74.7 degrees, 78%

That was the temperature and humidity in the hazy "back room" of Cigar King at the heart of Skokie on the outskirts of Chicago. A dripping humidifier in the far corner pumped out a moist cloud like a smoke machine in a 70s dance club. The space, the size of my first studio apartment, was lined from floor to ceiling with hundreds of boxes of imports -- ranging from unlabeled hand-rolled ones for $2.95 each to high enders for a couple of Jacksons.

The testosterone level would have registered at "TILT" if there was a meter for that on the premises. Although no one looked askance in my direction, I could tell I had stumbled into a secret haven that rivaled the Water Buffaloes Lodge, or more seriously, the Free Masons. After purchasing a box of Drew Estates' Acid Kuba Kuba and a couple of Lars Tetens, I soaked in the decor of the main "rec" room as we made a quick exit -- walls adorned with mounted animal heads and stuffed raptors; a couple of old but badass-looking mafia-types sizing up their shots at a pool table; a dozen half-occupied leather lazy boy recliners arranged neatly before two flat screen TVs broadcasting the Cubs vs. Phillies.

I gratefully gulped in a lungful of fresh air when we emerged into the sunlight. Strangely, I felt older, wiser, and more experienced after having stepped into that other world.