Some kind of strange and unexplainable primal forces are at work when the cleavage is exposed. When a man’s eyes make contact, our breath turns to short little panting noises as a pleasant warmth begins to develop in the nether region. Remember the Seinfeld episode where George stares at the NBC executive’s daughter’s low hanging fruit? Jerry says they are like giant and powerful magnets to the eyes with an effect much like Kryptonite has upon Superman.

Once again, it cannot be explained by mere rationale, but when the globes are in orbit, our eyes MUST make contact. Whether they are small and firm, or large, round and jiggly, it does not matter…we HAVE TO look! We HAVE TO. It’s like some unwritten law in the ancient records, scribed on the walls of the Mayan Temples. The luscious valley between the mighty peaks grips a man’s being much like the Sirens who seduced Homer in the Iliad and the Odyssey. Its spell is intoxicating driving a normal man to the very brink of childish behavior, not to mention – utter stupidity (or is that udder stupidity?)

We males have become masters of our craft. We have studied this vertical space of flesh and nothingness and have learned how to catch that sacred glimpse of nirvana at the perfect time. We look the female in the eyes, smile as we talk, nodding as if we are actually listening to a word the shrew is saying. It’s a peek of the holy grails that we are after and nothing will stop our valiant quest. We use cunning and guile to move their attention elsewhere – and the moment their eyes turn, OUR eyes dive in for the kill.

“Oh, look… that kitten must be lost.” We say with an innocent yet sinister glow.

“Oh, where?” she says, as her head moves about.

“Over yonder, in the bushes” you point, as your pupils all but burn a hole into her chest.

“Where?” she asks, “I don’t see a… um, what are you looking at?”

SNAGGED! You have been snagged! She begins to change the subject while awkwardly tugging her blouse upwards. As she continues to talk, you sit there like a fool – a large pulsating letter “L” is emblazoned upon your forehead as the beauty that once was is buried six miles deep in cotton and polyester fibers.

This previous action on the part of the female, I do not understand, as it confuses the male species here and abroad. Let me explain. A woman wears a shirt or sweater that by her choice, is low cut, as her ta-tas are in full display for all the world to gander. They’re swingin’ high and low, loose and free, giving the male populous the joy we so richly deserve. Yet the moment our woman – this teasing harlot – notices where our eyes are fixed, she folds her arms or grabs the nearest Cosmo to cover up those mountains of grandeur. UNFAIR I say!

I, the Zman, speak on behalf of heterosexual men everywhere on this wretched planet. Women, take heed. When you “CHOOSE” to wear a low cut top that exposes your upper region, DO NOT act so alarmed when we men are gazed upon your earthly beauty. Why do you wear such attire if you do not wish for us to stare? Why do you purposely dress so provocatively, yet cover up the moment we sneak a peek? I’ll be honest, ladies… since my early manhood this phenomena has really irked me to no end. You put the sale rack up on display, but when an interested shopper passes by, the curtains are drawn and the shop is closed. Again, UNFAIR I say!

I have to admit that this very horrid plight happened to me only today and I could not go another moment without speaking up for my fellow man. I was taken aback as my character was unfairly thrown into question. This was rude, degrading, and unjust in every way.

I’m telling you, there really was a lost kitten in the bushes. I swear.

- Zman

As my son has just hit 14 year’s of age – on his way to earning his Mancard – I’ve noticed his interest in girls getting more and more obvious. Each morning before school he hoses himself down with AXE body spray, and when mixed with Fritos for lunch it makes for an interesting middle-school aphrodisiac. Plus he’s doing a lot of Myspace messaging back and forth with the young ladies, which I say, “kudos little dude.”

I was trying to remember my earliest feelings for the opposite sex and it was probably in first grade where I sat in front of Kathy Werbin’s house one Saturday morning for about four hours waiting for her to come outside. I remember my heart pounding, wondering what I would say when we’d hook up. (It’s uncanny how woman make guys do brutally stupid shit – even at six years old.) Finally my patience paid off as she appeared from her garage – and man she was hot – even back then I was particular about looks. I remember she was into GI Joe’s and asked me to play. (It’s funny that GI Joe’s were actually dolls wrapped in testosterone so boys would be tricked into playing with them.) But my little heart was soon plucked from my ribcage as she had to go – a play date with Robert Sandler was scheduled and that was the first time I realized what cruel harlots the opposite sex can be.

