Christopher Ian Thoma's Blog, page 36

Review – The GlenDronach, Parliament, 21 Years Old, 48%

My wife, Jennifer, checks in from time to time with a few of those “supermom” blogs. You know the blog type to which I am referring, yes? It’s the kind with the woman who is pretty much considered a prototype for “perfection” in mom-land?

She’s the one who…

• is as skilled as a professional photographer, always finding and snapping photos of her children in scenarios worthy of magazine covers;

• always comes up with the most creative birthday cakes and party designs;

• should probably just be given a license to practice child psychology since she can diffuse conflict in any group of children;

• is an artist capable of sketching portraits of her little ones doing cutsie things – and she produces these images every day, putting them into her kids’ lunchboxes, right beside the intricately hand-crafted sandwiches that look like zoo animals;

• keeps all of the latest children’s books on the shelf, and never fails to read to her kids multiple times a day – once before school, maybe sneaking into the school lunchroom to do it again, and then one more time before bed;

• is the flawless home decorator, designing showcase rooms, namely the kids’ bedrooms – her son’s room being an impeccable replica of a NASA launch pad, and her daughter’s room being an unmatched, multihued landscape of unicorns and rare tropical flora;

• is the go-to volunteer for everything at her kids’ school, so “go-to” that when the Principal takes a personal day, the School Board president calls and asks her to fills in;

• keeps her kids’ clothes perfectly pressed and wrinkle free;

• and gives all that is required and more when it comes to helping the kids with homework. She prints out maps, and charts, and photos of foreign landscapes. And then once the assignments are done, she orchestrates fantastical projects in the kitchen to enhance the learning experience even further.

She is the mom that every other mom wants to be.

I can tell when Jennifer has been reading one of these blogs. She begins spontaneous but tangential tasks, like painting the kids’ rooms or organizing their toy cabinets and bookshelves. Another clue is that she starts to get a little depressed.

Why?

Because she is a mother of four who works fulltime (not because she wants to, but because she has to) and is married to a pastor whose schedule often mandates that he be present elsewhere, essentially making her a single parent. She begins her day in the office at 7:30 am and typically arrives home each day between 4:30 and 5:00 pm, which means she has around fifty hours every week in which to gather up piles of guilt for missing nearly every field trip, every midday classroom holiday celebration, and so many other parts of her children’s lives.

When I see this process beginning, I am as quick to the draw as I can be, being sure to encourage her not just to refrain from considering divorce, but to know that she is indeed a phenomenal woman precisely because she isn’t “Supermom!”

The world doesn’t need supermoms. It doesn’t need for every single mother to be overly eloquent, superbly creative, abundantly energetic, full of charisma, or whatever. It needs moms who know and practice the rudiments for raising kids. It needs moms who will teach kids the difference between right and wrong. It needs moms who will raise their children to be kind, to be honest, to be respectful, to never sacrifice objective truth for subjective truth – no matter the cultural trends swirling around them. The world needs moms who will raise their kids to put the needs of others first, to work hard, to take responsibility for their actions, to admit their mistakes and labor to fix them, to stand strong in the face of evil, and to do what needs to be done to overcome it even if it means losing things that they hold dear, things like relationships, reputation, and so much more.

Of course, this is by no means an exhaustive list, but I hope you can see that it is so much more substantive than fancy birthday parties and zoological peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

Jennifer is all of these things, making her the remarkable Christian wife that I do not deserve, the loving friend only possible by way of Divine provision, and the diligent mother and careful mentor for our children. Unarguably, she is a stellar mom.

And so, in order to celebrate the perfection that is my bride, I am raising a dram from one of my favorite distilleries – The GlenDronach – and the edition under consideration must be nothing less than something of the highest stature, thus, the Parliament 21-year-old.

The name certainly fits. The whisky is a sensual governess among so many other of the whiskies in my collection.

Her scent is that of toasted fruit, caramel-filled couverture, and a dry wine. These vapors collect at the still’s peak and come back down on the palate in a steady wash of saskatoons and a spoonful of dark chocolate shavings sprinkled into a cup of bitter coffee.

The finish holds a moment of spice at its inauguration, but then turns to become a medium-long twirl of ripely bruised honey crisp apples and warmed cream.

If only my dear Jennifer enjoyed whiskey, she would by way of The GlenDronach 21-year-old learn a little bit more the figuration of my love for her. And yet, I wonder if instead this is just another display of her fineness, choosing to refrain from drinking my whiskies as a calculative effort which allows for me to enjoy such things in abundance.

I know that she loves me, but, well, that’s probably not it.

Review – The Macallan, Rare Cask Black, (No Age Stated), 48%

Today was a rare day.

It may be counted as such not just because it contained uncommon occurrences, but also because it felt a little like a bloody and undercooked meal that I was being forced to eat against my will.

Now, you may be wondering what exactly it is that I mean by that statement. Let me tell you.

I left the Republican Party today. Actually, no. I think it’s a little more along the lines of what Reagan said when he chimed, “I didn’t leave the Democratic Party. The party left me.”

As of this writing, Donald Trump is the candidate representing the GOP. That’s right. We have a man who can barely form a coherent sentence, repeats himself incessantly, is tactless, vulgar, and unkind to anyone and everyone, has flip-flopped on pretty much every position he has ever taken so you don’t know which ones to trust, and makes promises that he and everyone else knows cannot be kept. And I could keep going, probably writing another couple thousand words about how this man is unfit for the highest public office and the last one I want representing conservatism, but alas, as I began, I have departed the arena that would require my conversation.

