Whisky in the Jar

Disturbing news from Bloomberg:

On a warm evening in June, the thirsty crowd milling about a Brooklyn event space might have gladly sipped glasses of white wine, or crisp gin & tonics. Instead, all held drams of golden whisky in their hand.
The event was to celebrate the introduction of Toki, a new offering from Japanese whisky maker Suntory, with gentle almond and grapefruit accents and no age statement. It’s just one of a growing number of what we're dubbing “whisper whiskies”—pale-hued, refreshing spirits with a deliberately light, mellow flavor profile, offering an antidote to bold bourbons and brooding, smoky Scotches.

Brooklyn. It figures. The borough needs to be nuked for its own good.

Let's parse one key sentence:

It’s just one of a growing number of what we're dubbing “whisper whiskies”—pale-hued, refreshing spirits with a deliberately light, mellow flavor profile, offering an antidote to bold bourbons and brooding, smoky Scotches.

The speaker means to say,  'I'm menstruating'.


Whisky is not supposed to be like this.

Damn it man, whisky is given to wounded soldiers as they patiently wait their turn in with the doctor. Flasks of whisky are given to riders on desperate night time journeys with urgent messages for the general.  Men pass around the last bottle to steel their nerves before going over the top.  Destroyer captains drink it in great porcelain mugs as they skipper their ships into the broiling-gray North Atlantic.

I thank god everyday that my father was a Jameson man. I've been drinking the stuff since I was 19. Bushmills too. Luckily my the father of my childhood friend was from Galway, and introduced Tullimore Dew, dubbed a 'light whisky'. Maybe it was, but three fingers of that stuff would clear your sinuses, sweep out your arteries and give your stomach a nice warm sensation. 'Sure, I'll take a finger,' said Mr. O'Neill on several occasions.

And because I drank whisky, I learned to drink. One night me and the young O'Neill unscrewed a fare bottle of Tullimore, threw away the cap, and spoke of the things young men speak of till the bottle was thrown out. You know what I did then? I drove home stone cold sober, that's what. You know why? Because I could hold my liquor, that's why. At my bachelor party six of us, (Young O'Neill, Carlos, Paul, John, Mike)  ran up a $400 dollar bar tab. I've left off the last names as these are respectable men with careers, wives (or boyfriends madre di dios) and kids to think about.

At my epic 27th birthday party, the young O'Neill and I started at about 11 AM and ended at about 4...AM. I kid you not. The next day was the greatest walk of shame ever, as I brought two cases of beer worth of empties and two bottles of whisky to the recycling bin. Then we went to lunch.

One pours a couple of whisky's on a Sunday afternoon in the backyard Adirondacks with an old friend, or after the news of a great tragedy ( I had one when I thought Algore won the election), or in celebration of a birth. When my daughter's boyfriend asks for her hand, it will be done in my study, over a couple of glasses of Tullimore.

And you never get stupid about it.

Christ almighty, man, I used to drink the stuff neat, just to prove I could. Whisky is a man's drink, its not supposed to be light and flavored. You want that, go drink an appletini, colon poker.