Christopher Ian Thoma's Blog, page 34

Review – William Lawson’s Super Spiced Blended Scotch Whisky, (No Age Stated), 35%

As a Lutheran pastor, as soon as I said it, I knew how surreal it must have sounded to the little girl.

I had downloaded and was watching the movie “Risen” with my son Joshua. Jen was sort of watching it, too. She was sitting next to me with her headphones on and listening to Dave Ramsey, or something like that.

The movie, while it started off pretty well, became the typical low-budget attempt at retelling a Biblical event, with most of the drama being passing camera shots of awestruck character expressions. After a while, and I really hate to say it, but even the Jesus character was so annoyingly shallow and disconnected from the Biblical account that I was glad when he finally ascended because by then at least the director’s less-than-adequate attempt at cinematic exegesis had ended.

But as I said, it started off pretty well. The crucifixion scene was interesting. There was a combat scene between a Roman troop and the Zealots, even adding a moment when Barabbas (you know, the guy Pontius Pilate let go instead of Jesus) gets his due. That was an interesting spin. But it was during one of these violent scenes that Evelyn came skipping through.

“What are you watching?”

I paused the movie.

“We’re watching a movie called ‘Risen,’” I said.

“What’s it about?” she pried.

“It’s about Jesus,” I answered, “and it’s not for you, so get going.”

Silence and a confounded gaze.

Jen and Josh gave uncomfortable glances, and even though they knew what I meant, it didn’t render the moment as anything less than bizarre. Here before this little baptized lamb was a pleasant gathering of half her family participating in something that had to do with Jesus, and yet it wasn’t for her.

I wish she would have asked me nearer to the ending of the movie. I would have said something like, “It’s a really lame movie with a guy who I think was struck on the head so that now he always has a really goofy smile on his face. Oh yeah, and he’s pretending to be Jesus.” She would have accepted that wholeheartedly and moved on to her Legos, probably offering a quick rendering from Matthew 24 about the dangers of false Christs. She’s only six, but she’s that good. And with that, I wouldn’t have had the overwhelming feeling that I was going to hell.

Speaking of false Christs, have you tried the William Lawson’s Super Spiced Blended Scotch Whisky? With all the folks out there clamoring for me to try and review the cheaper stuff, I’m surprised you answered “no.” And yet I’m heartened by your answer because you have avoided a charlatan Scotch.

First of all, it was $9.99 for a 750 ml bottle. That should tell you something. Well, maybe most of you. Or maybe not. Who knows anymore?

Anyway, one of the cardinal rules of Scotch-ness is that it must be at least 40% ABV to be considered Scotch. This edition is only 35%, which means it is a liqueur and isn’t technically Scotch, even though the label so loosely describes it as such. Kind of like a Jesus who, instead of lifting up into the clouds in His ascension as described in the Bible, sort of walks off into the sunset like a character from an American Western, expect this cowboy explodes into a burst of sunlight and drifting dandelion fuzzies. This was the kind of infusion of artsy syrup that rendered the aforementioned film useless for a guy like me.

By the way, the label of the William Lawson’s reports that it is “infused with spices, natural flavor, & caramel color,” or in other words, artsy syrup.

The nose is that of an opened can of Dr. Pepper that has been sitting in a hot car for quite a while. That is the best description you’ll find anywhere. There’s nothing else to this detritus. It is a decarbonated bottle of warm Dr. Pepper.

It’s the same in your mouth, except along comes the realization that someone must have pranked you while you were away from your vehicle and dropped a few cherry flavored cough drops into the can. They dissolved into a sorghum with a medicinal nip at that back of the throat, which may, for some, cause the opposite of what the lozenges were designed to prevent. Kind of like a movie that attempts to coax its viewers to give Christianity a try, and yet does nothing but reaffirm for them all of their reasons for avoiding it. I mean, for one, the Apostle Bartholomew literally acts like a dope smoking hippie. He can’t stop laughing, even as he’s being questioned by Clavius, the Roman tribune. It’s like he just finished a brownie “infused with spices…”

The finish is long, but in the sense that you’ll need a 2500 PSI power washer to remove the pharmaceutical silt this stuff paints onto your tongue. I dumped what was left in my glass once I had my thoughts in order. This is all around bad stuff.

So, take heed, for many will come saying, “Look, here is Scotch!” or “Behold, there it is!” Do not believe it. For false Scotches will appear and present themselves to deceive even the elect, if that were possible. But see, I have told you ahead of time.