But where do I go now? That I do not know. I’m against killing unborn babies and pushing pop-culture ideologies under the guise of “individual liberty” all for the sake of consuming traditional America, so the Democratic Party just will not do. I’m not into relinquishing national interests across the globe or doing things like decriminalizing drugs, so the Libertarians are out. I’m not into redistribution of wealth or subjugating opposing viewpoints, so the Socialists wouldn’t appreciate me (and I guess this sort of refers back to the Democratic Party, too).

So where do I go? Well, to “issue” precision, I guess; and in some cases this will require my voice and presence, but in others, my absence.

I know that it may sound like I’ve thrown in the towel, but really it just means that I’m going to continue to educate myself to the candidates, become more visible in my community, and rather than voting a straight ticket based on the assumption that the platform is, for the most part, aligned with my values, I’ll vote for particular candidates in various elections while abstaining from others.

Of course, some of my GOP friends have tried to make the case that by not voting for the lesser of two evils in any election, I’m allowing the greater evil more influence. I understand what they are trying to say. I really do. But what they seem to be missing from the broader landscape is that evil often has the singular voice in both circumstances and to choose either is to fundamentally remove the foundation of “principle.” I mean, isn’t it an admission that when presented with two evils from which to choose, by voluntarily choosing one, that evil is accounted a certain level of acceptability, a voluntary endorsement. Doesn’t that still mean that I actively participated in pulling the lever for evil so that it can rule over me? Why would I ever choose to do that? Just because I live here? Just because it is my right? Just because if I don’t, the one who despises me less will govern? We just established that they’re both evil. It’s not all that far from asking the first century Christians to choose between Nero and Caligula; Nero (Clinton) being someone who crucified so many Christians he had to import trees, and Caligula (Trump) being another who, while he didn’t necessarily take deliberate measures to persecute Christians, was known for ordering his soldiers to chuck all the first and second row spectators to the lions to keep the festivities alive after all the slaves in a gladiatorial match had been killed. And don’t forget he cut open his pregnant wife and ate her unborn child. What you are saying is that because one would be slightly better for the Christians, it would be acceptable for the world around you to believe that he represents you and that planting his political sign in your front yard would be morally acceptable, yes?

“That’s a straw argument, Thoma!”

Is it, really? It wasn’t for the Germans in the 1930s, and I suppose we’ll see how long we can continue to choose from the “lessers,” how long we can be Niebuhrian Realists, before things are viewed differently. In the meantime, I’ve left the GOP, and with that I intend to do what I can to hold the lines here in the trenches and act according to and maintain principle, even if that principle is unacceptable to the larger part and overridden by the majority. Abstinence coupled with deliberate and ongoing action has a lot more muscle than a hopeful vote that things will at some point get better. I intend to fight to make them better.

And so to wrap up this little political apologue while it’s still possible for us to be friends… a rare day deserves a rare dram, thus The Macallan Rare Cask Black.

I should start off by saying that the bottle itself is relatively pertinent to the previous discussion in that it is completely opaque – just like Clinton and Trump. You don’t know if anything is really in there. Fortunately, unlike the candidates, there is something phenomenal in there, a whisky to which we can all raise an affirming hand of agreement and say, “This was indeed the right choice.”

The Rare Cask Black’s nose gives a genteel wink of smoke (which is an unusual badge for Macallan) and a friendly handshake of oak barrel planks and Victoria plums.

The palate continues with the subtle smokiness and fruit, except now the plums have been baked, and once set aside to cool, have been sprinkled with a light glazing.

The finish is a medium excursion that consolidates the nose and palate.

Consistent. Tasteful. Well balanced and reliable. Unlike our options in the national election.

Now, I wish I could say in the midst of all of this not to worry, that the election will be here before you know it, the decision will be made, and all will continue forward as it is, but this Rare Cask Black edition is a limited release, and so while the rulers continue to destroy the republic, this edition will be in short supply for providing the necessary consolation.

I am usually a pretty optimistic guy, but that is indeed cause for worry.

Review – Benromach, Peat Smoke Edition (2005), 9 Years Old (inferred), 46%

Walking up to the counter, the visitor scanned the wall as if looking for something in particular.

“Can I help you, sir?” the kindly woman behind the counter offered with a genuine smile.

“Yeah, sure,” he started, still looking up at the wall behind the attending greeter. “I was looking for your menu.”

“Our menu?” the woman asked, her smile becoming more of a forced grin.

“Yeah, so, I was cruising by,” the visitor explained, “and I saw the place, so I figured I would stop in and order up a few things, but I don’t see your menu. Maybe you have a printed menu. Is there a printed menu I can look at?”

Her grin beginning to fade, the attendant was genuinely puzzled, “I’m not sure what you mean. A menu?”

“Yeah, I want to place an order,” the visitor said, “but before I do, I want to see the menu.”

“Sir,” the woman said carefully, “I’m confused. We don’t have a menu. Are you sure you’re in the right place?”

“This is a church, isn’t it?” he asked pointedly.

“Yes.”

“Well, I’ve got some things I’ve been putting off that I need to get together so I figured I’d get going on a few of them.”

“I’m sorry, but are you a member here?”