It was definitely movies and TV that helped to arouse my nubile senses in the early years. I didn’t know why, but at ten years old I couldn’t take my eyes off of Barbara Eden’s stomach when she donned that genie costume. I used to get warm all over when she pranced around her Cocoa Beach habitat. And even at ten I wondered what the bloody hell was wrong with Major Nelson - I mean for crissakes, come on, man! Forget the fact that she was sizzling hot and was sworn to his every command – the bonehead could have anything he wanted – gold, jewels, cars, homes – but it was always, “Don’t use your powers, Jeannie.” What a friggin ass-tro-NOT.

Those cavorting cougars always had me more worked up more than Laurie Partridge or any of the Brady chicks. Girls my own age didn’t do it for me. I can’t explain it, but I always had a penchant for the older gals. Now I know most guys loved Dawn Wells as Mary Ann, but I was always a Ginger guy, and when Tina Louise strutted about in those slinky nightgowns, I was glued to the tube. (And it wasn’t until I was around 15 that I came to the conclusion that Gilligan, the Skipper, and the Professor were all raging poofters.) I’ve never really dug the “girl next door” type, but more the sultry, buxom bombshell. And as a lad, no one had me standing at full attention more than the incredible Raquel Welch. I was just a kid but I had an amazing appreciation for her killer body, complete with swollen appendages. You can blame God or nature, or the earth’s primal forces, but I was not in control of certain bodily reactions when Raquel appeared on a TV talk or game show. I used to scan the TV Guide when we got it to see if the starlet was appearing anywhere. That same era had the likes of Ursula Andress, Elke Sommer and Gina Lolabridgada, Sophia Loren, Brigette Bardot, and Margaret Nolan - incredibly voluptuous goddesses I couldn’t take my eyes off!

The same unexplainable force that changes the tides and pulls plants towards the sun had me more jacked up than ten Milky Ways and a jug of Bosco. I vividly remember watching Goldie Hawn dance in a bikini on Rowan and Martin’s Laughin, and thinking, “Now that sure as hell beats playing with GI Joe’s.”

Even though she wasn’t provocative, I always dug Elizabeth Montgomery as Samantha Stevens on Bewitched. Again, at an early age I recognized her beauty and just being a witch carried a sexiness all of its own. And again, with the ability to have anything he wanted, her retarded husband Darrin suffered from Major Nelson syndrome: “Don’t use any witchcraft to get what we want or need, Sam.” Whether it was York or Sargent, both Darrin’s were most definitely a couple of real “Dicks” when it came to Samantha’s powers.

No doubt today’s TV is a hell of a lot more sex oriented and I realize that my son is subject to those same unexplainable forces that his daddy was driven by. Plus with the internet and its 12,000 naughty sites, my kid doesn’t have to go rooting around my bedroom for pop’s “half-assed” hidden Playboy magazines (sorry dad, but you’ve gotta know I would have found them even if you buried them two miles under the goddamned septic tank.)

Listen, my intent here wasn’t to write a sexist piece and I’m certainly not advocating my kid look at porn or anything like that. I just know at 14 what my son is feeling as I think back to my early days of youth. And there’s no doubt everyone of you guys have similar memories and stories of your own – hopefully to share in the comments section below (and please do so because I’ll most likely need to convince my mother, wife, and daughter that I’m not a raging perverted psychopath, after they read this.)

Glad I could share such nice mammaries.

And hey, if you love the chicks from the sixties and seventies, there’s no better magazine to get your nostalgic dander up than Cinema Retro, published by my good buddy and film (and James Bond) aficionado, Lee Pfeiffer @ www.cinemaretro.com

- Zman

Follow Us on Twitter for All Your Testosterone Filled Updates > www.twitter.com/planetZman

Metal, Chrome, & Testosterone

Recently I attended “Bike Night” at JR Cigars in Whippany, New Jersey, with my 13 year old son, Tommy. It was just the gorgeous, perfect night – blue sky and late summer temperatures as motorcycles of every size, make, year, design, and color descended upon the parking lot for four hours of high-tech nostalgia and testosterone.

