Star Wars, hipsters, and their unholy union...

Hipsters.  They have an amazing ability to co-opt things they didn't invent and make them popular.  Too popular.  Annoyingly popular.  Stupid popular.  This irritates me.  I have touched on this before.  Things I have enjoyed for decades in relative anonymity have now been thrust into the corporate spotlight (due to corporations slavish devotion to try to sell ANYTHING to that all important 18-25 demographic*) as well as all over mass media.  This has had the unfortunate effect of driving up the prices on things I love, as well as making them nauseatingly trendy.  The list (although not all-inclusive) of these items include: bourbon (I've been drinking it forever, and it's been the adult beverage of choice in my family for generations.  Previous 20-something's view of bourbon, and really, whiskey, in general: "Ewwwww!  Tastes like gasoline!  Where's the Smirnoff Ice????" Now?  "It's soooo good!  You can really taste the " as they try and not gag and secretly wish there was a melon flavored something they could enjoy without shame); maple syrup (fake pancake syrup is gross.  I have held this standard as far back as I can remember.  Generally, if it's not available, I will change my breakfast order to a dish that doesn't require syrup.  It just tastes BETTER.  By far.  Now?  Somebody has decided that real maple syrup has some kind of anti-oxidant benefit and is an acceptable "natural" sweetener for a New Agey diet.  It's been lumped into Agave syrup and other exotics.  Whatever.  Thanks for doubling its price you twats**); butter (been the family standard cooking fat of choice since I was born, as well as the obvious choice for toast, etc.  I used to go to friends homes as a kid and they'd offer me margarine and it was all I could do not to wretch as I tried to choke it down.  I discovered grass fed butter when I went to England in 1995.  I loved it.  Kerry Gold was the closest to it you could get here, and I used to buy it as a treat...was awesome on sourdough with blackberry jam.  Now?  It's the uber cool thing to mix into your coffee.  Um...ok.  So now, every Silicon Valley master of the universe is mixing it into their fair trade, organic, lizard dung beans every morning for it's transformative health benefits.  Again, giant "what-evs" from me...other than, again, thanks for driving the price through the roof); bacon (used to be bacon was Satan's candybar.  The nitrates!  Meat is murder!  Cancer!  Etc. Etc.  And it was cheap...generally, the cheapest cut of meat at the grocery store.  Now?  Every dingleberry with a beard and waxed mustache has webpages devoted to the worship of it, and restaurateurs and food trucks have entire lines of cuisine devoted to it.  Again, the end result?  Bacon is like the price of steak now, and suddenly a delicacy that can be found coated in chocolate, on donuts, and mixed into ice-cream); slim-cut jeans (when I was in high-school, you could not find a slim-cut jean.  Most folks had to either fold over the pant leg and cuff it up, or, if you were a bit more punkish, some folks would safety pin them up along the seam.  Me?  I got tired of messing with it and would rip the seam out and have my mom...who could blissfully sew...re-stitch them up to my satisfaction.  It wasn't perfect, but it would do.  Now?  The glockenspiel and flannel shirt crowd wears jeans so tight they must cut off circulation to their ankles.  Fine.  Whatever.  But when I wear a pair of jeans with a slender cut, the same way I have since about '84-'85, I feel like I'm being shamelessly trendy, as opposed to wearing the same jeans I have for the last 30 years, and will continue to wear when they are no longer in style, and the "kids" go back to wearing jeans that fit like a circus tent); desert boots (I've been wearing them since 1988, and I have the pics to prove it.  For reasons I do not understand, they became "the shit".  Again, prices exploded.  Blissfully waiting for the day they become passe, and I can wear my Clarks in peace again); tacos (how much do I love tacos?  I found one of my mom's old diaries where an entry talks about when I was 3 yrs. old and recovering from pneumonia, my mom knew I was on the mend because I ate TWO tacos.  It used to be you had to go to the latin part of town to find a good taco, because the only other choice was Taco Bell...which is fine if you're drunk, or starving and in a hurry, or both, but it's hardly the epitome of the taco.  Now?  Food trucks roam the streets featuring things like Korean rib and kimchi tacos.  For some reason, it has been decided the fried corn tortilla has been declared the hipster food delivery starch of choice.  I'm waiting for the maple infused bacon taco with a bourbon reduction to emerge from the pierced eyebrow crowd), etc.  You get the picture here.  There's more, like the sudden re-emergence of shoegaze music, but I'll save that rant for another time.  So, my latest annoyance?  The worship of STAR WARS.