“Oh, no,” he said, “I’m not a member anywhere.” And then lifting his finger up to his chin, with a contemplative tapping, he continued, “Okay, so, I guess I’ll just go ahead and place my order. How about, let’s see… How about a baptism? Well, actually, you better make that two. And by the way, which is it these days? Is it ‘baptism’ or ‘christening’? Are those the same thing? I guess it doesn’t matter. Anyway… give me two of those… and I suppose I’ll go ahead and take a wedding, too. Let’s just hold off on the funeral, though. That’s not really something you can plan so I’ll stop back by when I need it.”

“Sir,” the woman said, painting another obligatory grin on her face, “let me get the pastor.”

And so the story goes these days. The church is a drive-thru.

I blame the clergy for this. So many are willing to do or say anything and everything in order to pacify critics and display the church as desirably relevant all the while selling her soul and compromising the substance of her confession. If you are one of these clergy folk, cut it out. You’re turning the bride of Christ into a prostitute, and that, my friend, won’t end well for you.

I’m doing what I can to wage war against this. The engagement happens primarily by making sure that those who are faithful understand that the culture war has pretty much been lost and that this particular challenge bearing down upon the church is but a fraction of the contests coming our way. In all of this, we stand firm. Sound doctrine and practice is then the only steady ground in a land of shifting sand.

Relatively small in comparison, the challenge that I described above finds itself more endurable after a sip from a good whisky. The nerves calm. The frustration subsides. The person making the fast-food demand becomes one to be led into a much better way rather than being seen as an annoyance trumpeting the steady decline into the depths that will one day be recorded as the end of man.

In particular, the Benromach Peat Smoke edition (2005) can be accounted as a whisky to serve well in such situations.

The nose of this poteen is delightfully calming, giving way to a bowl of sun-soaked bananas and apricots sprinkled with honey glaze and sitting beside a small fire of peat bricks, the corners of which are just beginning to glow.

The palate has almost a sweet beer-like maltiness, except it isn’t thin like beer, but rather is comes by way of an oily resin that coats the mouth. The smoke is there – neither subdued nor dominant, but incredibly well balanced and bringing along the sense that the fire is about to get hotter.

The finish – a medium stoke – pulls back on the heat and leaves a nip or two of lemon, pepper, and ripened banana.

Fellow clergy folks, you’d do well to keep a bottle of this on hand for those “just in case” moments when the church and the world collide as a result of a rather obvious ignorance. For all others, let the Benromach Peat Smoke edition be a pleasurable edition to your cabinet and serving as a visual reminder that the church in your neighborhood is not a fast food drive-thru. And just because you desire something from this little band of “giving” folks who’ve been around quite literally since the beginning of time, this does not mean you have the slightest chance in hell – the same hell against which that little church fights – of getting it. It might not make sense to you, but neither does going to your local Boy Scout troop and demanding the highest award for your son who only managed to attend one gathering, and that was three years ago. “Friend,” they’ll probably say, “let me tell you a better way.”

Review – Glen Scotia, 15 Years Old, 46%

I just returned from testifying before the Michigan State Board of Education. The event was live-streamed, and therefore a good number of friends and fellow clergy had the chance to watch. Some of these folks also got to see me do an interview with CBS.

Now that I am home, I’m sipping the Glen Scotia 15-year-old and taking a few moments to scroll through Facebook as well as my email messages. Needless to say, I can see that I’ve already received a few notes about the address – some kindly, others inappropriately critical.

With that, let me offer another attestation to clarify what I mean by “inappropriately”… And this is addressed to the clergy who continue to pester me toward disengaging from the political sphere.

Do me a favor, will you? How about keeping your mouth shut about what you would or would not have done differently had you been in my shoes before the governing authorities. You weren’t there. You’re never there. And you don’t think I should be there, either. So, again, how about just keeping your thoughts to yourself, at least until you’ve done a little bit of the heavy lifting and actually stood beside me at one of these events. Sound good? I sure hope so, because while I think that I’ve more than proven that you can count on me to be beside you if and when the government’s bulldozer is at your church’s front door, I have a recurring sense that I could not count on you for the same. You don’t have it in you, and therefore, you’re words of advice are both ignorant and useless.

Am I being too harsh? Well, let me wrap it up, then, by saying that you are part of the problem, and frankly, you need to just be quiet, since silence appears to be your skill in the face of, well, a lot that matters for most human beings.

So, with that, don’t worry, because as you prefer to continually remind others while sitting on your hands refusing to engage, God is in charge and He has it handled. He sure does, and part of that handling, He accomplishes through people – through guys like me.

Now, consider these words and pour yourself a drink. Maybe we can still be friends, although “acquaintance” seems more appropriate. Still, this Glen Scotia is an optimistic choice for helping to cultivate acquaintances that they would become friendships, that is, if you can actually acquire it. I had to take the initiative and engage in my surroundings in order to receive mine from Germany, but I would not expect that from you. Instead, I’m sure I could count on you to rest easy in the shade of my efforts, praising the giver for a whisky that, first and foremost, whispers of aged rum and red raspberries in the nose. Further on, as this meets the palate, the fruit dissipates to give witness to sour oak, a nip of apple vinegar, pecans, and white chocolate. The finish is a medium tapping of rum-soaked walnut shells and toffee.

On second thought, I’ll keep this for myself. I have a nice bottle of Scoresby that I think you might enjoy. It is most certainly an appropriate reward equal to your effort.

