The Slow Burn: The Gospel According to Tony Stark

Now, I’ve never really been into Marvel movies or comics. Sure, I had friends who collected them. We’d hit the arcade next door, burn through quarters, and then wander over to the comic shop to kill time before the next round of Street Fighter. It wasn’t the stories that hooked me…it was the camaraderie.

That said, there was one game I couldn’t stay away from at the arcade: Marvel Super Heroes. You’d drop in a quarter, grab the joystick, and pick your champion. There were plenty of options…Hulk, Spider-Man, Captain America, but every time, I chose Tony Stark. Iron Man.

At first, it was superficial. I liked the suit. I liked the sound of those plasma bursts. I liked how clean the animations looked as his repulsors fired from his hands. But over time, I realized something deeper. Tony Stark wasn’t just a superhero. He was human. And his humanity, his pride, his arrogance, and his flaws were what made him relatable.

He wasn’t born special. He wasn’t injected with super serum. He didn’t fall into a vat of radioactive waste or get bitten by a spider. He was a man…smart, broken, and self-assured enough to think he could fix the world by his own power.

Sound familiar?


If you strip away the suit, Tony Stark is a mirror. He’s every man who’s ever believed that if he just works hard enough, grinds long enough, innovates big enough, he can save himself, maybe even save others along the way.

That’s the American dream, right? Be your own man. Build your empire. Pull yourself up by your bootstraps.

But here’s the catch: the same self-reliance that makes us strong can also make us brittle.

In Iron Man 1, Tony builds the first suit out of desperation. He’s trapped in a cave, wounded, forced to reckon with the sins of his own creation, weapons made by his hands that have caused untold suffering. So he builds something to protect himself.

It’s noble, in a way. Resourceful. Ingenious.
But it’s also the beginning of his prison.

Because after the cave, Tony never stops building. He doesn’t build out of inspiration; he builds out of fear. Fear of losing control. Fear of failure. Fear of needing anyone else.

And brother, that’s the same lie the enemy sells us every day:
“You’ve got this. You don’t need anyone else.”


For years, I believed that lie.

I thought if I worked hard enough, that if I grinded enough, it would somehow fill the void. But success doesn’t heal the soul. It just gives you fancier distractions.

Tony’s story is the same. He tries to control the chaos around him. He builds armies of suits. He creates Ultron to “protect humanity.” He even signs his name on the Sokovia Accords, thinking he can legislate morality. But behind all that invention is insecurity.

That’s what sin does. Our flesh feels powerful, but our spirit feels painfully alone.

In Proverbs 27:17, it says, “As iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another.”

The truth is, Tony Stark doesn’t have iron sharpening him. He is iron…blunt, unrefined, constantly grinding against himself. No accountability. No surrender. No brotherhood.

And when a man isolates himself in the name of “strength,” he becomes his own god.


One of the most haunting lines from Avengers: Age of Ultron is when Tony says, “I don’t want to hear the ‘man who died for nothing’ speech.”

He’s talking about sacrifice. He’s talking about avoiding failure. But what he’s really doing is confessing his fear, the fear of death, the fear of insignificance, the fear that all his striving is for nothing.

We’ve all been there.

There’s a Tony Stark in every man…the version of us that wants to control everything because surrender feels like death.

But here’s the paradox:
In Christ, surrender is life.

When Jesus said, “Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross daily and follow me” (Luke 9:23), He wasn’t talking about martyrdom; He was talking about dying to the illusion of control.

Tony builds armor to save himself.
Jesus removes it to save the world.


I think about this a lot when I sit down to smoke.

The brotherhood of the leaf has a rhythm to it, one that’s slow, intentional, reflective. It’s not just about cigars; it’s about connection. You learn pretty quickly that no smoke is the same when you share it with brothers who sharpen you.

Tony Stark never had that.
And when he finally found it, in the Avengers, it was messy. Loud. Full of ego clashes and trust issues.
Sound familiar?

That’s the church, man.

Community isn’t clean. Accountability isn’t comfortable. But it’s where growth happens. It’s where the rough edges are refined, where the iron starts to shine.

The Apostle Paul writes in Galatians 6:2, “Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way, you will fulfill the law of Christ.”

If Tony Stark had understood that verse, Ultron would’ve never been born.