I have a strong emotional attachment to Star Wars.  I saw the original release when it debuted in 1977, and remember being a wee tyke standing in line for HOURS outside the theater in a line that wrapped around the building multiple times.  I remember thinking "this is stupid....why are we waiting so long?  I want to go home...you're screwing up my Saturday and cartoon watching time".  Then, I finally got into the theater, and my mind was absolutely blown for the next two hours.  It was a game changer.  Nothing, and I mean NOTHING had ever been made like that before.  I was instantaneously hooked.  I bought the soundtrack records (yes, records.  33 1/3 baby...) and listened to them obsessively.  I saw it in the theaters on its original run like 4-5 times (a big deal back then), watched the Christmas specials, The Muppet Show specials, had every toy released, etc.  In 1983 for Return of the Jedi, as a brand new teen, I honestly developed my "Slave Leia" obsession (this obsession was only nearly equalled by that other transformative female lead in a Sci-Fi moment I had experienced years earlier: Jenny Agutter in Logan's Run...ah, memories) by actually seeing Carrie Fisher in the movie in an unexpected way, as opposed to it being some sort of now cool nerd fetish.  When Empire was released, I found a pair of ski goggles and would wrap a sock (I didn't own a scarf) around my mouth while wearing a winter jacket (this is in the middle of a Fresno summer, btw) so I could look like the Rebel troops fighting the Imperial Army on Hoth.  My parents thought I was more than a little odd.  Years later, when the prequels were released, despite how I may have felt about them, I watched and enjoyed them for what they were.  I didn't go on tirades about how George Lucas had screwed up the franchise, etc. (here's a concept: it was HIS franchise.  He could "do" with it as he pleased).  I was especially galled when 20-somethings, too young to have seen the originals when they came out, or even most theatrical re-releases, wrote long and lengthy pieces about how they felt their childhood was now tarnished by these new abominations.  Really?  What childhood memories?  What Kairotic moment?  Sitting at home on the sofa and watching them on VHS/DVD while you simultaneously played your Nintendo DS?  That's not an investment.  That's not a transitive moment.  They simply cannot know what it was like to stand in the heat for 4-5 hours to see something wholly new.  So new, Lucas had to invent new cameras and XF techniques just to make the movies.  These Gen-Y, Gen-Next nattering nabobs of narcissism grew up with the XF blockbuster.  The movie world was transformed long before they started watching movies.

Anyways, something happened in the last few years to where Star Wars became a "thing".  Girls are now sporting hoochie R2-D2 dresses and Slave Leia costumes at conventions, guys are getting Sith Lord tattoos, blah blah blah.  Whenever I see a 23 year old exclaim, "I'm such a Star Wars nerd!", I want to ask, "Why?"  Did they stand in line as a child for hours on end to see the films because there was no cable or at home video?  Did the movies open up a new world of fantasy that had never been seen before?  Just why, exactly, do you have a Wookie tattooed to your ass?  I'm curious...please enlighten me.  I don't think they really know, other than some Borg-like, nerd hive-mind somewhere decided "Thou shalt like Star Wars!  Oh, and bacon and whiskey too...", and like the empty headed lemmings they are, they all swan-dove off of the bearded, craft brewed, locally sourced cliff.
So, here we are, another thing sullied by the hipster d-bag crowd.  Is it too much to expect these folks to come up with something on their own?  Or are they too creatively bankrupt?  Maybe their electronic interconnectedness has prevented anyone from breaking out from the crowd and come up with their own thing?  Their generation blockbuster movies are all based on comic books going back decades.  Where's their George Lucas?  Actually, that's not entirely fair.  They have been great at technical innovation.  I give them credit for taking the internet revolution and running with it.  But they seem so tech heavy/savvy, so obsessed with the technical, the digital, the STERILE, they seem to lack the ability to indulge in the ephemeral, or even the corporeal.  They're so bored and over stimulated, they've never experienced a true visceral moment.  Seems kind of sad...***