Review – Jura, Brooklyn, 16 Years Old (Inferred), 42%

My wife has been reading various volumes about “minimalism,” which, in short, is the practice of putting about 90% of what you own to the curb. It transforms a corner of each room in the house from this…

into this…

I don’t actually mind all that much. I’ve been a minimalist my whole life. I’ve always looked at life through the lens of “less is more.” My stuff is never laying around the house because, well, I don’t have anything to leave laying around. And I’ve been saying for quite a while that our kids have far too many toys; so many toys that they never even play with half of them because they’re buried below the other half and it’s much too laborious for the lazy squatters to dig that deeply. I think that’s one reason that I so dearly love the sound of Legos being sucked up into a vacuum. Really, I love it. I skip and dance while vacuuming, and all along the way, my heart sings. Clickety-clackety-shunkt-clack-vloomp… “Da dee dum…”

So, what happens when you already possess very little but you suddenly find yourself married to someone trying to downsize the entire household? You get a povertous man keeping a careful inventory of a handful of shirts, pants, toiletries, and a couple of cabinets full of whisky – a man circling his stuff like a hawk to make sure that none of it vanishes.

So far nothing has walked away, although I did get a little nervous the other day when I couldn’t find my new bottle of the Jura Brooklyn edition. It’s one of the shorter bottles among the vast array of whiskies and so in the usual shuffling of bottles, it ended up behind a towering Macallan. Not lost, just out of sight.

Speaking of minimalism, the Jura Brooklyn is just that. On the nose, this diminutively packaged spirit gives off a little bit of smoke, but it’s nothing coming from within the whisky’s boundary, but rather it’s more like a peat fire smoldering in the Bronx and being carried by a southerly wind through Queens and into the Brooklyn borough. Along the way, it picks up a slight trace of bitters from some of the storefront chocolatiers.

The palate brings in a faint hint of the borough’s southern seaside – a little bit of sea salted asparagus grilled over smoking cedar planks.

The finish is a medium toddy of overly buttered and burnt vegetables. And I’ll bet you’ll swear you tasted the grill soot.

As I noted, the whisky is somewhat of a minimalist, and unfortunately, apart from the nose, what it decides to retain among its possessions isn’t all that spectacular. More like it preferred the scrap drive-thru toys at the bottom of the toy box.

Still, it’s mine, so it had better stay right where it is. And I’ll be watching, dear.

Review – Glen Moray, Port Cask Finish, (No Age Stated), 40%, (Guest Interview with Hillary Clinton)

With quasi-excitement equal to that which I experienced while interviewing Mr. Donald Trump, I managed to land an interview with Democratic presidential hopeful, Mrs. Hillary Clinton. Take note – you may want to read the interview with Mr. Trump before reading this one. You may do so by clicking here. Other than that, please enjoy. (And thanks for the sample, Nathan.)

———

Angels’ Portion: Thanks again for the willingness to sit with me to talk whisky. May I call you Hillary?

Hillary Clinton: No.

A: Um, okay. Sorry… Mrs. Clinton. I see you’ve already pretty much consumed the whole dram. That was the Glen Moray Port Cask Finish edition.

H: Oh yes, I did. It was just sitting there so I put it in my mouth. You know, you’d be amazed at the things I can get in there.

A: What size shoe do you wear? Heh-heh, just kidding with you…

H: No, seriously, I wear a size 8, and believe me, it will fit in my mouth. I put it in there all the time. In fact, I just did it a few weeks ago in Ohio. I announced in front of a miners’ union that because of my concerns with global warming, I was pushing to shut down their factories. Let me tell you, that was an uncomfortable minute or two.

A: I’ll bet it was. While I really don’t want to get into politics in this interview, you probably heard that the presumptive Republican presidential nominee was here a few days ago talking whisky with me. Well, we were sort of talking about whisky.

H: I did. In fact, one of my aides, who also happens to be one of his campaign lawyers, told me I should probably give you a call to get in on the action.

A: One of your personal aides works for Trump?

C: Oh, yeah. The whole Trump candidacy was my idea.

A: It was?

C: Oh, certainly. I’ve been working on this since I lost to Barack back in 2008. Well, actually even before that.

A: Really? I didn’t know that, although I’ve had the sense that the two of you aren’t all that different – like something was connecting both of you. You do seem to have a lot in common. In fact, for the most part, I’d say that most of the time you’re nearly indistinguishable… policy-wise, that is.

C: Yeah, I know, right? We’re a lot alike. That’s why I reached out to him and asked him to run.

A: You actually asked Donald to run?

C: Sure did. The first time I dropped it on him was at his third wedding in 2005. He invited Bill and me to sit right in the front row. Told us we were his most honored guests. He wasn’t interested then, but I asked him again after the primaries in 2008. He was all ears, or in his words, “I’m not really doing anything right now, so hey, why the hell not? And they’ll love my hair. I’ve got really great hair.”

A: Well, again, I shouldn’t be surprised. You’re a lot alike.

C: We sure are. For one, we’re both incredibly “forgetful.” He forgets he’s been a Democrat for about 99% of his natural life and I forget the contents of the intelligence briefings I receive while our embassies are being attacked. He likes to blame other folks for the fact that he can’t seem to keep his darker thoughts to himself, like the time he said that his daughter is so beautiful that if she weren’t his daughter he’d probably have sex with her. He later said he didn’t say that and then blamed it on the media. Anyway, it’s all good. I like to blame things on others, too. Again, those unfortunate embassy events, I blamed that whole thing on a YouTube video.