When we carry our burdens alone, they crush us. When we share them, we find strength, not in self-sufficiency, but in surrender.


Here’s the thing about iron…it’s strong, but it’s not invincible. When exposed to enough heat, it melts.

That’s what happens to Tony. Over time, the fire of his own ambition softens him. You see it in Endgame. The armor’s still there, but the man inside is different. Humbled. Tired. A little wiser.

That’s sanctification, brother.

It’s the process of being refined by fire. Of realizing that strength isn’t found in resistance, but in obedience.

When Tony lays down his life at the end, snapping his fingers to save everyone else, it’s poetic. It’s the first time he does something completely selfless. It’s his version of “Not my will, but Yours be done.”

That’s the beauty of redemption: even the most stubborn hearts can be reshaped in the fire.


In the same way Tony built armor to protect himself, we all do it…emotional armor, spiritual armor, relational armor. We use humor, success, pride, or intellect as shields.

But Ephesians 6 tells us there’s a better kind of armor:

“Put on the full armor of God, so that you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes.”

That armor doesn’t come from self-manufactured metal. It comes from truth, righteousness, faith, salvation, and the Spirit.

The key difference?
Tony’s armor isolates him.
God’s armor equips us to connect, to fight together.

When I look at the Brolo community, the fellowship of the leaf, the brothers and sisters leaning in over smoke and story, I see the opposite of Tony’s cave. I see people stepping into light. Accountability isn’t glamorous. It’s not Instagram-worthy. It’s usually uncomfortable, awkward, and raw. But that’s where the transformation happens.

When I was at my lowest, I had brothers who didn’t let me stay there. They called me out. They prayed with me. They checked on me. They loved me enough to hold me accountable.

It’s easy to admire Iron Man’s genius, but I’m more interested in his redemption, in the slow burn that turned ego into empathy.

That’s the same fire I feel when I light a cigar with a brother who knows my story, the kind of connection that doesn’t require armor.

Because in the end, iron doesn’t stay iron forever. It gets shaped. It gets sharpened. It gets stronger in the fire.

And so do we.

We all have our suits.
We all have our caves.
We all have moments where we try to play god with our lives.

But thank God for grace.

Grace doesn’t demand perfection; it invites honesty. It asks us to take off the helmet, to be seen, to admit that we can’t save ourselves.

Tony Stark died saving others.
Jesus Christ rose so we could live.

That’s the difference between redemption through self and salvation through surrender.

At Brolo, we Light Up & Lean In because it’s not about the armor. It’s about the fire that refines us, the fellowship that keeps us grounded, accountable, and human.

So, here’s to the brothers who keep you honest.
The ones who tell you when your pride is showing.
The ones who sit in the ashes with you until the smoke clears.

Because iron sharpens iron, and together, we burn brighter.

The Slowburn: The Color of Connection

Without knowing her intent, my wife once asked me, “What’s your favorite color?”
Like many men, my response was dull: “Black. Beige. Earth tones.”

She didn’t buy it.
“Oh yeah?” she clapped back. “Go look in your closet and let me know your findings.”

Challenge accepted.

I know me.
I’m masculine. I track my protein. I work out. I stay ready. I smoke cigars. I like vintage. I like muscle cars. I keep the coffee black. My inner circle? Business owners. Ex-cons. Pastors. I can tell you which wild plants give you hell in the woods and which ones keep you alive on a survival hike.

So when I opened the closet door and stared at the rows of jackets, tees, boots, then caught sight of yellow, I paused.
There it was, bright, legitimate yellow, among all the natural, earthy tones.

Yellow?

Now, I’ve never been the Golden Arches type. I didn’t want people asking, “Wanna know how I know you’re gay?” when I rolled up in a Big Bird colored puffer jacket. Let’s be honest, most of my friends give me plenty of heat about my fashion choices. But here’s the thing: if yellow shows up in the closet, maybe I’m happier in yellow than I thought.

Turns out, yellow has a bad rap. Ever heard that McDonald’s uses yellow in its branding to keep people moving? According to color-psychology experts, yellow is “the most visible color in daylight,” and when paired with red, it triggers hunger, action, and quick turns. The fast-food world says: see the yellow, feel the urge, move on. Linger not.

But what if hang-time is exactly what you need?