Review – Bushmill’s Blended Irish Whiskey, (No Age Stated), 40%

“Yeah, we used to be members there at your church about fifteen years ago,” the voice sang at the other end of the line.

“When you left, where did you end up?” I asked.

“Well,” she stumbled slightly, “we never really settled on a church home after that.”

“But fifteen years is a long time to be without a church,” I noted. “That’s a long time to be away.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Life is a pretty busy thing.”

“It sure is,” I responded without hesitation. “Where are you folks living now? Maybe I can help get you connected somewhere.”

“We still live just down the road from you guys,” she said.

A little surprised, “So, did something happen here to make you leave?”

“Not really,” she affirmed. “It’s just that Bob isn’t all that interested in organized religion, and then the kids finished up in your school. Things got busy after that.”

“So are you thinking of coming back?”

“Oh, no,” she said with a surprising confidence. “We’re going to just keep looking. I’m calling because our oldest daughter, Amy, she lives in Indianapolis and she just had a baby.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks. She wants to get her baptized there at her old church. She asked me to give you a call to see what we needed to do.”

“Is she a member of a Lutheran church there in Indy?” I probed. “I’d want to chat with her pastor just to make sure everything is in good order.”

“I don’t think she’s a member anywhere,” she stumbled again. “And her boyfriend, Cal, he’s an atheist, but he’s pretty agreeable to most everything she wants to do. Kinda like Bob.”

Still parsing the conversation in my mind, “Well, it sounds like finding a church home wouldn’t necessarily be an issue for Amy and your new granddaughter. How about I call a church in Indy and get the pastor there to connect with them? He could talk with Amy and Cal, not just about baptism, but about marriage, too. You never know, maybe that would be a way for Cal to connect.”

“I suppose,” she said, “but my daughter’s a lot like her dad. She’s not big into organized religion. She just wants to baptize the baby.”

Experience suggested that I knew the conversation’s most likely destination, and so there was a brief bit of silence before I eventually continued.

We spoke for another twenty minutes or so, but I only spoke to the issue at hand – baptism. And all along the way I attempted to lead her, carefully and lovingly, to understand that the Lord’s mandate for baptism is two-fold. In Matthew 28:19-20, He shows that baptism is comprised of both the divine act and the teaching that either precedes (adults) or follows (children). With regard to infants and young children, if the intent on the part of the parents is merely to baptize but not to raise the child in the faith as Christ instructs, then there is an awful lot for the parents to consider and eventually confess before any pastor who takes his job seriously can administer the baptism faithfully.

In the end, she was unconvinced and more or less demanded that I give her daughter what she wanted because, as former members, it was, well, their right. They’d given money in the offering plate whenever they actually came to church. She volunteered in the school. Bob helped fix a few things around here on a Saturday or two. We obviously owed her.

Can you guess how she received my decision to forego the baptism until we could, as I humbly suggested, “get some of the situation a little more sorted out?” Yep, you guessed it. She was offended. No, let me rephrase that. She was pissed. How dare I refuse her? And she did her best to unleash a stinging barrage of insults, calling me an unloving Pastor, saying she’s glad they left the church and that she couldn’t figure out how anyone would still want to attend my church. She gave a final jab, “I know another Lutheran church just down the street from you that will do it. They’re very accepting over there.”

She’s right about two things. Sometimes I wonder how folks can continue to be a part of a church like this, one that stands in such stark contrast to the world around her. And second, there is a church just down the road from us that will give this woman pretty much anything she wants. I know the church. I know the pastor. He’d baptize her cat and its litter box if she asked him to.

Anyway, the conversation is eerily similar to my experience with Bushmill’s Irish Whiskey. It began cordially enough, the nose offering an open-minded nous of red berries and vanilla sugar. But then I engaged in the discussion.

It was unbalanced, to say the least. At first, it gave the impression that it could open up into a skyline of possibility – roasted cashews, honey, and strawberries – but then there was a rather sudden turn toward a caustic char, as if the nut, honey, and berry contrivance, which started out pretty well, was left on the burner for much too long resulting in the need to suffocate it with chemical fire foam.

The finish was a medium rant of accusing pepper – too much pepper. It leaves you saddened with the result but wiser from the attempt.