A: Well… um… I was thinking more along the official party platform lines. In other words, for example, not all that long ago Trump said in an interview with CNN that he believes that two of the most important obligations of the government to its citizens are to provide healthcare and education, and yet those are essential to the liberal platform, aren’t they?

C: Bam! That just happened. And the way he tried to describe it, well, it’s exactly what we’re already getting in Obamacare and Common Core standards.

 

A: But he said in a speech before that interview that he wants to get rid of both of them.

C: Contextual forgetfulness. It’s helped to get everyone I know elected. A fairly reliable tactic.

A: You know, most folks call that deceit.

C: Deceit. Forgetfulness. I think there’s room in America for everyone. If you want to choose to identify with “deceit,” then that’s your choice. I choose “forgetfulness.”

A: Which bathroom do you prefer?

C: Don’t let the pantsuit fool you, Chris. I’m all woman. I even have cards that I’m selling for a buck a piece which say just that. My campaign is calling it “playing the woman card.” Want one?

A: No thanks.

C: It was Trump’s idea, by the way. Great idea.

A: Well, let’s see how similar the two of you are when it comes to whisky, although I should preface by saying that my time with Donald was rather challenging. No, let me rephrase that… When it comes to interviews, I’m in the NeverTrump camp.

C: Hah! That’s great. Really great.

A: Don’t say that.

C: Don’t say what?

A: Don’t say “really great.” It makes me sweat.

C: I’ll say whatever I want. By the way, I’m counting on the “NeverTrump” crowd.

A: I’m sure you are.

C: So, anyway, which whisky are we trying tonight?

A: The one you literally just ate like three minutes ago – the Glen Moray Port Cask Finish.

C: Oh yeah. I “forgot.” See! It works. You thought I really forgot, didn’t you?

A: Well, I…

C: “What difference does it make?!” See, that shook you a little when I shouted it, didn’t it? You forgot what you were about to say. Forgetfulness can be a powerful ally, my friend. Very powerful.

A: Let’s just get to the whisky.

C: “What difference does it make?!”

A: Please stop.

C: But that’s kind of my thing.

A: I know, but we’re getting far afield. Let’s get to the whisky. So, as I explained to Mr. Trump, typically I try to consider each whisky’s nose, palate, and finish. The nose is what you smell before you sip. What did you think of the nose?

C: I don’t remember.

A: That’s not funny anymore, Mrs. Clinton. Seriously, what did you smell?

C: Seriously, I don’t remember. I just kind of threw it in my mouth when I came in and didn’t really think about it. I saw it and then put it right in there. Didn’t know what it was.

(Pouring her another dram and giving her a chance to smell it…)

A: Okay, so, what do you think?

C: Well… I smell… heavy smoke, and maybe something… something like… warm metal.

A: There is absolutely nothing smoky or metallic about this whisky, Mrs. Clinton. It’s not the best whisky in the world, but it is fairly clean, with a little bit of what I’d say is a honey and muscovado mix. And perhaps some sun-warmed purple raspberries. Are you sure you smell smoke?

C: Positive.

A: That’s probably just your approval ratings. I smell them, too.

C: And the metal?

A: Hard drives. I used to work with computers quite a bit. A server room full of hard drives being reformatted in order to delete massive amounts of emails can have kind of a warm, metallic smell.

C: Yeah, that’s probably it. I think you’re right about that one. I was just doing that again last night. The residue is probably still in my nose.

A: Figures. Go ahead and take a sip. What do you taste?

C: Let’s see… I’m sensing… leather… and maybe something salty, like sweat… or maybe tears.

A: Again, Mrs. Clinton, this whisky is relatively clean. You shouldn’t be getting anything like that from this whisky. It’s very sweet, in my opinion, giving off almost too much sugar – like I’ve just taken a bite of a Twinkie, except this one has been dipped in jam.

C: I did not get any of that. (Taking another sip…) Yeah, definitely leather and sweat. And tears.

A: You know, I’ve always believed there’s sort of a psychological element to each whisky, that the contours will stir memories of events, people, places. Let me ask you, did you drink a lot while Bill was president?

C: A lot. I drank A LOT!

A: Did you cry a lot, too?

C: Not a lot, but sometimes.

A: I know I’m not a psychologist, Mrs. Clinton, but it could be a combination of things. I wonder if the leather and sweat is merely a recalling of the cheap booze you used to drink while Bill was taking interns into that little room beside the Oval Office. Maybe you always wanted to go in there with him, but he would never let you, and so you cried. Leather, sweat, and tears. Could be a repressed memory, or something like that. You think?

C: Doubtful. I kept the leather in my closet. And while Bill is more of the crier than me, when I did cry, it was usually only because I believed I should be the President and not Bill.

A: Are you sure that’s why you cried? You can tell me.

C: Yes. Pretty sure. Maybe. I “forget.”

A: Still, I think…

C: You know, I blame the NRA. If it weren’t for guns…

A: How about we just move on. What did you think of the finish? Was it short, medium, or long? And what flavors did you sense?

C: I’d say, unequivocally, that it was short. Definitely short.

A: About as short as your actual executive experience?