People drawn to yellow are often energetic, positive, and forward-looking. They tend to see possibility everywhere, the type who chase new experiences and ideas. Yellow reflects curiosity, creativity, and enthusiasm for life. It’s the color of sunlight, and those who love it often have a warmth that naturally draws others in.


Yellow is tied to the left (analytical) side of the brain. It’s associated with clear thinking, learning, and sharing ideas. People who favor it often crave mental stimulation, they enjoy conversation, wit, and insight. They’re lifelong learners and quick thinkers, but can also overanalyze or become restless when confined.


Lovers of yellow often stand out without meaning to. It’s the color of visibility and confidence. They may not seek attention, but they tend to have a strong sense of individuality. They’re expressive, often the “light” in a group, the one who can shift a room’s mood just by being there.


Getting vulnerable here….every color carries a shadow. With yellow, it’s anxiety, impatience, and self-criticism. Because yellow-minded people are often idealists and visionaries, they can be easily frustrated when reality doesn’t match their vision. They’re often harder on themselves than anyone else could be.


I realized I wasn’t just wearing yellow for flair. I was wearing it because I’m done hiding in the shadows. I’m done blending in. The closet mirrored the leaf: earth tones, predictable, safe. But the yellow, bold, visible, said: I’m here. I choose to be.

In the cigar world, looks matter, but identity matters more. The wrapper, the band, the box, they all speak. But what they say depends on who you are. If you’re always hiding in beige, the story feels half-told. If you step into the yellow, maybe the full story demands to be told.


If yellow is your color, you’re the guy (or gal) who lights the cigar for everyone else. You bring the spark. You’re not content just sitting in the corner, you want to create connection. You’re not afraid to show joy, even in a world that rewards cynicism. You’re the sunlight through the smoke, the reminder that life, at its best, is meant to be shared.


So yeah, my closet shouted yellow. And I’m listening. Because clothes aren’t vanity, they’re context. They speak before you talk. They tell what your story holds.

For the brothers and sisters of the leaf: don’t just pick what blends in. Pick what rings true. Pick what matches your story.
Pick the cigar that makes you linger.
Light it. Let the flavor show. Let the color flash. Let your voice be seen.

And maybe, just maybe, the yellow wasn’t what you thought it was.
It was what you needed it to be.

Light up & Lean in. Brolo forever.

The Slowburn: Signing off, MTV

Seemingly, like every other summer night in 1996, I was at my friend Bobby’s house. Bobby was the kind of kid who could ace an AP exam, quote Kurt Cobain, and land a kick-flip before lunch. His parents had just upgraded from a modest three-bedroom house to what we all jokingly called a “McMansion,” complete with a pool and a pantry full of Gushers. With them working late most days, his house became our headquarters for mischief and music.

The rhythm of those days was predictable but perfect. Swim until the Texas sun made the water feel like bathwater. Ransack the pantry on a snack safari, piecing together a meal from off-brand cereal and leftover pizza. Lace up the Airwalks, grab our boards, and hit the pavement. The air shimmered with heat and freedom, and even though the new neighborhood was “fancier,” it didn’t matter. We were still the same kids, chasing the same feeling. Sometimes we'd catch a lift on someone’s handle bars, maybe tag behind on the bunny pegs or ride sketch. Between power slides and bunny hops, we’d skate until dusk, then rally the crew back to Bobby’s pool.

Someone always had a boombox nearby, MTV playing in the background through open windows. That was the soundtrack of our lives: The Smashing Pumpkins bleeding into Rage Against the Machine, followed by a flash of Mariah or Manson. We mocked the Spice Girls but knew every word.

Eventually, the grownups came home and sent half of us packing. But on the lucky nights, the sleepover nights, the real magic began. The glow of the TV, the hum of PlayStation loading screens, the laughter as Sweet Tooth torched us all in Twisted Metal. When the controller wars ended, we’d collapse into the glow of late-night MTV, Beavis and Butt-Head, Daria, maybe Loveline if we could stay awake.

And somewhere around 3AM, as “The Macarena” came on for the thousandth time, we’d lose it, tossing pillows, groaning, laughing, and eventually drifting off. Chlorine in our hair, static on the TV, and that faint hum of adolescence buzzing in the air.