Anyways, here's a few other things I massively enjoyed in my younger days.  Let's see how long before they become bastardized by the hipster crowd: original, un-pc Warner Bros. cartoons, especially any featuring Daffy Duck in a satirical role (Duck Dodgers, The Scarlet Pumperkickel, Duck Twacy, etc.); ska logo t-shirts (Specials/The Beat, etc); the Ibanez MC 800/900 bass guitar; pot roast/beef stew; the Tom Collins; and bikini underwear on women (as opposed to the "thong"...bleh).
Let's see what happens...

*when KFC and Budweiser are making commercials featuring the mustachioed crowd, the supposed lovers of irony (as evidenced by their beloved t-shirts) are failing to grasp that they, themselves, have become ironic  
**my chosen name for hipsters, and often used together.  See "hipster twats" in previous posts.
***Sad or not, you've stained Star Wars...and for that, there is no sympathy or forgiveness      

Hipsters, whiskey, desert boots, Keira Knightley, Snoop Dogg, yachts, Cristal, Kardashians, Black Friday and lumbersexuals

OK hipsters. I've tolerated your idiotic love of ridiculous beards and "ironic" mustaches, and bands that feature Appalachian musical instruments as a lead melodic device. Fine. Have at it you pathetic numbskulls. I've even forced myself to be OK with your currently having ruined the most amazing piece of footwear ever invented, the Clarks desert boot (I've been wearing them since I was a teenager. I wear them now. In fact, I will probably be buried in a pair. I've been wearing them for over 25 years.  I'm in it for the long haul. I didn't wear them all those years ago because others thought they were cool, I wore them because I THOUGHT they were cool. You didn't see flannel clad d-bags in KFC commercials wearing them. Know how I discovered them? I saw a guy wearing them on an old Yardbirds album cover from the 60's and decided I liked them. It then took forever to find a pair in Fresno because corporate America wasn't forcing them down our throats because they were trying to appeal to that 18-25 demo. Now? Every 22 year old in skinny jeans and a waxed handlebar mustache is wearing a pair. But that's fine. Soon, they will fall out of fashion, and you guys will be on to something else....maybe elf shoes with the little jingle bell on the curled toe? Anyways...I'll have my desert boots back is all that matters). But what I cannot abide is you twats having driven the price of whiskey, specifically bourbon, through the stratosphere. IT'S RIDICULOUS. I'm sure you fixie riding, ironic dive bar attending idiots think it's beyond cool you're enjoying a beverage your granddaddy drank. Thing is, I don't think you even like it. I can see your little pinched faces as you drink it knowing deep down inside you'd rather be drinking a Smirnoff Ice or something. Anyways, your strict adherence to drinking something "retro" and "ironic" has driven the price of your basic, everyday working man whiskies to $25-30 a bottle. A bottle of Makers Mark used to run $19.99. Wild Turkey 101 could be had for less than that. Now? Forget it. And, a higher end item like a Van Winkle, while not cheap, could at least be found on the shelf at your local specialty liquor store. Now? They're sold out pre-release. WTF?????? Stop ruining everything good in life with your slavish devotion to trend. It's sickening, and destroying it for those of us who appreciate things for their intrinsic pleasures, not because all your friends say it's cool. I come from a long line of brown liquor drinkers (some, a little TOO fond of the stuff) with southern/Scots-Irish DNA, which is to say I come by my enjoyment of a bottle of Elmer T. Lee honestly. Could you dweebs do me a favor and latch on to something else? Gin? Ooooh....how about rum??? There's an unexplored beverage that is just now starting to sprout artisanal distillers, plus pirates LOVED IT. And how cool are pirates, am I right??? They even liked beards too! Just like you!!!! Oh...eye patches! You could bring back eye patches too!!! The possibilities are endless! So, let's get on it hipsters! Let's start the rum revolution and leave that bourbon behind!!!!!!! (and Scotch and Irish too...). Do it for the children....ha. Kidding. Do it for me you bastards.
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Headline: "Keira Knightley poses topless to make statement about body image and retouched photos."

