Da Boyz

Da Boyz, we meet most Sunday afternoons at the cigar store. We smoke, watch some TV, laugh, cry, complain about life, the government, crime, taxes, the cost of living; no subject is exempt from our examination.

Ed's been working at the store for a few years, oscillates back and forth between the front counter, where he plays helpful cigar store employee to the ever-present, new-to-cigars customer ("I need a good cigar for my boyfriend/husband/father/brother"), then rejoins Da Boyz for another few minutes of humorous quips, wise-cracks and one-liners, until the bell over the door rings with the arrival of another customer.

Some of the necessary aethetics: analog watch and a good smoke.

Michael, son-in-law of the other Michael, joins us this afternoon. He prefers to relight using wooden matches. Others, they prefer the fancy gas-filled torches. Me, I use a Zippo. I like its metallic snick and mechanical simplicity. Each to their own.

The other Michael, the group's most faithful participant. He can be deadly serious, but also deadly funny. Jokes-a-minute; humorous observations about every aspect of life are nonstop.

Today, while watching Nascar, the subject of Bob Seager's song "Night Moves" came up. Naturally, Michael pulls up the YouTube video on his Blackberry, serenading the smooth-talking announcers on the tube.

Like some kind of aroma-emitting hourglass, our time spent together is measured in inches.

There's no set meeting time, each participant shows up at their personal appointed time. Now we find Dave's joined us for a smoke. We switch the TV back and forth between golf and Nascar. Quaint cultural cross-references between the two sports fly back and forth, zingers penetrating the ever-thickening haze. Tears, of laughter, are wiped away during the brief moments of respite.

And then, at his usual later in the afternoon time, Dennis joins us, taking the seating spot from where Michael Jr. departed.

Now things are rolling; our guts are aching from the laughter. We ponder the improbable, like what would happen if Nascar culture were transplanted onto the staid, groomed and cultured fairways of the PGA.

Closing time nears, just a few of us die-hards remain. Dave dons his shades, preparing for the glare of the afternoon sun. We've smoked our stoggies, shared our jokes and stories, and somehow life seems a bit lighter. This will have to take us through the rest of the week until, next Sunday, Da Boyz regroup for another go-around.

(All photos captured with the micro-4/3 Lumix G1 camera, ISO1000, using a manually adapted Minolta MD 50mm lens at f/1.7, and also the stellar-performing Lumix 20mm pancake lens, also at f/1.7.)