Those were the nights that built us.

MTV wasn’t just a channel, it was a compass. It pointed us toward whatever was next. The bands, the clothes, the slang, the attitude. Sure, you could find an issue of Rolling Stone or Creem, but MTV showed you cool. It didn’t explain it. It didn’t hand it over in a feed. You had to tune in. Wait for it. Earn it. It birthed the “Golden Age of Cool.”

You couldn’t just pull up your favorite video, you had to catch it when it aired. You had to stay up late for the good stuff. You had to listen for what your friends said they saw. And that work, that anticipation, made it mean something. The first time you saw a video by Rage or Nirvana, it wasn’t background noise. It was an event. You felt like you discovered it before the world did.

Today, cool is infinite, and disposable. Algorithms spoon-feed us what we’re already supposed to like. We scroll through more culture in ten minutes than we could consume in a summer. Everything’s accessible, but nothing’s earned. There’s no more mystery in the hunt. No waiting for 120 Minutes. No staying up to catch that one song that defined your summer. No chlorine-scented sleepovers with the TV glow flickering across your friends’ faces.

The exploratory feeling, that anticipation, from digging through crates or catching an upcoming artist video at 2AM has been usurped by doom-scrolling. With zero intent and mindlessly, I consume media as if I were bored snacking. Don’t get me wrong, there are massive plusses to having never-ending accessibility. But the sheer quantity forces us to consume quicker.

When I had a Walkman, I was limited to one tape or one CD at a time. Often, the same one stayed in rotation for weeks. Like the back of my hand, I became well acquainted with an artist’s direction across an entire album…the lyrics, liner notes, artwork, the transitions between tracks, the rise and fall of each song.

It forced me to nurse my musings. Because there were so few of them, I had prolonged exposure to things I loved. We didn’t have streaming services in middle school. A CD in 1996 cost around $17, more than three times my $5 weekly allowance.


Now, with a tablet in hand and the help of AI, you can listen to your favorite artist instantly. If you’re good at prompts, you can even hear what your favorite artist would sound like through the lens of another decade. Fast-food entertainment.

Nearly forty years ago, MTV paved the way for how we discovered the music we craved. On December 31, 2025, MTV will conclude the broadcasts of its music-focused channels; MTV Music, MTV 80s, MTV 90s, Club MTV, and MTV Live. The decision, announced by Paramount Global, signifies the end of an era that began in 1981 when MTV revolutionized television by airing music videos 24/7.


This feels like the death of my youth. No longer an adolescent, MTV’s rebellion lives on in my heart. Before art was commoditized by streams, influencer crossovers, and brand deals, MTV showcased artistry and storytelling. There’s no way in hell you’d have seen Korn promoting a new SKIMS drop or Liam Gallagher touting “Wonderwall” flavored pasties from Greggs.

Yet, here we are.

McDonald’s in Canada released a “Bestie Bundle” in Taylor Swift’s honor, complete with friendship bracelets inspired by her concerts.

“Cool” isn’t about the algorithm. It’s about the feeling. It’s about gathering around the glow, whether it’s a TV screen, a fire pit, or the cherry of a good cigar, and knowing that something special is happening in real time. And maybe that’s the lesson MTV leaves behind: cool was never about access. It was about experience. About being there. About the mix of sound, smoke, and friendship that made you feel alive.

So here’s to the static, the soundtracks, and the summers that made us.

Signing off,
MTV.
And signing on,
Brolo.

The Slow Burn: If Brolo was an animal

Someone once asked me, “If Brolo Cigars was an animal, what animal would it be?”
Not an easy question to answer, by any means.

First, I thought about my beloved dachshunds.
Nope, definitely not weenie dog approved.

Then, I thought about my love for elephants, which have always been my favorite animal. Probably because they grieve their dead and have a social hierarchy similar to ours. They build lifelong bonds with one another and have remarkable memories, they can remember other elephants, watering holes, and migration routes even after decades. They’ve even been known to stand vigil over fallen members of their herd, returning years later to touch the bones with their trunks. They mourn, they remember, and they stay connected, even when the herd moves on.

That’s powerful stuff.

And although I love them, majestic, intelligent, emotional, they don’t quite fit the Brolo mold.

Enter the Wolf

After a bit, a wolf came to mind.