C: Maybe a little lengthier than that. But a lot more than Barack’s, that’s for sure.

A: We’re on the same page, here, then. I thought it was definitely a shorter finish. Did you sense anything in particular flavor-wise?

C: Nothing.

A: Nothing at all?

C: “What difference does it make?!”

A: (Sigh.)

C: I’m serious. What difference does it make? I didn’t taste anything else.

A: I sensed the fruit from the nose as well as what seemed like clove spice.

C: Did you say “Old Spice”?

A: No, I said clove spice.

C: Oh, I thought you said “Old Spice.” I wear that.

A: Isn’t that for men?

C: Yep, but the FBI agents who keep stopping by to investigate me all seem to wear it. I figure it can only help.

A: I think we’re done here.

C: Aren’t we going to try some whisky? I thought that’s why you invited me.

A: America is doomed.

C: By the way, Donald told me he knows for a fact that you put cherries in your nose. Is that true? You know, I’ve done that, and I encouraged Donald to go ahead and try it.

Review – Hakushu, Single Malt Japanese Whisky, 12 Years Old, 43% – (Guest Interview with Donald Trump)

I suppose it is a quasi-understatement to say that I am happy to have a very special guest connecting with Angelsportion today. It was difficult enough to track down and convince the Sith lord, Darth Vader, to write a foreword for my book, but getting Donald Trump to sit down with me to discuss the Hakushu 12-year-old, well, this is truly a quasi-surrealistic and quasi-extraordinary event.

I’m sure that you will find the interview to be well worth your time, although I can’t necessarily confess the same for myself. Nevertheless, as I’ve shared on other occasions, I do this so you don’t have to.

———

Angelsportion: Thanks so much for taking time from your busy campaign to talk whisky with me.

Trump: My pleasure. Yeah, you know, I love your blog, Chris. It’s great. Really great.

A: Thanks. That means a lot. By the way, your hair is something to behold in person, I must say. It looks a lot bigger on TV, though.

T: Yeah, it’s great, isn’t it? I have great hair. Really great hair. Do you wanna touch it?

A: Um, no.

T: You should touch it. Everyone wants to touch it. I have really great hair. The best hair. Period. Better than most, that’s for sure. I tell you, when I’m president, I will send everyone in America a strand of my hair. Of course, there’s gotta be, what, two hundred thousand people in America? We’ll need to cut some of the hairs in half.

A: There’s actually about 320 million people in America, Mr. Trump.

T: Really? That many? Boy, I’m gonna win big in November. We’ll cut those hairs really small. Everyone will get one, that I can promise you.

A: Well, as much as I’d love to talk about the essence of “Trump” politics, I promised I wouldn’t. So, what did you think of the Hakushu 12-year-old?

T: It was really great. I thought it was great.

A: Can you tell me anything in particular that you liked about it?

T: Well, for one – and I’m just being honest – we need honesty these days. People appreciate me because I’m honest. I tell it how it is. Anyway, you know, I think that the Scots should just embrace who they are and put something like a leprechaun on the label instead of all that Korean scratching.

A: It’s not Scotch. It’s Japanese whisky. And leprechauns are traditionally associated with the Irish.

T: Whatever. Irish. Koreans. Same island.

A: Okay… so… what did you like about the whisky? When you smelled it, what did you sense?

T: It smelled great. Really great. I liked it.

A: Normally on my blog I take the time to work into each of my narratives a little bit about the contours of each whisky. Typically it means describing each of the three “givers” of a whisky. Usually people refer to them as the nose, the palate, and the finish. What did you think of the nose?

T: Have you seen my wife’s nose? That’s a great nose. A really great nose. Most folks tell me that they could stare at her nose all day. But when I’m in the room, of course, they can’t. My nose is better. Much better.

A: The smell, Mr. Trump. What did you smell when you sniffed the whisky?

T: I smelled whisky. What the hell did you think I’d smell? I smelled good Scotch whisky.

A: Japanese.

T: That’s what I said.

A: No, you didn’t.

T: Whatever.

A: I sensed cherry cobbler and perhaps some roasted pecans. I took a little bit of spring from it, too, that is, some blossoming apple trees and a very distant campfire used to burn up the remnant of winter’s debris. Did you sense anything like that?

T: You got all that?

A: Yes. It is important to be detail-oriented when you take upon yourself any particular role which involves communicating with people, wouldn’t you say? People want to know exactly what you are thinking.

T: Oh yeah, I know this. And people like that – you know, detailed people – I’m going to surround myself with those kinds of folks. Like a wall. And they’ll be tall. Like the wall I’m going to build. Except they’ll walk around with me. The wall at the border won’t walk. It will be very still. It will be the stillest wall you’ve ever seen. Detail. Important detail.

A: Yes. I guess it would be rather difficult to build a wall that moves.

T: I could do it. You know, I could build a really great moving wall. It would be the best moving wall you’ve ever seen. I could build so many moving walls that America would be so bored by moving walls. They’d say, “Hey, there’s another moving wall,” and then they’d say “Hey, there’s another one.” Bored. Completely bored with so many amazing moving walls.

A: When you took a sip of the whisky, what did you sense?

T: Are we done?

A: Almost. We still need to consider the palate and the finish. How did the whisky taste? What did you discern there?

T: Let’s see… I got cherry cobbler and some roasted pecans. And I thought I tasted some apple trees or something like that.

