I don’t know how many people read this whiskey blog. I know I have a tribe of whiskey loving friends online that stop by sometimes. Thank you brothers and sisters of the tribe for that! But beyond that I got no fuckin’ idea. I might be shouting my barbaric whiskey yawp into the ethers for all I know.
But I’m here and I’m writing. So might as well get real with this shit.
I have not had a great couple of weeks. I’m not sure if this shows in my writing, but I have a tendency toward cantankerosity, profanations, and general bouts of depressionistical thinking. Hence the bad couple of weeks. I haven’t written much.
The anniversary came and went again. 18 years. I hate to mention it because I’ve already written about her. So I’m not going on and on about it. But around this time of year I have a tendency to get reflective. Kind of a dark night of the soul, you might say.
Goddam I miss her.
That’s it. That’s all I’m gonna say. Not gonna go on and on about it. Don’t need to. Don’t need any sympathy. That’s just the state of my ever-lovin soul right about now.
So I’ve been keeping myself busy with my brand spankin’ new infinity bottle. You know about those? Daniel Whittington was the first I heard speak of it. You basically make your own blend of whiskey by mixing the last of your whiskey bottles into a common bottle. If you blend 100 whiskeys together you get a sloppy, boring, lowest common denominator whiskey. But Daniel’s theory is that if you blend a few whiskeys you like, you’ll end up with something unique, and you will like it.
The point is you’ve made a whiskey that can never be reproduced. You had it once. You’ll never have it again. You gotta accept that. You gotta zen the shit of this because you hafta learn to love the present and keep looking forward and all that goddam crap. And I guess I believe it. Sure, why not?
So here’s my infinity bottle. The story behind it is this: When Shelby was a little girl, I used to take her to the movies sometimes. We were both pretty keen on the Toy Story movies. Those were good days. I miss the hell out of them. But like I’ve been saying, I’m trying to look forward, best I can.
So what’s in my bottle, you ask? Well, I’ll tell you.
Even parts Balcones Blue Corn Bourbon, Laphroaig 10, and the new cask strength Balcones Rye. In other words, three whiskeys that are trying their best to tear your mouth up and shove a bunch of weird funky flavors down your gullet.
Wanna know what it tastes like? Shit yeah you wanna know. So I’ll tell you.
Sweet dark caramel and a little cinnamon in a tool shed. That’s what it tastes like.
The peat is all over your tongue, friend. It’s strong and quick. Muscles in there at the beginning. First on the nose and first on your tongue. I mean, you’d think peat would be the patient one, being as it took so long to form underground. But nope. It’s the one in a hurry. First in and first to leave. I guess we shouldn’t begrudge it being a little impatient after 5,000 years underground and a further 10 in the fuckin’ barrel.
It’s after your third sniff and while you swallow that the U.S. of A. finally makes an appearance. Bourbon and rye, the two classic ladies. Sweet caramel and biting spice. Betty and Veronica, Ginger and Mary Ann. And brother, they do represent. Mmm. Damn. Uh huh. Yeah.
Now when you swallow this here infinity blend, there is quite a finish. The boosh at the end is one for the ages. I mean, shit, two of these bottles come in at around 130 proof. So they aren’t going down without a fight.
This whiskey is a closer, is what I’m saying to you. I highly recommend it, and I ain’t got no patent on that blend. Have at it!
I gotta let you go, but I do want to mention something, as you readers are getting to be almost like family to me. I think of you that way, kinda.
I might of possibly met someone. Could be. Maybe. Probably not though. I mean, I doubt it. It’s hard to imagine a nice lady gettin’ together with a one-eyed old fart. But stranger things have happened. Sometimes the ladies they see something others don’t. A diamond in the rough or a rose in an eye socket or something. The fuck do I know what to say about it! Point is, maybe. There is a possibility, however slight.
I’ll know something for sure exactly 12 days from now.