And some people wonder why a pastor would find room in his life for devotion to whisky and its narrative…

Review – Mitchell’s Blended Scotch Whisky, (No Age Stated), 40%

Evelyn poked herself in the eye with a pencil? That’s great! I mean, that’s terrible. Yeah, that’s horrible. At least it was the eraser end. I’ll get her in to see the good Doctor ASAP! Hey, Madeline, do me a favor. Pour a little bit of the Ardbeg Perpetuum into this terrine…

What’s that, you say?! Josh needs a physical? Me! Me! I’ll take him! Get your shoes on, Josh, and before we go, put a little bit of the Benromach Peat Smoke into this empty Balvenie bottle…

(Gasp) Madeline needs her immunizations?! I’m on it! Let’s get going, Madeline. Hey, Harrison! Come down here and put a little bit of the Springbank 10-year-old into this container for the good Doctor while Maddy and I are getting ready to leave…

Harrison, you’re feeling a little warm. I think you have a fever. We’d better get you to the Doctor. Jen, would you mind pouring a little bit of the Smokehead into that empty Bulleit bottle in my cabinet…?

How’s everyone feeling today? Anyone got an upset stomach? Or a headache? That splinter in your finger looks terrible, Harrison. Madeline, you may have pink-eye. You’re looking kind of pale, Josh. Aww, you bumped your head on your closet door again, Evelyn? I’m concerned. I think we should get you checked out…

I’ve shared before that our pediatrician is a Scotch drinker. In fact, you can pretty much guarantee that the reason you and your offspring are waiting 45 minutes in the other examination room is because my spawn has been given the medical attention he or she needed and now the good Doctor and I, well, we’re talking whisky.

Sorry about that.

I try to bring the Doc samples, and he does the same. This time around, I’d taken Josh in to be stabbed a few times with needles – you know, making sure he doesn’t contract meningitis and all that – and while the nurse was busy spearing the boy, the Doc was in his office fetching me a generous sampling of Mitchell’s Blended Scotch Whisky, which is an amalgam of Campbeltown single malts. Good man.

I’ve become quite fond of the Campbeltown whiskies, and this blend is no exception to my affection. It’s well-formulated and quite flavorful.

A gentle swirl in the glass and this onliest batch gives a gentle puff of a pulpy blackberry and almond crumb transfusion. Just beyond this is a loaf of freshly baked challah bread. And who doesn’t like butter-drenched challah bread?

A sip and savor brings to mind a familiar Springbank smokiness, and the berries and nuts noted in the nose assume this outlying vapor.

The finish is relatively short – like many sweet-malt confectionaries often are. The cassonade nature of this blended whisky leaves it to serve at the conclusion of a fine meal, capping an evening fare of prime rib, steamed carrots, garlic potatoes, and fresh bread.

A fine after-dinner dram. Or after a doctor appointment.

Speaking of…

Hey, kids! Who wants to come help Dad cut some wood on the table saw?! What’s that? Sure, even the six-year-old is welcome to try. In fact, you can go first. See if you can figure it out, honey. Oh, Madeline, you’re adorable. We don’t need protective eyewear. Goggles are for wimps. No, Harry, don’t tell Mom what we’re doing. She’s very, very busy. But hey, how about we build her something from the wood scraps? Run and fetch the nail gun.

Review – The Quiet Man, Traditional Irish Whiskey Blend, (No Age Stated), 40%

I think if I were imprisoned for any particular reason, I’d do well in solitary confinement, especially as I consider what Harvard law professor Mark Tushnet said recently about Christian guys like me in this post culture-war environment. He referred to us as “the functional equivalent of racists and Nazis” and said we need to be dealt with as such, which means prison and death.

I wonder what color the prison jumpsuits are these days. Are they still orange? I guess it probably depends on the prison.

Of course, I wouldn’t choose prison or solitary confinement. I’m just saying that solitary confinement probably wouldn’t work as a punitive measure in my case because I’d most likely spend my time collecting and creating stories in my mind. I’d quietly sing hymns and practice rhymes. I’d whisper works that I know by heart, whether they be from the Six Chief Parts of Luther’s Small Catechism, or jovial bits of prose by Shel Silverstein. I’d probably pass the time not all that bothered by the deliberate sensory deprivation being imposed upon me because on any given day, I already have more sensory emittances than I know what to do with. The quiet, contemplative time would only serve me in gathering more.

I think Albert Einstein sort of agreed with me when he said, “The monotony and solitude of a quiet life stimulates the creative mind.” I’m not so sure he was thinking on prison, and yet, when it comes to monotony and solitude, it certainly fits. And if Tushnet gets his way, a quiet man leading a quiet life in a quiet little room with a steel door I shall be.