A: You’ve tasted an apple tree?

T: Yeah, haven’t you? Very big in New York. Go down to SoHo. Everyone is gnawing on trees. I know New York.

A: Mr. Trump, with all due respect, you just repeated what I said about the nose… well, mostly.

T: That’s not true. I said that before you. I said what you said way back before you ever said it. I think Clinton was in office when I said it. I don’t remember for sure, but I know you didn’t say it.

A: I just said it a minute ago.

T: That’s a lie. Lyin’ Thoma. I’m gonna call you “Lyin’ Thoma.”

A: Can we just finish this, please? What did you taste?

T: Lyin’ Thoma.

A: What did you taste?

T: What did you taste?

A: Oh, for crying out loud! There was a little bit of wood spice and maybe a sour apple…

T: See, I told you, apple trees.

A: I’m pretty sure that apples don’t taste like the trees they grow on.

T: Have you ever tasted an apple tree?

A: No.

T: Then how do you know?

A: I don’t.

T: I rest my case, lyin’ Thoma. And it’s a really great case. The best case anyone has ever made. It’s a case made of gold and precious gems. Best case.

A: Umm… I took some chocolate and caramel from it, too.

T: I’ve had chocolate before. The best.

A: I don’t care. How about the finish? Anything? Anything at all?

T: I can definitely say that after I drank it, I finished, because I didn’t drink it again.

A: That’s not what I mean. Was it short? Medium? Long? Did you sense the apple trees again?

T: No.

A: No?

T: No.

A: No, what?

T: No.

A: That isn’t an answer to my question.

T: Yes it is. And it is a definitive answer.

A: No, it isn’t.

T: You asked. I said no.

A: No to what? What do you mean? Was the finish long?

T: No.

A: Short?

T: No.

A: So, medium then?

T: I never said that.

A: You haven’t said anything.

T: See, I can be presidential.

A: (Sigh) I thought the finish was medium. And I sensed the same cherries that were present in the nose.

T: You put cherries in your nose?

A: That’s not what I said, Donald.

T: Yes, you did, lyin’ Thoma. But I’m not being critical. I should try it. Never tried that. I’ll bet Hillary has. Absolutely.

A: Whatever. Thanks again for… well… thanks.

T: My pleasure. I love helping the little guy. I’m not a little guy, you know. I’m 6’ 2”. And Look at these hands. Huge hands. Bigger than most. I can’t wait to get these big hands around all that presidential stuff in the White House. I’m gonna pat that bust of Abraham Lincoln with these huge hands every day.

A: I’m 6’ 2” also.

T: That’s little. I’m at least a foot taller.

A: You’re an idiot. America is doomed.

T: Lyin’ Thoma… with cherries in his nose.

Review – Ian Macleod’s, Isle of Skye Blended Scotch Whisky, 12 Years Old, 43%

Do you remember that time when you were running to catch a football thrown by your brother but you weren’t watching where you were going and you ran square into a telephone pole at full speed and got splintered shards jammed into your underarms? No? But you still have the scars.

How about that time you climbed up to the top beam of the old metal play set in your neighbor’s yard, and while you were balancing on the beam, your foot slipped and you fell face first into the bar and plummeted to the earth below, knocking out your two front teeth? Don’t remember that one, huh?

Okay, how about the time you attempted to jump the curb on your bike, but didn’t quite manage it accordingly and you went face-first into the cement base of the stop light? Good thing the ambulance depot was right across the street and the guys were sitting in their lawn chairs and saw the whole thing, right?

Surely you remember that one day when you were climbing the tree in the side yard, but the branch you were on broke and you fell through the skylight of your Grandmother’s travel trailer parked beneath? No? Don’t recall that one, either?

How about the time you showed your truest inner genius and used your index finger to open that rusty old pocket knife by pushing up against its blade? Did you forget you were in the middle of the woods with your friends who pretty much laughed at you as you bled all over the place? At least you managed to get back to your family’s campsite before you passed out.

Still don’t remember?

Well, surely you remember that Saturday that one summer when your mother forced you to go along with her to every rummage sale in the city and after the first hour or so of driving around in the old LTD with no air-conditioning and the windows rolled up because it made it easier for her to hear her Kenny Rogers 8-track tapes through the crappy stereo speakers, you ended up with heat stroke and threw up all over the vinyl seats in the back? How can you forget that? It took all day to clean the goop from between the seats. Heck, it took all summer to get rid of the stench.

Okay, so, none of these ring a bell?

Well, I know you’ll remember this one.

Remember that time you tried the Ian Macleod’s Isle of Skye Blended 12-year-old edition?

It was sour, like the back seat of the LTD, except a tad sweet, too, like you’d eaten a strawberry fruit smoothie right before you threw up.

And the taste, well, very much a metal play set beam to the face – salty blood filling up in the corners of the mouth with a little bit of peaty dirt to round out the experience.

And the finish, while it’s a little harder to describe, once you recall the elements of its confection, the trace is that of charred wood and 1970s garage sale price tag adhesive.

Remember?

I knew you would. That’s a tough one to forget.

Review – Longrow, Peated Campbeltown Single Malt, (No Age Stated), 46%

Sitting on the floor near the fireplace, she tossed the photo across the way and it landed right in my lap.

“Remember this?” she asked while the photo was still in mid-flight?

I glanced at the image.