Saw the photos, and here's what that unspoken photographic statement of Keira's essentially said (I'm translating for you folks who don't speak the celebrese language long ago created by ancient tribes of Hollywood publicists): "Hey everybody! Look at me! I'm young, rich, white, pretty and skinny! Woo hoo! Suck it, losers!!! Ha ha ha ha ha! Worship me you pathetic fucks!!!!!!!! Gwab morg goff blergh fwomp!!!! (sound of Keira morphing into a demon with camera flash-bulbs for eyes)

That Keira Knightley is one daring woman. To have her professionally made-up, lighted, costumed, and posed visage selectively edited for the best shots out of dozens (if not hundreds) of photos thrown out there into the public domain is an act of heroism, nay, BRAVERY, that really makes Joan of Arc look like a self aggrandizing attention whore by comparison. What we really need to ask ourselves is this...Keira Knightley: great woman? Or greatest woman? I know...I'm torn too...btw, kinda flat chested.  Just sayin'...Zing! See what I did there? Ha ha ha...it's like I don't get it! Right??? (seriously though, smallish boobs is the point I'm trying to get across here)
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Oh, and apparently THIS happened in the UK.  So, a maniac in Wales murders a woman, then eats her face, and then dies after being Tasered by police (for those of you keeping score at home, this is also known as the methamphetamine trifecta). I had no idea the Welsh were such a rowdy lot.
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Just got an email inquiring if I'd like to rent a private jet. Evidently, a marketing firm has identified me as a player (pronounced "play-ah"). I figure it's only a matter of time before subscription opportunities to the Cristal bottle of the month club come rolling in, and, mixed in my mailbox with the Bed, Bath and Beyond flyers, I start getting service coupons offering to get the oil changed on my Bentley for 15% off.

This was followed by another email, that, no joke,  was an offer for me to rent a yacht. I figure the offers to set me up with a Kardashian must be just right around the corner. The yacht email:

Note: offer states yachts are "friendly, accommodating, and well run." Needless to say, these proclamations are a sure sign of quality, as most of us are just plain sick and tired of the unfriendly, un-accomodating, and highly disorganized floating luxury deathtraps we've become accustomed to. Thank god. Then again, the fact my last yacht crew was a bunch of Somali's should have been the first clue I had erred in judgment with my choice in yacht rentals.

#‎baller‬

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Here's an article about "Lumbersexuals".  The article refers to them as "rugged hipsters."
http://www.cbc.ca/newsblogs/yourcommunity/2014/11/lumbersexual-trend-thrusts-rugged-hipsters-into-mens-fashion-spotlight.html

