a story about whiskey (whisky) fueled by gin...

o my beloved non-existent readers (which is what?!? three of you?), if you have gotten to know me at all at this sharp bit of broken bottle in the sandy beach of the world wide web, you know that when i accept something as part of my life, i also like to know at least a passing intelligent bit about it. the different aspects, where they originated from, why i like the aspect i do.

it was no different when i began drinking whiskey.

i wanted to know (at least palatially (chances are good there isn't actually a word for what i am trying to say here: palatially (which i think means "palace-like" which is totally not what i am going for!) or "palatically" (which again is dredged from my own simmering brainpan) or, probably easiest: "in relation to the palate") speaking) the differences between irish whiskey and southern american whiskies and whisky (don't be fooled my beloved droogs and only friends, the long-suffering malchiks and ptitsas!--there is a subtle difference between a whiskey and a whisky--maybe m'lady macleod can back me up on this one!) so that i might venture forth with an idea of basic differences.

before i get into the story, let's reflect a moment on why i choose the bukowski/hemingway path to literary greatness in name only: most notably, because i write like shit when i am drinking. and if only you could see the typos i am fixing right now...

when i wanted to branch forth from a simple jack daniels and/or whatever whiskey was cheap and came in a plastic squeeze bottle to something a little more nuanced, i wanted to at least have a basic understanding of said nuances. the easiest way to begin to discover this on my own was to do some simple google-fueled research (and no, google doesn't pay me shit for mentioning them here or anywhere else for that matter; but they should!) and follow that up by picking up a representative "airline" (we used to call these the ninety-nine bottles, because at some point in my formative years, these little bottles cost ninety-nine cents--oh, you've come a long way baby--or some other bullshit. but continuing our story) bottle of whatever tester whiskey i was going to probe that day along with my "tried and true" whiskey bottle.

i was wanting to move from whiskey sours to perhaps a comfortable whiskey soda or even better, a sipping whiskey. so my game plan was buy something to consume with sour mix for the week along with a small shot of something to test. i would bring it all home, and crack the tiny bottle of whiskey.

i would sip it straight with nothing on my stomach and having had nothing before. i figured, if i didn't gag outright from the test, then i could completely drink it on the rocks with club soda, and if i did gag, i could toss it in a glass and bury it under sour mix and finish it off.

the tests went like this: initially, i tried bourbons. little did i know, with the exception of jack daniels (which is a tennessee whiskey and aged for smoothness through charcoal and therefore just that minute bit different than bourbons--but don't worry, i only discovered this tonight!) i had been consuming this sort of whiskey in copious amounts already.

i picked jim beam, partly due to flavor and partly due to it's relatively lesser cost. but again, i had already been pickling my liver with this particular poison for some time.

and of course, jack daniels went without saying.

then i picked up a shot of jamesons and a shot of canadian club to knock those two whiskies out of the park.

and naturally, jamesons was the very manna from heaven. or whatever. nectar of the gods? you get the picture.

canadian club was also smooth and sippable without ice or mixer. (but a funny aside, o my droogs and only friends, little did i know i had been consuming a canadian whiskey for some time in the form of crown royale. yeah. no kidding.)

then i tackled the big ones. i bought a tiny johnny walker red label and a glenfidditch (which i already wanted to like due to the triangular nature of the bottle) and eagerly brought them home. here it is, i think, o my beloveds; i am finally going to crack into what i can only assume is some sort of secret club of whisky (aha, maybe now you catch the subtle and yet significant difference?) drinkers: the scotch. yeah, my first sip of johnny walker made me think someone had filled my sinuses with lighter fluid and struck a match. into the sour mix and down it goes (and i know you puritans are losing your shit over my abuse of said scotches, but let's remember, i was but a babe...) then the glenfidditch that i had been saving till last cause i wanted to dig it so bad...

glenfidditch was the only whisk(e)y i tried that tasted as foul in the sour mix as it did straight.

well, i think, that tears it. i am not a scotch drinker.

fast forward a year (and uncountable shots of jamesons, canadian club, beam, jack, black velvet, maker's mark, and plastic squeeze bottles of cheap whiskies) to the day when the neighbor b buys a bottle of balvenie and says i have to have a glass on ice with a splash of club soda. and i don't die.

and subsequently get offered a tester shot of dewars (on sale at my local liquor store) and boldly tell the sales lady "neat" cause i figure if i can't choke it down that way, why bother? right?

and actually enjoy it!

then a week later when an older fella explains to me that these are blended scotches and don't really count, and that i really should try a single malt.

"like what?" i ask, already dreading the answer.

"like glenfidditch."

well, o beloved non-existent reader, would i be myself if i didn't run out that same day and buy another ninety-nine bottle of 12-year glenfidditch and bring it home? no. no, i would not. and actually thought, hell, i could drink this. i finished the shot bottle. without food. without prior alcohol (an aside; and those of you as drink with any seriousness whatsoever will back me up on this: there are some beverages that you cannot start the night off with. you can have several of your standard drink; of your favorite, and then follow it up with, say, jagermiester shots and be just fine. but if someone hands you a shot of jager as you walk through the door, you know you will be ill and making "the face" and trying not to die within five minutes! for me, jager shots are the "dessert" drink. i already need to be on the road to der unk to even try them.) without making "the face."

then s, my guitarist, brings over a bottle of 15-year glenfidditch one night and the two of us drunk lushes polish it off before heading to bed.