In the meantime, let’s ponder another “Quiet Man” of sorts. I won’t go into the history of the Irish phrase “an fear ciuin,” which essentially is an endearing, almost reverent reference to a barkeep as a quiet man, or someone who listens to you confess and can be counted on to never reveal your secrets. Instead of spending time chasing that down, what I will do instead is tell you why this relatively obscure whiskey is worth your time, that is, as long as you still retain your freedom and are able to acquire it.

My good friend Sean Jonna sent me home from his shop one afternoon with this as a gift. Putting it into the sack, he assured me that he liked it a lot and that knowing me, I probably would, too. While I was grateful, I wasn’t sure that I’d like it as much as he suspected. Irish whiskies, like Bourbons, are a finicky bout for me. I struggle to enjoy them. They have plenty to offer when it comes to essences and flavor, but Irish whiskies just seem to retain the medicinal alcohol nip that so many other whiskies manage to avoid. Still, I thanked him and promised him an honest review. Good or bad, I would share the experience.

The nose of The Quiet Man is a gentle ablution of malt, citrus, light brown sugar, with barely a draft of something chemical – just barely.

Once you have this stuff in your mouth, the chemical you thought you smelled before becomes a more noticeable metallic flavor. The brown sugar is there, and so are the mandarins, but it seems a little bit like they’ve been warmed on the stove in a tin cup. Surprisingly, it isn’t all that bad. It’s a new arrangement that one would consider trying again.

The finish gives over something new – vanilla – but this comes and goes so swiftly that you need another quick sip and swallow to say for sure that’s what it was. The rest of what the dram has already communicated stays a bit longer before drifting away quietly into memory.

The Quiet Man is one whiskey that is strange enough that I think I might miss it if I was ever imprisoned – but not enough to trade favors with anyone on my cell block in order to secure it. It’s an okay dram, but not that okay.

Review – Teeling’s Irish Whiskey, Small Batch, (No Age Stated), 46%

I heard from an Irish friend that there’s a reason that Jesus wasn’t born in Ireland. It’s because He’d be hard pressed to find three wise men and a virgin. No offense is meant here. I think Irish folks are great. First, these are the words of an Irishman; and second, I’ve never been to Ireland and I don’t know the hidden mind of God, so in all honesty, I can’t say for sure if that’s what Jesus was thinking or not. Sounds plausible, though.

I heard from an English friend that the Irish are skilled diplomats, so much so that they could tell you to go to hell and you’d look forward to the trip. Again, I don’t necessarily know if this is true because I’ve never met a real live Irish diplomat. Although Chaim Herzog, a child of Belfast, raised in Dublin and an ambassador of Israel to the United Nations, gave a brilliant speech in 1975 spurning the resolution proposed by the Arab states entitled “Zionism is Racisim,” and the speech, in my mind, is one of the greatest ever given. I suspect that this diplomatic idiom could be true. Still, I doubt the cinematic views of hell’s landscape have much on Detroit, which I already see more than I prefer.

There is one thing that I know with absolute certainty – Irish whiskey has a very strong body of devoted disciples. Strangely, I learned this while a student at a Lutheran seminary. There were a few men on campus who were so fanatical that, on Friday nights, they went around door-to-door like Jehovah’s Witnesses, preaching the good news of the Irish whiskey they’d be pouring in their dorm rooms later that evening. I did to them what I do to every other cultist knocking at my door. With Scotch in hand, I threaten to call the cops.

Anyway, the devotion to Irish whiskey is stronger than most. In fact, maybe you could think of the devotion in this way: What’s the difference between an Irish whiskey disciple and God? God doesn’t wander around all day thinking He’s an Irish whiskey disciple.

Do you get it? I hope so. Because this is the jeopardy into which I cast myself when I put the Teeling Whiskey Small Batch edition under the microscope and then face off with those who have a sense of the divine about themselves, telling them…well…this stuff is…sort of, okay.

I thought I sensed mint in the Teeling’s nosing, but the alcohol smell sure was overwhelming, so much so that it seemed to cast everything else it was offering as mere silhouettes.

The palate matches the nose in that the alcohol is strong, muscling out what so desperately desires to be vanilla and spiced citrus.