Ahem. "Rugged hipsters"? I don't know where to even begin...but fear not, for begin, I shall. Rugged is to hipster as dental hygiene is to meth addict. Sure, it's theoretically possible, but probably something that could only exist for a millionth of a second in a highly controlled environment at Lawrence Livermore Labs...like an isotope of element 115 (aka ununpentium...look it up...nerd humor). Anyways, can we just either a) make it stop with the bearded buffoon brigade (the bbb's) and their many lame ass (lame assed?) iterations (monocle man, handlebar mustache man, fixie man, craft beer man, insanely expensive limited release whiskey man, bacon man, etc) and just round them up and force them to live electrically fenced inside an elitist, green, micro-farming, pet friendly, GMO free, all natural deodorant, flannel lined gulag, and just call it New Portland? They'd be happy to live there, never notice they were imprisoned, and can all bore each other to death with hysterically un-funny, droll tales full of whimsy of their times in grad school when they grew their own hops for their home brew they later shared with their neighbors who didn't get the joke of the hand drawn label of a pirate they put on their bottle and called it PBR (pee bee arrrrrrrrrrrrr!), or, b) have them all shipped to Syria, and let Darwinism work its magic. I know. Option "b" sounds a little risky, because it could end up with wave after wave of jihadists coming back to our shores armed with skinny jean IED's, hemp grenades, IPA launchers, and ironic musical death beams blasting out Journey (even though these jihadists will secretly cringe a little with self doubt because they're not sure everybody GET'S IT, and they almost feel the need to start babbling on about their love of Leonard Cohen to reestablish their hipster, jihadist cred. This is when they will be most vulnerable, and when we rush in and cut up their Visa card that is paid off monthly by their parents who co-signed for them, thus rendering them defenseless and soon kicked out of their apartments in Brooklyn for overdue back-rent, and now at our mercy) from the speakers of the most ironic of hipster cars: the 1969 Citroen DS..............
I'm not going to lie, I seem to have gone off on a foaming at the mouth tangent, and I totally forgot what my point was...but I think it has something to do with my unresolved anger at 23 year olds who just 2 years ago were drinking Bud Light Lime-A-Rita's and are now pre-ordering by the case the 2014 release of 18 year old Sazerac Rye (for example) to the point where I cannot get my hands on a bottle even through special order. I also suspect they don't even like it, and take it home and mix it with Dr. Pepper. Hopefully, someday soon, they'll go back to secretly drinking their girlfriends Cosmo's and doing Jåger bombs, and come out of the closet for their love of all things Bon Jovi, and not Bon Iver.
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By the way, When Snoop Dogg uses words like "shizzle", "nizzle", and "izzle kizzle", everybody thinks he's using slang, or some sort of self created street lingo. Personally, I just think he's quoting from the lesser known books of Dr. Seuss.
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There's been a dangerous lack of celebrity opinions and comments about the recent events that have occurred this week, unbelievably, right before Thanksgiving. This is a time when Americans are supposed to be coming together, giving thanks and celebrating our shared values, and not fighting amongst ourselves.  I feel so lost. How am I supposed to know how to feel, and how to think, and what to think, if a celebrity won't tell me what's appropriate? Come you egomaniacal, narcissistic, vapid and vain visages of the screen big and small...to the Twitterverse and spill it! I cannot wait to hear how this has affected you, nay, haunted you, as you sip a $300 dollar Pinot in your Malibu fortress and contemplate what's right and just for the hoi polloi. Do it! Stop staring at the screen and just hit send! I breathlessly await, trembling with anticipation, all atingle, for you to free me from my mental vapor lock, not knowing how to process all this stimuli with my little, underdeveloped, non-red carpet brain. Your sage words learned from a rich and diverse, deeply salt of the earth life, full of meaningful experience gained through $2000 prostitutes and cocaine fueled parties, will fill my head with wonder and new understanding of my existence as it relates to my fellow man and woman, and I will finally, blissfully know, through your wisdom.......................whether these post-Thanksgiving Black Friday sales are worth the hassle or not.

Life lessons at the liquor store...

So, I'm at the liquor store.  I have a purchase in mind (Glenfiddich 15 for those of you who are curious).  When at the liquor store, I like to take my time and window shop and see if anything new, exciting, or exotic has been stocked since my last visit.  I slowly go up and down the aisles, taking in all the bourbons, Scotches, Irish, ryes and Canadians.  As I'm doing this, a nattily dressed gentleman of about 70 years of age briskly walks into the store.  He immediately goes to one spot ignoring all the other glistening bottles around him.  He grabs one very specific bottle of something (a Scotch of some sort...I didn't look that close...it all happened too fast) and makes a beeline to the register.  He pays and directly leaves.  Time in store from selection to purchase to exit?  About 47 seconds.  This guy knows what he likes, and doesn't have time for all the other superfluous bullshit.  He's probably been drinking the same whiskey for 40-50 years, and could give a rat's ass if another brand has an essence of honeyed heather or has been aged in port barrels.  He simply doesn't have the time for such meaningless distraction.  "Listen junior...are we having a dram?  Or are we pulling our dick?  You want to go "shopping"?  Then perhaps you'd be better off looking at shoes with your lady.  You want a drink?  Get in.  Get out.  Go home.  Pour two fingers (all things in moderation) and begin."  I had the impression this guy was the Yoda of distilled spirits.  I had to fight the urge to go over and shake his hand.