tonight, there is a special on some channel about breweries and how whisk(e)y is made. well, my beloveds, my tried and trues, o thou stalwarts and strongs, who return here week after week (or month after month though i am guessing this particular post will drive all three of you away as surely as garlic makes the vampire pick another neck), i discovered one aspect of whiskey that i have yet to explore, and will most certainly rectify as quickly as it takes for me to hit my local purveyor of imbibed spirits:

rye.

i am the sort of fella who has fallen here from some other time. though i recently updated my facebook status to "if i had actually lived in the '50's, i would've been put in an institution" (and is it ok to have paraphrased oneself? i sure hope so.) because i realize that while the '30's, '40's, '50's, and '60's have some odd kind of interstellar hold on me, i would have been ill-fitted into those eras, i also realize that forgotten items from these glamorous ages draw me in. and rye is, without question, one of these things.

while george washington himself was said to have distilled rye whiskey back in the day, prohibition pretty much demolished whatever corner of the market rye might have ever had. however, it is slowly making a comeback.

and i know that if someone says, "pick an irish whiskey right now" i would quickly reply, "jamesons, in whatever way you want to mainline it to my liver" or, "in five seconds, your favorite single malt scotch!" (hands down that 15-year glenfidditch, o my beloveds), if someone asked me about a rye, while i would've wanted to know; would've wanted to have already been sipping it at my house on my own and in the know: i have not. i don't know.

so tomorrow, when i pick up my triangular bottle of glenfidditch, i am going to do my damnedest to also pick up a bottle of rye (shouldn't be too hard, my favorite cheap bourbon, mr. beam, actually makes one) and begin test driving it. and hopefully liking it.

cause i feel i must've at least given it the ole college try. (which is also a relic from another time, not too dissimilar from myself.)

darth sardonic

A lonely liver suspended in liquid

thank you, one and all, for the comments, and i am glad the confession i dropped on all of you without warning or preface has helped, and hope it continues to do so.

it may be a bit irresponsible, then, to follow a serious post about suicide with a humorous post about being a sot, but i never really pretended to be responsible.

it is funny that the three times i can remember being the most tore up all seemed related to having a good time and drinking and then, quite suddenly, discovering just how much i had had to drink.

time 1): we went to a bonfire. because we were going to be outside and wanted to keep what we were lugging to a minimum, my wife took my fifth of kahlua, which was maybe a quarter-full still, and added at least that much more vodka (probably even more than that), and cream to the top. a giant white russian. because (again) we were outside, i just drank it straight from the bottle. sitting, laughing, talking, drinking. of a sudden, i look down at my bottle, and there is but a small scum of alcohol adhering to the bottom. oh my god, i think, i am wasted. and i was. my wife had to help me walk up to the house later when i had to pee because the damn ground wouldn't quit shifting. before noticing the emptiness of my bottle, i was toasty, within ten minutes of realizing how much i had to drink, i was blitzed.

time 2): an big going away party. i started off with buttery nipples (two or three, not really sure), and then my buddy passed me a bottle and said "here, check this out." i took the bottle, and looked at the label. it was printed in a foreign language. i sniffed the contents and got a beautifully subtle hint of just the right amount of anise. i love anise. gulp! mmmmmmmm. gulp! "that is good." i say, and go to pass the bottle back. my mate says, "hold on to it, i am going to go get some food." i sit, holding the bottle, and a man i didn't know walks up, says, "where did you get that bottle?" i point at my pal and say, "he picked it up in turkey." off the other gentleman goes to talk to my friend. five minutes later, my buddy calls me over. turns out, the gentleman is from turkey, and the alcohol in question, yenni reki, is the kind of thing they might have with equal parts water over ice at a large banquet type meal. i ask him, "so how much of this might you have in a week?" "a week? we might have a drink like that once a month!" oh my god, i have just consumed two months' worth of this stuff in five minutes. no sooner do i think this than a warm feeling starts at my toes and creeps its way upwards until i am all warm and fuzzy and standing there with the dippiest smile plastered all over my chevy chase, and i am three sheets to the wind. when my wife got my home, i insisted on running around naked and trying to call all my friends, who were smart enough not to answer their phones, and finally settled for emailing a good friend. the next morning when i read her reply, i reread my original email. it really is a wonder she could read it at all. i actually spelled "then" thj3n, and that is just the one i remember.

time 3): the situation that i alluded to in my vegas post. everyone else was drinking vodka, which had given me a pretty hefty headache the night before, so i was drinking whiskey. we're talking, laughing, having a good time, and for some reason i really can't remember, i felt compelled to sho them how much they had been drinking. i said loudly, "well, look! i mean, you guys have about wiped out a fifth of smirnoff and i have--" i hold up my bottle of seagrams 7, and suddenly notice that i have only slightly more whiskey (which only i have been drinking) than they have vodka (which three people have been drinking), and my jaw drops and my eyes pop. ten minutes later, i am in the bathroom.

it should also be noted here, that my wife has the magic ability to make me feel drunk. i tend to act sillier than i should for the amount of alcohol i have consumed. i have a drink or two and act like i have had five and have a good time. my wife cocks her head, and gives me that look, to which i reply, "i am not drunk." then she will do the point, and if she does the point and i see it, i am drunk. i could've had a damn shirley temple and if i see my wife do the point it's the same as if i have consumed all the alcohol in the house. my vision blurs, my words get slurred, i stumble and weave, and i will for fucking sure be hungover the next day. not sure how she does it, but it is a nifty trick.

ok, my kids are beginning to make thinking, let alone writing, virtually impossible, so i will leave you with that.

darth sardonic