She knows me well enough to judge my attempt at hiding an internal wince. “Barely,” I said and took a sip of the whisky in my hand.

“Did you ever figure back then,” she started, “that you’d end up married with four kids?”

Still examining the photo and trying to calculate my age, “I thought I’d be dead by now, actually.”

“Be quiet,” she said playfully and threw a glue stick. She was working on the family photo albums.

“Really, did you ever figure for where you are now?” she continued.

I guessed I was about 20. The photo was taken just before I made my way down to the lake at a Christian summer camp in Illinois where I worked as a lifeguard and counselor.

“Does anyone really figure this far into the future?” I asked still scanning the snapshot.

“So, no, then?”

“Well, let’s just say this…” I said holding up the photo and pointing to the cup in my hand. “Knowing how much I was making back then, I can tell you for sure that what I love to drink now is definitely not in that plastic cup.”

“Yeah, no kidding!” she said and laughed. We both knew that had my preference now been my preference then, I’d still owe quite a bit more on my student loans.

Good whisky is worth it, though, and thanks to my friend Nathan, I’ve discovered another edition equal in stature as that of a camp counselor’s measly paycheck: The Longrow Peated Campbeltown Single Malt edition.

I can’t get this stuff here in Michigan. For the average whisky drinker, this is no big deal, but for a guy like me, this a tragedy of epic proportion. I don’t know what the Michigan Liquor Control Commission has against the Campbeltown distilleries, but I can tell you that there’s some sort of embargo in place for that region and it is adding years to my life. Although, a sniff and sip from this gem takes them away.

The nose is a warm apple strudel with a sweet cream cheese frosting. Breathing in again, there is a distant smoke from the smoldering crumbs at the bottom of the oven.

In the mouth, the first sensation is that of the sweet frost twirled in smoked honey and spread over a malt cracker.

The finish is a phenomenal mosaic of ashen toffee, tobacco, and immoderately crusted apple crisp.

I suppose that when I observe such archaic images from days gone by, rather than trying to figure out my age, I think I’d rather speak with regard to intervals prior to my discovery of the aqua vitae.

My best guess, that’s a photo of me 10 years before I knew better.

Review – The Yamazaki, Single Malt Japanese Whisky, 12 Years Old, 43%

I’m pretty sure there’s a battalion of Kamikaze squirrels manning a tree near the corner of Hyatt Lane and Silver Lake Road in my sleepy little municipality. For the safety of those who may be traveling through the town, just know that the particular tree – or should I say, the danger zone’s “launch point” – is about 100 yards west of the stop light on the south side of the street.

I can tell you that I’ve been hit by these wild-eyed little terrorists six or seven times since we’ve moved here, and while the damage is never anything significant, each event is rather traumatizing for the littlest of passengers in my vehicle as I jerk the steering wheel and call out abruptly, “Oh my!” only to see a glob of flopping fur and guts on the ground in the rearview mirror.

It’s always very sad.

My fear is that unless someone does something soon, the bloodshed will spread, only getting worse as many more potential-filled and youthful squirrels are indoctrinated and sent to their doom at the vile behest of some shadowy squirrelish cult leader perched high above our peaceful burg.

I’m ready to get my chainsaw and chop the tree down, although I doubt that would fully solve the problem. Everyone knows that unless the master is captured and eradicated, such zealotry is very hard to erase – especially among squirrels.

But there is one way to catch the fiend, and it involves setting a trap that is familiar with the way of the Kamikaze.

Before these “spirit winds” commit to the task, they vest in the traditional senninbari given to them by their mothers, compose a poem to be given to their kin, and then join together in a ceremony involving the consumption of an alcoholic beverage. That’s my in-road. My guess is that since alcohol selections here in my hometown are pretty limited, a nicer bottle placed at the foot of the tree would be more than noticeable to the whole band, and since the master is most likely a self-absorbed cultist bent upon furthering whatever is behind his fiendishly furry plot, he’s likely to move swiftly to fetch it for personal use.

Yes, I know, it’s a chess move, but I think it could work. It has to, otherwise I’ll be risking some hefty fines and quite possibly an overnight in the county lockup for transporting C4 across state lines and detonating it within the township limits. And so, I need to try the booze idea, first, and the Yamazaki 12-year-old, while it not only fits the idiom, is itself a potent attractant sure to play to the master’s weaknesses.

Uncapping the bottle and pouring a thick measure, being sure to give it a swirl before dodging the troop’s awareness and hiding in the bushes, the Yamazaki’s balm will rise up into the branches, almost certainly drawing even the most meditative of the hachimaki-wearing rodents to descend in search of the source of the conglomerate of grains, fruits, and tinged tree nuts. It’s an exceptionally appealing perfume.

And here’s precisely why this matters to the plan.

The whole brigade will smell this stuff, for sure. But if any of these fuzzy little suicide bombers manages to sip and sense the malted pears dipped in overly-buttered caramel before the master accounts the whisky’s value, there’s a good chance that their washed brains will be counteracted by the whisky and they’ll forsake their pledge. The Yamazaki 12 is something worth living for, therefore, I would expect the master to be on the scene soon after the bottle is opened and the trap is set. He’ll definitely want to land and remove it before the warmed tree nuts and citrus in the finish steals away the hearts of his fleet permanently.

And when he does come thrashing down the trunk of the tree to rescue his ideology, that’s when I’ll pop ‘im.

I’ll let you know how it goes.