Although there's a fair chance this guy may be an alcoholic, I was left pondering on the greater philosophy that his approach to whiskey purchasing reflected...especially with romantic relationships.  Find one you truly like, stick with it, and be satisfied.  You can go on some sort of Quixote-like quest endlessly searching for perfection and undetectable nuance (triple matured in two kinds of oak and finished in three kinds of sherry casks!), and hold onto the belief that different is always better.  It's not.  It's all just marketing...even with people.  Different is different, and not always better...and sometimes far worse.  If you truly know yourself, and are capable of making rational, mature, as well as heartfelt, decisions, the odds of you continually finding something better are non-existent.  So, really, stop fucking around, grow up, and start really enjoying life.  Stop continually wondering what is just around the corner, and start enjoying what's actually right in front of you.*


* There's probably a joke to be made about enjoying a special someone and "two fingers" (to complete the whiskey/relationship analogy) but I am FAR too classy to make it here...although, safe to say, in my head, I already did.      

Scotch Snobs

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Those who know me even casually, know that I like whiskey (or "whisky").  It's good stuff.  My favorite is bourbon, but I also enjoy Irish whiskey and Scotch whisky as well.  People who don't like whiskey will say it's nasty, rough, and burns like a mouthful of gasoline.  Well, poor quality whiskey can, in fact, taste like that.  But the good stuff, the stuff I enjoy, will have (in various combinations) honey, vanilla, maple, oak, dried fruit, smoke, sherry and floral qualities to it.  It's seriously good.  However, this brings me to the Scotch snob crowd...

A Scotch snob will tell you if it tastes good, it's shit.  Only the overly peated, medicinal smoke bombs that would make a wild boar gag are the Scotches worth your time.  Only these vile whiskies are "complex" (complex is whiskey snob code for foul tasting) enough for a Scotch snob's time.  Here's a typical Scotch snob whiskey review of something they would find top notch:

Nose: smells like baby vomit...but worse.  Think of a baby eating an entire box of adhesive tape along with a couple of Band Aids, and then puked it up on your collar.  Once you get through the vomity introduction, it's followed by hints of summer road tar, and sulfur...like Satan farted in your car with the windows rolled up.  Some boiled cabbage comes through and some smoke.  But not wood smoke, more like if an emergency road flare had an orgy with gunpowder, burning foam sofa cushions, and overheated disc brakes...and then had a bastard love child with all of these qualities.  Some sweet vanilla comes through, but then this is immediately shat upon by wave after wave of iodine, rotting oleander, and Vicks VapoRub.  The VapoRub is followed by the smell of a glue factory.  

It's complex and amazing.  I give the nose an A+.  (Warning: after one whiff of this my olfactory senses quit working for a week...but totally worth it)

Palate: now here's where it gets interesting.  More smoke.  Like an electrical fire and burnt insulation.  Some more rotten egg and sulfur...as if Godzilla sodomized a volcano and then immediately wiped his dick into my glass.  A little charcoal and bitter adhesive...reminiscent of being locked in a bank vault with a bandaged hooker on a summers day, and snorting lines of powdered residue taken from your barbecue grill off of the small of her back as she is positioned on all fours and lighting a crack pipe with a blow torch.  Wood glue. Model airplane glue. Super glue...hot lead solder...followed by more glue. This is followed by .0003 seconds of vanilla, oak, and wild honey, and this is mercifully strangled with a strippers bra and replaced by ancient mariners rope and disinfectant.  Some vegetal quality...spoiled sauerkraut...maybe some broccoli and asparagus.  Sweet dung...and finally isopropyl rubbing alcohol.  

It's complex and amazing.  I give it an A. 

Finish: long.  Slow.  Like slowly rotting desert roadkill left in the sun in springtime.  Instantly induces tinnitus and a short term bout of nonspecific urethritis.  Hot and tortuous...like a garbage landfill fire on the back of my tongue.  More charcoal and smoke...burning used tires and a dirty oven on the self clean cycle.  Momentary blindness in my left eye followed by overtones of ipecac.  Pine tar.  Cough syrup.  Dirty diapers and curry.  More curry.  Some kimchi...followed by more kimchi...Thai curry...and the baby vomit makes another appearance.  A little maple, which is immediately gunned down by a cigarette smoking, one eyed Hungarian with athletes foot, who then buries it in a swamp.  This is followed by clouds iodine, wound cleanser, the atmosphere of Venus, dirty crotch, and bug repellant.  

It's complex and amazing.  I give it an A.  

To sum up, this is mind blowing Scotch.  Highly recommended.   