Now, as someone with a faith background, we don’t typically align ourselves with wolves. “Beware of wolves in sheep’s clothing,” the Scripture warns, people who present themselves one way but harbor darker motives.

But I had to think long and hard about this.
Why does the wolf get all the bad publicity?

Some incredibly redeeming traits about this mammal deserve attention.

“Like wolves, Brolo values the pack, strong individuals moving as one, bound by shared experience instead of hierarchy.”

Instead of a pride like lions, wolves run in a pack.

Brolo thrives on brotherhood. Every cigar, every story, every burn is about connection, that sense of belonging to something wild, loyal, and unspoken.

Ritual & Reverence

This may be a stretch, but wolves have rhythm and ritual. They live by the cycles of the hunt, the moon, and the firelight. Wolves communicate through howls that aren’t random noise; each tone and pitch carries meaning: a call home, a warning, a roll call for the pack.

Brolo is the same way.
There’s ritual in cutting, lighting, and passing a cigar. It’s primal and deliberate, slow and soulful. That mirrors the wolf’s quiet reverence for its environment; it doesn’t take more than it needs, and it respects the balance of nature.

A wolf howls not to boast, but to connect.

That’s Brolo, not shouting to be seen, but sending a signal to those who understand the meaning behind the smoke.

The Brolo spirit feels like late-night laughter, records spinning, smoke curling through amber light. The wolf embodies that mood, a creature of dusk and mystery, thriving in the glow of a half-lit world. They’re intelligent, cunning, and deeply intuitive, just like how Brolo blends craftsmanship with emotion, memory, and story.
A wolf knows when to lead, when to follow, and when to rest. It knows its place within the pack and honors it.

When I think of wolves, my mind still wanders back to Scripture, the warning about wolves in sheep’s clothing. But what if we’ve misjudged them? What if the wolf isn’t the enemy, but the misunderstood symbol of strength, loyalty, and balance?

Wolves aren’t loners by nature; that’s a myth. They’re fiercely communal. They mate for life. They share responsibility for raising the young, hunting, and protecting their own. And when a member of the pack dies, wolves have been observed howling in mourning, a sound as haunting as it is holy.

Maybe the wolf isn’t the villain after all.
Maybe it’s the reminder that loyalty, purpose, and community are worth fighting for.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s what Brolo is too.

If Brolo were an animal, it wouldn’t be the loudest, the biggest, or the flashiest. It would be the wolf at the campfire, steady, loyal, reflective, and alive in the ritual of connection.

Light up & Lean In. Linger awhile….

The Slow Burn: The People Business

Recently, I got interviewed for a potential role on a television show about entrepreneurship.
They asked me what the most impactful story from my entrepreneurial journey was, and honestly, it’s not about the balance sheets, logos, or the number of staff under my leadership.

It’s about transformation.

There was a time I weighed over 350 pounds, flying 40+ weeks a year, hiding my shame behind tray tables and tight seatbelts. I was exhausted. My health was shot. My spirit was fading. But that season forged something in me that no MBA could teach: grit.

And that same grit, the kind you earn through pain and perseverance, is what I’ve poured into every venture since. I’ve helped scale multiple startups into thriving multimillion-dollar companies. I’ve helped grow a residential appraisal firm into one of the largest in the country, launched an affiliated AMC, and built a boutique cigar brand from the ground up.

But here’s the truth …I never set out to be an entrepreneur.

I just really love people.

I’m crazy about them. I lay awake some nights replaying conversations, wondering what drives each person I meet. I trace the red thread between our interactions, and more often than not, it leads to something beautiful…hearts that care deeply.

There’s my buddy raising his grandson full-time, giving that kid the kind of life many never get. Another friend who spends his weekends teaching kids to fish and hunt, passing on lessons of patience and respect. One brother shepherds broken men through recovery, while another has turned his pain into purpose, building businesses that bless other families.

One friend smokes cigars like a theologian studies scripture, quoting C.S. Lewis between tasting notes and bourbon pours. Another, an ex-con, turned lemons into legacy…rebuilding his life with faith, fight, and family. There’s the pastor I used to play music with in our rebellion years, now preaching about the same grace that saved us both. And then there’s “Glitter Pickle,” my go-to when I need laughter more than advice. But man oh man, his advice is good too.