In the finish, there’s a nictate of the rum casks used to bring this whiskey to completion, but again, the alcohol bite shoves it away, making the rum far too short while retaining an overall sourness that carries the finish further than one would prefer.

Having said all of this, I’m fully prepared to receive a few death threats here and there from the enthusiasts. That’s okay. But what you must realize is that as a pastor, you can tell me to go to hell, but I can actually give you directions.

Review – Jameson Blended Irish Whiskey, (No Age Stated), 40%

The Sunday of Memorial Day weekend, my adult Bible study group was a bit smaller than usual, and so rather than continuing on with our current study of Saint Matthew’s Gospel and risking a good number of folks missing too much, I asked the ones who were in attendance if there were any other topics in particular that they’d prefer to consider together. There were various ideas, and we did eventually settle on one, but at one point, one of the younger members said jokingly, “Just go with whatever comes first to your mind, Pastor.”

Really?

Okay.

And so I shared the first free-floater that emerged.

“There are two kinds of people,” I said. “There are those who abide by the carpet level settings on their vacuum cleaner, and there are those who could care less, just vacuuming anything and everything on the lowest setting.”

They laughed, and for a minute or so, a few in the group started to describe which of the two they were.

I really don’t know where the thought came from. That’s just the way my brain works. But I was serious. And I should add that while such free-thinking liberties afforded to me could be hazardous in certain contexts, in that short moment, I’d already managed to plot how this might be carried around to a theological factuality worthy of our time. In fact, the first thing that came to mind was the Parable of the Good Seed in Matthew 13:24-30. Look it up. I bet you’ll be able to see the connection.

Anyway, we ended up talking about other things – namely, the current agenda items being contemplated by the Michigan Board of Education, and with that, we were able to think out loud, discuss the issues, and ultimately venture into the Scriptures for understanding. It was a worthwhile exercise. At least I thought so.

Still, the “two-kinds-of-people” vacuum cleaner analogy needs a home.

How about I change it up a little and suggest this instead?

There are two kinds of people. There are those who adore and defend Jameson Irish Whiskey, and there are those who want to tie those folks to railroad tracks.

I dare not say which of these I might be, although I will say that I cannot figure out why so many are devoted to this pigswill. I opened the bottle and set it aside, and then I stooped down to grab a glencairn. When I rose to where I was before, the air had been tainted by the obvious smell of rubbing alcohol.

Now, I know what you are thinking. You’re thinking that’s such a tired description for any booze with a medicinal smell. I’m serious, though. It really does smell just like the isopropyl alcohol I use to do what’s called the “kindling of the new flame” during our Easter Vigil service. And I should know because I’ve been performing that rite and ceremony for almost ten years now.

There really is nothing else to its scent.

It’s a bit of a different story when it comes to the palate. The alcohol is still there, but it is equaled, perhaps even slightly overcome by green apples, souring malt, and copper.

The medium finish matches the nose in that there’s a briny aftertaste of alcohol which allows very little room for what seemed to be a grapefruit struggling to emerge.

This certainly isn’t the best Irish whiskey I’ve ever had, although I suppose I might go ahead and sip it if that’s all that is available at the wedding, or bar mitzvah, or whatever. I’ll probably never buy it on purpose ever again. But considering the two kinds of people… How about you just consider me as one who wouldn’t ever consider tying anyone to railroad tracks, but depending upon the Jameson defender’s fervency, I might be willing to drop by Home Depot to get the rope.

Review – Glenfiddich, The Original, (No Age Statement), 40%

It’s “fleshing” out the details, not “flushing” them out. And while I know that the conversation may sometimes require dealing in the sewage-like dregs of miry mortality, still, a plan is fleshed and not flushed. Meat is put onto its bones. If you feel that “flushed” is more appropriate, then it probably wasn’t a good plan.

It’s “piqued” not “peaked.” You piqued my interest, which means that you awakened it to something fascinatingly new. I suppose that it could be reasonably argued that if you peaked it, then you’ve carried it up into the heavens, and let me tell you, that’s quite a feat these days because very few and far too little has had the ability to do that for me. Just sayin’.

It’s an enlarged “prostate” not “prostrate.” One is a part of the human anatomy and the other is a position of humility, namely, being face down on the ground. And although these two words are differentiated visually by a single letter, I’d be willing to submit that they do have a slight connection. If a man is kicked in the one, he’ll most likely end up positioned in the other.