I admittedly don’t ride or own a bike, but the middle age crazy, mid life yearning in me really wants to something fierce. I just love motorcycles and the unbridled freedom they represent. My friends who ride say that just like smoking a cigar, cruising on a bike unwinds the mind and recharges your batteries, allowing you to become one with the bike and your surroundings. My wife thinks I’m out of my f’ing mind but why would I expect her to understand? She loathes cigars even thought those checks I get to support the family come straight from the tobacco world.

Long hairs, throwbacks, and white-collar dudes joined in unison to hang and celebrate the age-old joy of “riding on the wind.” They came from all walks of life (Yeah, and that would be me, “posing” on a custom Harley.) It was a male bonding extravaganza and the smell of finely aged burning leaf wafted through the air as Tommy and I oogled and ah’d at many an amazing piece of machinery and art. Of course all of the true blue Harley’s were out in full force as well as some very cool Victory’s, but I was definitely impressed with many of the Japanese bikes that have taken on the American “bad-boy” look. Honda, Yamaha, and Kawasakia make some bikes I couldn’t believe weren’t American made as their engineering and style were flat out awesome. Then there were Triumphs, BMW’s, and some old Norton’s on display, as well as my all-time favorite, the Indian.

A few years ago, Indian Motorcycles went belly up. I decided to check the web and found out that the company has been reformed with a brand new headquarters and a state of the art manufacturing facility in Kings Mountain, North Carolina. Four brand new 2009 gorgeous touring road models should be available this fall and that is just great news for a true American icon. You certainly don’t have to ride bikes to appreciate the amazing beauty and hand craftsmanship that goes into these masterpieces. Seems they’ve received a 30 million dollar cash infusion from investors, and the people at the top are hiring the best in the business at every position in order to bring this much heralded name back into the public eye. God I want one. Please mom and dad, oh can I please have an Indian for Christmas? Check ‘em out for yourself at: www.indianmotorcycle.com

There was this one dude, the classic rebel with the long white ponytail, dressed in the traditional biker garb and rode a beautiful “old school” style chopper that was in super mint condition despite being 40 years of age. With long handle bars, spoked wheels, a tiny little gas tank, chrome everywhere, and a rebellious gleaming swastika mounted above the sissy bar, this mutha was no wannabe poser as many an onlooker smiled in delight. And, the man was a perfect gentlemen which is definitely the norm at a gathering like this.

As riders of every type were in attendance, so was my pal, Dave Runfeldt, the honorable mayor of Lincoln Park, New Jersey (also Chiropractor extraordinaire and volunteer firefighter) and owner of a magnificent Harley Davidson Road King, special fireman’s edition. Emblazoned in screaming fire engine red and adorned with flames flowing up the fenders, this big boy turned a hell of a lot of heads – No, not Dave – the friggin’ bike, you dumbass!

And what bike rally wouldn’t be complete without the smokin’ hottie biker chicks clad in their short denim shorties, leather vests, and bulging twin-v’s. I give major kudos to the older gals – the plus 40 ladies who may have added a little umph to their personal cruising weight, but still had the moxie to parade their wares for a dad and his pubescent kid. It’s a pisser because Tommy tries to pretend he’s not looking but I’m sure he was feeling a tad warmer than usual on Friday night.

Incredible machines, tasty cigars, male camaraderie, and hot babes. Damn, what will they think of next?

Ride the wind, brother.

- ZMAN

Here’s the link for remaining 2010 bike and car shows at JR Cigars in Whippany, New Jersey…

——————————————————————————————————

http://www.jrwhippany.com/index.cfm?page=events_bikecarshow_2010

• All shows 6-10pm
• Grillin’ and Chillin’ outside until 8pm cooking up burgers and dogs
• Beer Specials in the bar and lounge
• Free to spectators and car/bike owners

Hey Gabbagool…yeah, I’m talkin’ to you. I got a rib recipe that’ll knock your freakin’ head into the next room. These sons of bitches are so sweet, so tender, so juicy and tasty that I had to whack my neighbor just to get the secret recipe from him. But since you came all the way to Jersey just to see me, I’ll let ya take a look – but don’t tell nobody…capeesh?