One of my dawg’s just celebrated an anniversary in recovery. He completely rebuilt his life in the five years we’ve been kicking it.

These are my people. My tribe. My church outside the church.

Cigars brought us together, not as status symbols, but as a shared language of connection. The leaf is just the medium. The real art is in the conversation, the laughter, the quiet nods of understanding between puffs of smoke.

Life is fragile. We don’t know when our story ends…maybe you leave the house for creamer and never come home. So why not open yourself up to others now? Why not lean in while you can?

When we allow people in, we find purpose. We find connection. We find the kind of brotherhood that can only be forged in the fire.

That’s what Brolo is about, real stories, real people, and the slow burn that happens when you choose connection over isolation.

So, light up something new this week.
Pull your chair a little closer.
Lean in.

And if you haven’t already, grab one of the Brolo Founders Club Trucker Caps while you can. Only 50 were made, and they’re selling fast. Like everything at Brolo, they were made for connection: one story, one conversation, one believer at a time.

Light up. Lean in. The Founders Club rides first.

25 Green, 25 Gold. One they’re gone, they’re gone forever.

The Slow Burn: Do Your Tastes Change or Do They Change You?

At my heaviest, I weighed 357 pounds. Maybe more. I remember stepping on the scale one morning, watching the number flash up, and deciding right then and there the scale was no longer a friend of mine. So I stopped stepping on it. No accountability, no reminder, just more spiraling.

Traveling constantly for work, I was on planes more than 40 weeks a year…San Francisco, Seattle, Portland, LA, New York, Chicago, Madrid, Frankfurt, you name it. Each time I boarded, I saw the fear in fellow passengers’ eyes, praying I wasn’t the one to sit next to them. Sometimes the seatbelt wouldn’t click, but in my shame, I’d tuck it under my stomach and pretend. I would rather die than ask for an extender.

My mental health unraveled.

Desperate, I paid $10,000 out of pocket for gastric sleeve surgery in 2014. They cut out a piece of me, and in a few months, I dropped 60 pounds. But here’s the thing about quick fixes: they don’t change the root. My addiction shifted, from food to booger sugar. Sure, I lost more weight, but I also lost a 401k and nearly lost my life.

I thought I was outsmarting my demons, but really, my best thinking had gotten me into rehab. And it was there that a street-wise theologian cut through my delusions with a single line:
“Look where you’re at, moth#rfu#cker, you don’t know sh*t.”

He was right.

Sobriety wasn’t linear for me. I relapsed. I got sober. I relapsed again. Over time, I got some runway under me. But with the runway came the weight back. I ballooned. My spirit was alive, but my body was failing me again. One day in prayer, I realized God gave me a temple, and I had spray-painted it in graffiti. My joints hurt, my confidence waned, and I wasn’t performing at work.

So I started again…this time slower. Tracking calories. Cycling. Hiking. Even pickleball for a minute (don’t worry, that cult didn’t keep me long). Step by step, choice by choice, I began to build. Last week, I weighed 192 pounds. Although I am not a proponent of a numer on a scale equaling “health,” I was proud. It took 9 years. Countless failures, small wins stacked up over time. I’ve learned: there are no shortcuts.

Where you put your focus reveals what you worship.

What you feed yourself…physically, mentally, spiritually….is what you become.

And cigars? They taught me that lesson too.

For years, I had an everyday stick. Smoked over a thousand of them. My daily driver. Then the price jumped by $85 a box, so I stopped. Out of necessity, I explored. I smoked boutique brands, factory specials, heritage names I’d overlooked, blends I’d never touched. It was like being a new smoker again.

And when I came back to my old faithful, it wasn’t the same. My palate had changed. The depth I’d discovered made my old go-to taste flat. What once comforted me now reminded me of scarfing down two McDonald’s combo meals in secret shame. It didn’t sit right anymore….because I had changed.

That’s the beauty of cigars. They evolve with you. They challenge your palate. They reward you when you step outside of routine.

For my brothers and sisters of the leaf: don’t just smoke what you know. Chase new horizons. Go hunt down that boutique blend you’ve never heard of. Trade with a friend. Buy something out of your comfort zone.

Because sometimes the best thing you can do for your palate, and for yourself, is to step into the unknown. That’s where the adventure lives. That’s where connection lives.