It’s “peace” of mind and not “piece” of mind. To hear the doctor tell you that you do not have cancer is to be given peace of mind. In the other form, I’m figuring that you’d be clear on at least two things. The first is that your doctor is Hannibal Lecter and what he has just handed over could be telling of his plans for you. Second, you need to find a new doctor, like, right now.

Glenfiddich is pronounced “Glen-FID-ick” and not “Glen-FID-itch.” I know that most Americans probably don’t hear it vocalized as such, nevertheless, I speak the truth.

As you can see, I listen for these things. Why? Because in many ways they serve as indicators to help me home in (not hone in) on the people who may very well have a much fuller wealth of knowledge from which to draw insight about a great many things. They are naturally precise in their labor to communicate and effortlessly meticulous with the detail. They just know that it’s “sleight” of hand and not “slight” of hand, and they know why it matters.

These are the folks behind the Glenfiddich “The Original” edition. They’ve concocted a careful prize.

The nose of this splendid dram is a near-divine combination of smells from the distillery’s malt room and an imagined neighboring bakery. I smelled freshly baked Italian loaf, cooling cinnamon bread, singed malt, and red currants.

The palate delivers on the dreamy locale, according a bite of the cinnamon bread, a sip of warmed honey-milk, and an extremely distant breath of smoke that seems less like peat and more like an embering edge of the oak tray used to remove the bread from the oven.

The finish begs another sip. It is barely medium, and yet it isn’t to be considered as falling short. There’s just enough time to receive the honeyed malt before it invites you back to see if you’ll discover more – and you do. A second run gives over the smoking bread crumbs on the tray.

I’d say this is a fine whisky, and I’d add the suspicion that while I know Glenfiddich is not beside a bakery, I wonder if they are hiding one within their gates, suggesting that the distillery and the bakery are one and the same (not one “in” the same). Of course I’m pondering the possibility, but until they make such a revelation, I’ll simply wait with bated (not baited) breath.

Review – Buffalo Trace, White Dog Rye Mash, (No Age Stated), 62.5%

Flowers are nice. Terrorists should be turned into human mayonnaise. At this moment, my guitar doesn’t have any strings. I love Florida and want to live there – like, right now – although I just read an article saying that African crocodiles have somehow begun to flourish there. That sucks, because they get pretty big, are fearless, and eat about 200 people a year. I saw a car driving down the street with what looked like, among other things, a child’s safety seat strapped the roof. It made me a little uneasy.

I think I may need back surgery, but my yard looks great this year. There’s a cardinal sitting on a branch just outside the window nearest to me as I type. No, not a Roman Catholic. A bird. He just flew away. No, not the bird. The Roman Catholic. I think the wind caught his chasuble and sent him up and away like a kite. Weird. Social media has truly become a surrogate reality. All my best friends are avatars. I didn’t like that movie “Avatar.” It was too propogandish. Ever see the movie “Harold and Maude”? Good flick. From the 70s, but still worth watching. Cat Stevens did the soundtrack.

Are kids actually capable of rinsing their dishes and putting them into the dishwasher after a meal? I don’t think they are. I think there’s some sort of chemical that stirs up in their brains that causes them to experience instructional blackout as they get closer to the device. I feel like chess could really be my game. But there’s a problem. I’m completely disinterested in trying to make it my game. I’d rather read stuff. And write stuff, too.

Is it okay to not write “happy birthday” on someone’s Facebook page if most of what they post annoys me? I hope Twitter goes bankrupt, by the way. They do a lousy job of fighting spam accounts. I really need to clean the basement. Actually, no, the kids need to do that. It’s their junk.

I think a very large bird was murdered in my backyard by something even larger. I checked online and the feathers appear to be from a hawk. Or maybe someone left a traditional Native American headdress back there and it just came apart. But that wouldn’t explain the guts. Not too worry. I just finish mowing. It’s all cleaned up.

I wish I could own a Great Dane. I can’t, though. My son is dreadfully allergic to pretty much everything, especially dogs.

Do you think God will actually allow America to continue existing for much longer? I can’t help but feel as though He just reached for His driver and is in the process of teeing us up on a very short par three. I haven’t played golf in at least fifteen years. I think chess might be my game. Or racecar driving. Sometimes I think I should have been a racecar driver. But not NASCAR. Well, on second thought, that’d be okay. I could handle seeing couch pillows and belt buckles with my number displayed.

Had enough?

Now you know what it was like for me to sip the Buffalo Trace White Dog Rye Mash. This dram is a shotgun blast of booze and so many threads of spontaneous flavor that I find it difficult to objectively like or dislike the edition.