If you look up a review by a whisky snob on something like Laphroaig, you'll see what I mean.

Now, here's the same review by a Scotch snob on something I'd enjoy (i.e. a Speyside, Highlands, or a high end blend*):

Nose: vanilla. Dried fruit. Wild honey. Some smoke...hints of bacon frying in the pan on a winters day. Oak.  Sherry. Compote.  Christmas spices.  Baked banana bread.  Creme brulee.  Wild flowers.  The warm skin of a beautiful woman as she lays next to you.  

It's ok, but rather dull and uninspired.  Could use more complexity.  I give it a C. (Side note: my inoperable brain tumor suddenly disappeared as I drank this....but this doesn't replace this whisky's need for more complexity)  

Palate: mana of the gods.  More vanilla, oak, mild flavorful smoke, heather, wild honey, and sherry.  Feels like a super model was massaging the back of my tongue.  Fresh baked bread, a spreading warmth like a holiday fireplace filled with flavorful oak, and some bourbon sweetness infused from the toasted cask.  Flavored lip gloss from the girl you first kissed at 14 and havent forgotten 30 years later, and hints of a Michelin starred restaurant.  Imported Swiss chocolate.  Baked Alaska surrounded by bread pudding, and finished with New York style cheesecake and wet dreams.

It's ok, but rather dull and uninspired.  Could use more complexity.  I give it a C.

Finish: I'm not sure.  It started off with the lilting sounds of angels singing and the smoothness of a gently flowing mountain stream.  Some delightful smokey warmth, and spontaneous orgasm.  Warm holiday spices and more of that vanilla and wild honey.  I then passed out from sheer bliss and cannot remember the rest of the experience.  

It's ok, but rather dull and uninspired.  Could use more complexity.  I give it a C.  

The whole experience with this dram is alright if you're looking for a Scotch that's drinkable, has good flavor, is smooth and brings you pleasure...but I cannot recommend it.  Look for something a bit more complex...and has hint's of Satan's flatulence.  In fact, there's an Islay single malt called "Satan's Wind" that has this very quality, and I highly recommend it...especially since it's a bargain at $250 a bottle.    

Anyways, what I'm alluding to here is that there are some delicious whiskies out there, and if the stuff you tried based on the review of some so-called expert tasted like shit...it probably did.  Ask your non-self aggrandizing friends who enjoy whiskey (and who also don't endlessly drone on about it...a good sign they're NOT Scotch snobs) for a recommendation.  Remember, it's important they're not uppity douchebags...otherwise they'll steer you to the "Satan's Wind" brand.  You might be surprised at what you find...and you may actually like it.      

* How to tell if you're one of the dreaded douche bags I just described above, i.e., a single malt Scotch snob:

1) You looked at the picture of the whiskey with ice in it and immediately thought: Ice???? ICE???  Ice lowers the temp and doesn't allow the full presentation, flavor and nose of the whiskey.  Only a charlatan, a bumpkin, or AN AMERICAN adds ice!!!!  You're missing out on the cabbage and baby vomit!!!!  

(Well, screw you.  I like my drinks ice cold and the ice melts and adds a little water to the whiskey, rounding its flavors, enhancing the wood and vanilla, and takes off rough edges...but that's just me.  Only the Scotch snob tries to tell another how to enjoy their drink)

2) You saw the word "blend" and scoffed, because the only Scotch worth drinking is single malt Scotch.  

(Actually, there are some amazing blends out there, some as good or better than overpriced single malts, and I've got a bottle of Chivas 18yr old to prove it.  In fact, the single malt craze is the result of a rather successful marketing strategy from years back, as it used to be thought most single malts were too rough for most palates.  Back in the day, most Scotches WERE BLENDS.  There is no shame in enjoying something easy to find like Johnny Walker black label.  It tastes good...and isn't that the point?  In fact, Compass Box is a highly regarded, craft style Scotch producer who embraces blends and makes nothing but blends...and is quickly reshaping the attitude towards blends with their highly rated offerings) 

Holiday Tolerance Juice

I've always enjoyed a little Black Bush this time of year.*


*It's Irish whiskey...now get your mind out of the gutter (although I like how you think).