And maybe, just maybe, it’s where you’ll find the cigar that makes you linger just a little bit longer.

The Slow Burn: Closing the Gap

Ira Glas says that, “It is only by going through a volume of work that you will close that gap [between taste and skill], and your work will be as good as your ambitions.”

If being a musician for 32 years has taught me anything, it’s this: to learn, you must do.

Like playing drums night after night in a half-empty bar, rehearsing licks until your fingers bleed, or figuring out how to play in time but stay on the back of the “one” deep in the pocket. There are no shortcuts in developing skill. No textbooks for instinct.

You have to put in the reps. Trial and error. Pain as a motivator. Experience as the teacher.

Cigars are no different.

Blending cigars is about the grind. You don’t get it right the first time. You don’t always get it right the tenth time. But you keep at it, because your taste, your vision, demands that you close the gap.

That’s the fight. The tension between what you imagine and what you can execute. And while I do not come from a lineage of master blenders, buncheros, or torcederos, I understand what it’s like to put yourself in the arena, knowing your work won’t live up to your own taste...yet. However, I understand that the only way forward is to keep doing the work.

Brolo is my fight through the gap. It’s the art of honoring tradition without being enslaved to it. It’s heritage rewritten for people who love the craft but aren’t interested in shortcuts, gimmicks, or hollow status.

The beauty of creative work, whether it’s music or cigars, is that it creates connection. Songs move people. Cigars bring them together. Both are slow burns, meant to be savored, meant to reveal layers.

And just like Ira Glass said...most people quit before their work has a chance to catch up with their taste. But those who stay? Those who fight through? They build something that matters.

That’s what Brolo is about. Not instant gratification. Not fast fashion for the humidor. Brolo is the slow burn. The long road. The gap between vision and execution, fought one cigar at a time.

Brolo are conversational cigars.

The kind that keep you engaged and grow more complex with each passing moment. The type of cigars you nurse because you just don’t want the experience to end. The ones that make you linger a little longer...maybe even light up another one.

Imagine this, you’re in a dimly lit lounge, tucked into the back booth with two old friends you haven’t seen in years. What started as a quick catch-up turns into a two-hour dive into life…kids, careers, regrets, dreams. The ashtray’s full, the server’s ready to close your tab, but nobody moves. The cigar keeps the conversation alive. You light another not because you need it, but because you don’t want the connection to end.

It’s late on a Friday night. The week’s been heavy, and you step out on the porch with a stick. One puff in, the stress loosens its grip. Then your neighbor wanders over, libations in hand. Before you know it, you’re swapping stories under the glow of the porchlight, laughing, listening, learning. The cigar stretches the night, and neither of you is in a rush to head back inside.

Or better yet, you get talked into attending a Saturday night service at the local place of worship. You walk in with zero expectations, just showing up to check the box. But then, something the preacher says stirs your heart. The words cut through the noise of your week and you can’t shake them. As you lean in, it’s as if he’s reading straight from your diary. Every sentence lands heavier, more personal, until you realize he’s speaking right to you.. Then comes the invitation. To receive the Good Lord as Savior. To repent. To make Him King of your life. Overwhelmed by unmerited grace, tears stream down your face. For the first time in a long time, you don’t want to leave His presence. The longer you stay, the more He reveals.

That’s the same heartbeat as a Brolo moment…it lingers, it grows deeper the longer you lean in, and it calls you into something greater than yourself.

The gap between taste and skill is a brutal place to live. You know what you want, you can see it in your mind’s eye, but your hands aren’t there yet. The riffs fall flat, the blends don’t hit, the stories feel unfinished. Most people quit here. They let the frustration win.

But if you press on, if you keep putting in the reps, something shifts. Slowly, your work begins to line up with your vision. Slowly, you start closing the gap.

And in between? That’s where the magic happens.

The lingering conversations in the back booth.
The porchlight reflections with a neighbor.
The sacred moment when grace hits and you don’t want to leave His presence.

Those are the markers along the way, the proof that the struggle is worth it. Because cigars, like music and faith, aren’t just about the product…they’re about the process, the community, the way they make us stay a little longer and go a little deeper.