But I think I mostly like it.

The essence of the nose is all rye, although it so strangely bears itself as a dry red cabernet being heated in a saucepan in preparation for some mushrooms or maybe a flank steak. Very ADHD. If I were blindfolded and completely unaware of what was being set before me, I would have selected the latter rather than the former.

The palate gives salted sweet corn minus the butter, sour oatmeal spruced with grape jelly and cream. And then there’s the spicy cedar plank. Where did that come from? This stuff was fed from the still directly into bottles with no aging.

For the octane level, this stuff is easy to sip, finishing with strong rye and only a slight burn.

Yeah, I think I like it. Good job, Buffalo Trace. A fine whiskey. I’d almost written you off, but now I know I need to give some of the other White Dog editions a try. They’re not Great Danes, but they are “dogs” that I could keep in the house nonetheless.

Review – Jameson Blended Irish Whiskey, Select Reserve, Black Barrel, (No Age Stated), 40%

I had a conversation with the sunset last night.

Having begun to paint her vistas in pinks and deep blues while she skipped between the houses beyond my front porch, I commented that she looked rather lovely and asked if she minded that I join her. She did not answer, although I already knew that I was welcome. It was but a few minutes prior that she’d come around, peering so intently through the pane of my window, looking for me, as if proffering a religion or selling a product.

There on my front porch, a glencairn in hand, she sent for a special radiance and cast it to me. I lifted my glass to catch it, and was right in the raising. A single, squinting eye toward the glass, the Jameson Select Reserve Black Barrel held her luster as it turned in the glencairn, and with my continued gazing, the world around me was softer, quieter, more golden.

Stealing a sip, “I have enough to share,” I mentioned to her and looked away to my front door. “Shall I fetch you a drop or two?”

She said nothing, but instead shifted her posture and took back a portion of her brilliance. She warned that she was well into her departure and would soon be fully gone.

“I’ll speak of the whiskey, then,” I offered. “That is, if you’ll listen.”

The leaves of the trees jostled in the wind, and with each flutter her trickling beams sought my face, affirming that she so dearly desired that I would tell her of things she might never know.

“Can you smell it?” I asked. “It’s the ambience of a cloudless morning, dear madam – a place in your light at the breakfast table with a slice of buttered toast and the choice of honey or orange marmalade.”

She smiled. I smiled, too.

“And there’s a bit of your warmth in this meal,” I continued. “It’s given in the sipping. The bread is fresh and the butter has so easily overlayed its surface, lying in wait for a selection of topping. It would seem that the marmalade was the choice.”

She smiled again, but it was much fainter than before.

“Hurry,” her dimming confided. “I cannot remain for another.”

I savored and thought carefully.

“The finish is as a flickering candle set upon the seashore. Its flame does not keep with the breezes, but the same winds give life to its smoldering wick. In this is a fine malt, and this time, the honey.”

No sooner than I’d spoken these last words, was I beset by the darkness and the nighttime noises of crickets and the gloating frogs in the pond.

“I’m glad I was able to share this with you,” I whispered to myself. “It is a fine dram.”

I rose to my feet and took one last look to the fading horizon. I lifted my glass. “This one will serve us again, dear lady. Perhaps at another of summer’s eves.”

The pinks and deep blues had become the beginnings of a pitched black amidst an astral sky. The moon was there. I only noticed him as I stepped to retreat from the oncoming insects.

I paused and stole another sip. “I have enough to share,” I mentioned to him and motioned to my front door. “Shall I fetch you a drop or two?”

Review – Jim Beam, Kentucky Straight Bourbon, 4 Years Old, 40%

I watched him pull into the parking lot and park his red Ford Focus right next to my Explorer. It was only by chance that I’d lifted my gaze from the scrolling news feeds on my mobile phone to the restaurant window and the world beyond it. He was somewhat of a shorter gentleman, maybe in his 60s, and carrying enough extra body weight that he genuinely struggled to get free from his car. But once he did, he hobbled along toward the entrance with unusually tiny strides, took a careful pause to step up the curb, and then made his way in.

I could see his reflection in the window as He passed right behind me and my salad on his way to the restroom.

I returned to the news and my meal.

It was a short moment later that the man opened the bathroom door and retreated to his car with the same cartoonish pace and posture, but instead of wedging himself into the pilot’s chair, he reached into the passenger seat to retrieve something – two things, actually.

