somewhere between time zones and client dinners, someone handed me a Cohiba Siglo. It was smooth and elegant. Nothing like the stale haze I’d grown up around. Like most things I get into, I went all in. Within a few months, I’d become insufferable, a self-declared Cuban purist. If it wasn’t rolled on an island, I didn’t want it. I oozed pretension. I’d talk about terroir and vintage with a straight face, like I actually knew what I was saying.

Eventually, I grew out of that phase and started exploring heritage brands. The ones with real stories and real craftsmen behind them. But it wasn’t until I walked into a local lounge that didn’t carry a single brand I recognized that everything shifted.

I was ten years into smoking cigars and thought I’d seen it all. But standing in that humidor, I realized I hadn’t scratched the surface. It felt like stepping onto a magic carpet, corny, but true. A whole new world opened up. It was magical. Like Aladin chasing Jasmine, I was in the clouds.

That moment stuck with me because it was the first time in a long time I was curious instead of performative. I wasn’t trying to impress anyone. I wasn’t trying to be anyone. I was just a guy, holding an unfamiliar cigar, excited to discover something new.

Somewhere in that cloud of smoke, I started to find myself again.

Brolo Cigars was born out of that feeling, the desire to strip away the labels, the posturing, and the ego. To slow down, be present, and just enjoy the ritual for what it is.

If you’ve ever lost yourself along the way, maybe you’ll understand why that matters to me.

Here’s to the slow burn, and to finally being comfortable in your own skin.

The Slow Burn: Why I Started Brolo Cigars

When I first started dreaming up Brolo Cigars, I knew it wasn’t going to be easy. Most good things aren’t...especially the kind that involve fire, patience, and a little bit of rebellion.

I’m not a third-generation cigar maker.

I didn’t grow up sweeping the floors of a rolling room in Estelí or packing boxes in Danlí. I’m an outsider. Just a guy who has spent decades lighting up with friends, chasing that perfect draw, and falling in love with the way a cigar can slow life down. That was the spark: a desire to create something that honored the ritual, the conversation, and the quiet camaraderie of a good smoke.

But I’ll tell you straight, romantic notions only get you so far when you’re trying to build a brand in an industry that doesn’t exactly roll out the welcome mat for newcomers.

I quickly learned that sourcing cigars is not a matter of picking up the phone and placing an order. Factories in Nicaragua, Ecuador, and Honduras are busy crafting blends for established brands that have been around since before I was born. Convincing them to take a chance on someone with no track record felt a bit like knocking on the back door of a speakeasy and hoping the doorman believes your story.

Each conversation started with skepticism, and fair enough. What did I know about primings, fermentation, or filler-to-binder ratios beyond what I’d read and smoked? But I also knew what I felt. Cigars have a soul. They deserve respect. And if I were going to put my name on one, I’d better be prepared to learn everything I could from the people who’ve spent their lives perfecting this craft.

Even after finding factories willing to talk, there were more hurdles. Tobacco is heavily regulated. Importing it is a maze of paperwork and compliance. On top of that, just finding a bank in the U.S. that doesn’t slam the door in your face when you mention “tobacco” is its own special kind of frustration. I’d sit in meetings with local financial institutions, explaining that no, I wasn’t selling vapes or anything illegal, just old-fashioned, hand-rolled cigars, and watch the polite nods that meant, “We’ll pass.”

Those moments can shake your resolve.

They make you question why you’re doing this at all. But for me, the answer has always been simple: Because cigars matter. They matter to the people who gather around them, who share stories, who mark life’s milestones one slow burn at a time.

Brolo was never about chasing a quick dollar. It’s about capturing the feeling of brotherhood; the way a good cigar can connect strangers, bridge generations, and transform an ordinary evening into something memorable. I believe that if an outsider like me can respect the craft, I can create something worth sharing.

So, this is the first post in what I hope becomes an ongoing story of building Brolo Cigars from the ground up. I’m still learning every day. I’m still knocking on doors and sometimes hearing “no.” But I’m also finding partners who believe in this vision, and smokers who are ready for something honest, small-batch, and personal.

Starting Brolo is taking the bull by the horns.

Literally, in my case, somewhere in a shoebox, there’s this photo of me as a kid riding a bull with more guts than sense. Back then, I didn’t know much about fear. Or maybe I just didn’t care. Years later, I’d realize that starting a cigar company as an outsider feels a lot the same way: You hang on tight, you trust your instincts, and you accept that you might get thrown off a few times before you find your stride.

Thanks for lighting up with me. Here’s to the slow burn.