That’s Brolo. Conversational cigars. Slow burns that honor tradition, celebrate craftsmanship, and invite you to linger in the moments that matter most.

The gap will always be there….but so will the people, the stories, and the slow burns that make the journey worth it.

Light Up & Lean In…linger a little while longer.

The Slow Burn: Heritage, Hurt, and the Brotherhood of the Leaf

Cigar culture makes you think a lot about heritage. Whether it’s genealogy, family traditions, historical knowledge, or even the connection to identity, heritage is how we get cigars.

The modern cigar’s roots trace back to indigenous peoples of the Caribbean and Mesoamerica, like the Maya and Aztecs, who used rolled tobacco in rituals, medicine, and social customs. Tobacco’s spiritual and social importance in these ancient cultures laid the foundation for the premium cigar culture that later flourished.

Eventually, Cubans would refine cigars and pass down their traditions for generations. After the Cuban embargo, many Cuban manufacturers and farmers left the island, establishing brands and continuing their traditions in other countries such as the Dominican Republic and Nicaragua in the 1960s.

Fast forward quite a few years, and I was born.

Zero Latin heritage.

Born to a teenage mother and without a father, I struggled with connection to family. Shortly after I arrived, the state seized me, and I bounced through the foster care system.

A lot of shit happened. The type of shit that breaks people…the type that turns you cold and callous and makes you turn inward.

When you grow up without a clear heritage to cling to, you start looking for it anywhere you can. I tried to find it in sports, in bands, in church pews, in the bottom of bottles, even in things that nearly destroyed me. I wanted to belong. I wanted to know who I was. But identity doesn’t come easy when your foundation feels broken.

And yet, through all the chaos, there were flickers of light. My grandma did her best, even while tethered to oxygen machines. My uncles gave me laughter in the wild. They didn’t give me “heritage” in the Cuban sense…but they gave me humanity.

They gave me grit.

Later, I realized heritage doesn’t always come from bloodlines. Sometimes it comes from the brotherhood you choose.

The first time I lit up a cigar, I wasn’t thinking about heritage. I wasn’t thinking about Mayans, Spaniards, or Cuban exiles. I was just looking for a moment. But the more I smoked, the more I noticed something bigger happening.

Cigars weren’t just indulgences, they were bridges. In lounges, on patios, and around fire pits, cigars connected people who otherwise had nothing in common. Blue collar and white collar. Young bucks and old heads. Saints and sinners. Doctors, mechanics, pastors, musicians, all sharing space, bound by rolled-up leaves of tobacco.

That became my heritage. The brotherhood of the leaf.

Heritage, I realized, doesn’t always mean family lineage. Sometimes it means stepping into a tradition, adopting it, honoring it, and carrying it forward in your own way. For me, cigars became that inheritance.

So where does Brolo fit into all this?

Brolo isn’t just about cigars. It’s about connection. It’s about creating a new kind of heritage….one rooted in brotherly love, storytelling, and intentional craft. I may not come from a Cuban family of tobacco farmers, but I know what it means to grind, to build, and to dream. I know what it means to take ashes and make something new.

Brolo is for people who appreciate fine craftsmanship, not just in the leaf, but in life. It’s for the guy who’s worked with his hands all week and wants to savor a slow burn on Friday night. It’s for the woman who just closed a big deal and lights up to celebrate. It’s for the groups of friends who gather, week after week, to laugh, cry, debate, and pray together.

Our cigars are luxury, yes, but not the velvet rope kind. They’re not about exclusivity or status. They’re about craftsmanship with soul. Small batches, aged leaves, intentional blends, and designs that tell stories. Cigars that feel like home, even if your home doesn’t look like everyone else’s.

The irony isn’t lost on me. I grew up without much of a heritage, but I found it in the very thing that connects people across generations and geographies. And now, I get to create something that I hope will outlast me.

I’ve said before that Brolo is “luxury without pretense.” That’s still true. But maybe it’s more than that. Maybe it’s my way of leaving behind a heritage where there wasn’t one before. A heritage of connection. A heritage of brotherhood. A heritage of slowing down, lighting up, and leaning in.

Because if cigars taught me anything, it’s this: sometimes heritage isn’t given to you…it’s built, one slow burn at a time.

Smoking a Brolo in the hills of Nicaragua, August 27th, 9:17am.

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.