He closed the door and returned toward the restaurant, this time with what was clearly a pair of pliers and a vice. Once again, his Lilliputian steps carried him behind me and into the restroom.

I was only a few paces away from the restroom door, and so I listened, scrolling through the news feeds to hide my curiosity.

A few minutes passed. There was a flush. In the next moment I heard the sound of hands being washed followed by the snapping of the paper towel dispenser. And then the door opened.

As before, his ghost-like image hovered before me in the window as he passed, making his way upon minikin steps back to his car. I saw him toss the tools into the passenger seat and then begin what looked to be a well-rehearsed ceremony for assuming the driver’s seat.

He drove away.

There was no interaction with the any of the restaurant staff so I’m not thinking he was a service man. He didn’t flush and flush and flush again, indicative of a repair in progress. He was only in there for a few minutes. The toilet flushed once, he washed his hands, and then he left. This was clearly a pit stop.

So why the tools?

Maybe I don’t want to know. It would most likely only serve to sear my nerves for the days when it may be necessary for me to take tools into the restroom. The Lord only knows that I’ll probably need to haul a table saw and a couple of saw horses in there, having first called ahead to different establishments along the route to make sure they have an outlet near the stall.

I will admit, however, that I much rather prefer being forced to lug power tools into a public restroom in order to accomplish what needs to be accomplished than be stuck with a dram of Jim Beam in my hand. I don’t care how beloved this stuff is. It’s crap. Putting the best construction on it, this petrol-like potion is merely a baseline for realizing most other whiskies aren’t as crappy.

Sure, Jim Beam is a high powered distillery, affording fashionable celebrities for posing in magazine advertisements and carrying scripted lines with astounding sincerity in TV commercials, touting an unmatchable southern heritage, and providing the whole world with its elixir; but there’s a reason this stuff is $20 a bottle. And no, it isn’t because the distillery is concerned with making sure everyone gets a shot at the good stuff. It’s because that’s what Jim Beam is worth as a whiskey. I suppose that if someone sets an umbrella drink before you, it could be counted as an octane additive to make the candy drink worth your while, but really, Jim Beam seems to have been designed for one thing – finishing the job left undone by your case of Bud Light. It isn’t meant to be sipped and savored. It is meant for ushering you into the twilight lands of inebriation and that’s about it.

First off, the nose is as mysterious as a portly gent carrying a couple of tools into a public bathroom. You’re not quite sure what’s going on. At first, I thought I smelled wet fur. I could only assume it was the remnants of an opossum that found its way into one of the vats and died. But then I gave it another go. The wet fur became the acrid and earthy scent of composted bananas. The handy man must have discovered the opossum and disposed of it.

The whiskey redeems itself in the mouth, but only slightly. It reminds you that no matter what you are thinking about its quality, it’s definitely a bourbon. There’s a saccharine woodiness that moves fleetly toward soured fruit. Maybe if the opossum had been discovered a bit sooner, the sweetness would have matured into a fuller expression of caramel. And I think I sensed fruit, which means the opossum must have had an apple or something in its mouth when it died.

Okay, enough about opossums. Let’s sort of make our way back to the image with which we started.

The finish is relatively quick – a flush, a wash, and a paper towel snap and this stuff is gone. But don’t forget its purpose – intoxication – which should never be your aim? Why? Because as you sip and sip and sip again, you risk a muddled state. One thing leads to another, and before you know it, the taste in your mouth stirs you to become violently paranoid that perhaps you’ve been drinking from the toilet. Worried, you go and lay down figuring some sleep will help with the damage. The thing is, you wake up and find out that the bottle is still have full, you’re lying on the floor near the porcelain princess, and there’s a red solo cup floating in her half empty bowl.

Your worst fears have been realized. Jim Beam and toilet water are not all that different, and so you close your eyes and lay your head back down between the toilet brush and your tools. You begin to petition the heavens, promising that if God will deliver you, you’ll never do this again.

But next Saturday comes, Jim Beam is so accessibly cheap, and your life has become one that requires tools to be successful in the restroom.

Do as you must, but may I suggest another reasonably priced edition, like, say, the Bulleit Frontier Whiskey, or perhaps Michter’s Single Barrel Straight Rye, or even Cutty Sark. I doubt any of these will sort out the madness of your restroom tools, but I’d be willing to wager that they’ll preserve you from a thirst for Bud Light and dead opossums.