All right, I’m full of it. It’s actually my neighbor’s Sal & Carol’s own recipe. You see, we’ve been going to parties at their house for years and when they serve these ribs, everyone goes absolutely insane over them. A platter the size of Rosie Odonnell’s housecoat will disappear in minutes with the crowd begging for more. I’ve never tasted a sauce like this, anywhere, and could never put my finger on it. The flavor is intoxicating and I just had to get the lowdown. So last July fourth we had them over the house, they brought the ribs, and Carol was in a sharing mood and divulged her deep secret recipe to me. And since I am a hell of a guy, I’ll be a real mamaluke and share it with youz guys, too.

The Recipe…
I’ll start by letting you know that it’s not a traditional bbq sauce we use, but a base of molasses and brown sugar. You’re going to slow-cook these bad boys, using both the oven and your grill. Yeah, it’s a little bit of work, but I’d like to consider it a labor of love. Trust me, ya chooch.

Start with a nice rack of baby back ribs. (The Zman is always partial to a nice rack.)
Then we make a rub – Paprika, garlic powder, salt & pepper, cumin, and oregano.
Then we make the sauce –
Molasses – 1/4 cup
Brown sugar – 2 1/2 cups
Ketchup – 1/2 cup
Mustard – 1 tablespoon
Chinese Sweet and Sour Sauce – 2 packets (Go rip ‘em off from Chan’s up the Street)
Soy Sauce – 1 tablespoon
Worcestershire Sauce – 1 tablespoon
Fresh Garlic – 3 – 5 (cloves depending on your love for garlic) thinly sliced
Red Pepper Flakes – 1/2 teaspoon

Place the ingredients into a pot and onto the stove top, stir and bring it to a boil. Turn down the heat and just let it simmer.

Take your rub and coat both sides of the meat evenly.
Place the rack on a cookie sheet, uncovered – and put it in the oven for one hour set at 225.
After an hour, cover it with foil and pop it back in for another  2 hours. This lets it get all steamy in there as it slow-cooks in it’s own juices.

Ok, brutha, you’re ready for the grill. Set it to a medium flame and let the grill top heat up.

Place the rack on the grill top for a few minutes on each side until they get golden brown.

Now it’s time to brush on that sauce with a nice consistency.

Place the ribs back onto the grill again for only a couple of minutes, both sides – until the sauce starts to bubble and caramelize. The outside should get slightly charred and nice and crispy.

After you cut them up, you can pour the remainder of the sauce over the meat while it’s still hot.

And that’s it, my brother. North Jersey Style Killer Ribs to impress the hell out of Paulie, Christopher, Silvio, and Tony. And if Johnny Sacks and Phil Leotardo want some, don’t act like a douche bag – just give ‘em their cut. We don’t want no trouble over here.

Oofah! – Z

The Spring Issue of Cigar Magazine has arrived and I’m proud as all hell to have one of my finest articles published to date, entitled: The Smoking Life of Mr. Christian.

I’m very fortunate to have met and befriended some of the cigar industry’s biggest names and brightest stars, such as Lew Rothman, Daniel Nunez, Steve Saka, Gene Arganese, Rocky Patel, Benji Menendez, and of course, Christian Eiroa and the wonderful people at Camacho Cigars. This past July I attended the International Premium Cigars and Pipe Retailers (IPCPR) show at the Venetian in Vegas and spent three full days smoking my friggin’ brains out while shmoozin’ and hanging with so many good people. But I was most grateful to Christian, Dylan Austin and the Camacho gang for allowing me to make the comfy leather couch at their booth, my home base for three days.

Each night after the show, Camacho held a private party at the swank V-Bar, and all the beautiful people attended. Of course the million-dollar question is, “How the hell did I get in?”, but for some peculiar reason, the young Eiroa has a soft spot in his heart for me – probably to match the soft spot on my head. Fortunately we talked a lot and I was just blown away by the unbridled passion this man has for his craft. Christian has a tremendous sense of humor and can be a real ball breaker (and it’s most fun when you’re NOT the target), but most of all he’s a true Latin American born gentleman. While he’s great conversationalist and has a lot to say, it’s when you get him talking about blending cigars – then you see a fire in his eyes while turning very serious about the only thing he claims he was born to do.

Naturally when I got back home, I pitched Cigar Magazine on writing an article on the guy who is one of the new pioneers in an industry that so badly needs good people to step up and lead the charge. Not only am I quite happy with this most recent piece, but maybe the nicest satisfaction of all was Christian’s personal phone call to me yesterday, thanking me and the Cigar Mag staff so sincerely for doing him and his father proud. You can only imagine what that meant to me.

So I invite you to get your hands on the new Spring Issue that has some wonderful articles that you can light one up to and relax. My pal Miranda “Maduro Mistress” Osborne has a really nice story on CAO’s cigar dame, Aylin Ozgener. The Connecticut Valley, Then and Now is a wonderful journey through America’s north east cigar country. A Stroll Through Tampa’s Cigar Past is nostalgia at its finest, bringing you the history of our county’s most historic cigar manufacturing facilities. A Brief Recollection of Politics and Cigars waxes poetically about political power and handrolled stogies. The Art of the Cigar displays some beautiful Spring motifs from days past. Our Man in Havana, Simon Chase looks at The Origin of the Churchill Cigar. My bud, Steve Nathan reminisces about Drug Stores from old days who carried the finest and most fragrant pipe tobacco in the land. And the cover story is an excellent one by Frankie Seltzer, about Theo Folz and Jim Colluci, the Dynamic Duo of Altadis. And of course, Lew’s parting words always cap the entire read so nicely.

You can visit the website for a subscription, or go to JR Cigars site for a single issue. May as well purchase some sticks while you’re there. No they didn’t pay me to say that, but it sure doesn’t hurt.

- ZMAN

Subscriptions can be ordered by clicking the link below…

http://www.cigar-magazine.com

Individual copies of Cigar Magazine can be ordered by> CLICKING HERE!

Frosted Flakes), turn on one of three network channels and laugh like a couple of little mo-fo’s until our mom made us go outside and play. Anybody remember Courageous Cat and Minute Mouse, Underdog, Tennessee Tuxedo Sherman and Mr. Peabody? These were freakin’ classics – long before computers, the internet, video games, or cable and satellite television – and long before political correctness.

In these animated classics, you could guarantee that sometime within the next ten minutes, some person or talking animal was going to completely get his ass kicked. Anvils fell from the sky, trains appeared through living rooms, dynamite blew shit up, dudes fell from twenty story buildings, and shotguns blasts to the face caused heavy gun powder burns at best. Popeye and Bluto unmercifully beat the bejezuz out of one another, the Coyote continually got his balls broken, and Tom the cat was always the unlucky recipient of a sledgehammer to the skull instead of the mouse dinner he had forever dreamed of. And, if you remember, many a character smoked a big, fat cigar.

Afterwards, we’d go out and play football or street hockey, tag, ride bikes, or whatever the hell, and we only came in for lunch and dinner. We rode our bicycles really far to another kid’s house, there were no cell phones to call moms, and the thought of a child predator lurking about was the absolute furthest thing from a parent’s mind.

Damn, those are great memories. I dug my early childhood. And you know what? Those cartoons subjected me to more violence than most Sopranos episodes (although I do admit it would have been pretty sweet to see Yosemitee Sam receive a good old fashioned, Jersey style curbing.) But I never thought about hurting other children, or causing vile mischief. I never wanted to stick explosives in someone’s pants, run them over with a bus, or bash their head in with a wooden club. (And don’t even get me started on the Three Stooges.) And yet I grew up to be a responsible adult, with a wife, two great kids, and a nice home.

Amazing – there were no politically correct do-gooders saving me from myself, but yet I turned out all right. There was no one rating kids shows to make sure that there’s one white kid, one black, one Asian, and one Hispanic in every episode. And cartoons weren’t on from morning ‘til night with their own dedicated channels – completely desensitizing kids where they think that this is the only type of programming on the tube. When I was young I also watched adult shows with my parents like Rowan and Martin’s Laugh In, the Dean Martin Celebrity Roasts, Mission Impossible, All In the Family and the cast of Norman Lear spin-offs – not ten straight episodes of Sponge Bob Ass Pants, That’s So F@#king Raven, and other PC Disney Dreck.

But I turned out all right. Thank you mom and dad for raising me correctly – but with all the violent programming and un-supervision – I turned out just fine. (I know some of you may be debating that very thought, but I like to amuse myself, so just keep it quiet, thanks.)

OK, so I smoke a cigar or two, yeah, I admit it – picked that nasty habit up from Looney Tunes. But it’s all cool… I’m suing Warner Brothers for two hundred and thirty-million dollars for exposing me to second-hand cartoon cigar smoke.

-ZMAN