The Maturation of Whisky and its Perils

Some years and months ago, spirit was distilled and reckoned good enough to be put into an oak cask with heavy char. It would sit and breathe in the goings-on around it and would record the disturbances and actions taking place in its vicinity; imbuing those perturbations into the liquid held inside.

Some disturbances reach further with their ripples than others. An oversized truck barreling down a road adjacent to the rick-house would send its vibrations into the spirit coaxing the precious liquid further into the oak. A particularly cold winter that out-does the heating capacity of the building will force the wood to contract and expel some of its saturation, slowing the hard-won progress until warmth returns to the cockles of the stout 200 liter barrel, allowing absorption like the embrace of a long not seen friend.

The maturation process also keeps secrets. A late night tryst between distiller and visitor. A juxtaposition of senses: for the distiller the visitor is all long blonde hair and blue eyes to see and rough much pocked hands running over intoxicating smoothness to touch. The barrel becomes party to them as much needed support, the aroma of the visitor permanently etched into the rough surface as the slow inhalation of its surroundings continues. Muted are the complaints in reaction to a small travesty as an errant thrust dislodges the bung from its hole, irrevocably changing the course of the whisky’s history by prematurely exposing it to the open air. Its revenge, though not malicious in nature, is to lose a greater percentage of its volume, that is greater appeasement of the angels that continuously take their share. It will be noted on a spreadsheet in some years time by the distiller and the tax man. The visitor who languished so sensuously and briefly on the barrel will have long since removed the dust and soot inherent to aging casks and the offense of it long forgotten. The distiller filed in the visitors memory under the heading, interesting-setting-but-mediocre-lover.

Some years even further from that time someone might comment that that particular batch of whisky had some hint of longing, sweet misery, and playful boyishness. Perhaps, a combination of extra oxidization and a spike in evaporation, but really it is the maturation process’ secret laid bare for all to see.

Once finally emptied, the cask would still remember its liquid mate. Bathed in it for many years it would be hard to forget. Some time later after sitting and slowly expelling the memories it would be sent somewhere else. A new mate, but with different purpose. New disturbances and once again the bonding and percolation of history into the new spirit. A more focused distiller to be sure, but missed are the late night visits and feelings of uniqueness that it had once enjoyed. Before, one of a hundred, now; one of thousands and thousands. No more touches, slaps, or caresses. A more modern facility and so too are absent the vibrations from nearby trundling trucks, or cold winters to weather, or impromptu use as a lover’s surface.

Instead, many years of the same. Temperature controlled and visits few and far in-between. Solitude and pensiveness as spirit and oak mingle, still too the old spirit echoing forward in the future. Much longer this time until the barrel spear comes. The whisky this time does not raise any eyebrows from distiller or tax man. Gone are the notes of longing and playfulness; replaced instead, by notes of measured fortitude, patience, and as one drinker would note a by-the-numbers-whisky that pleases and reassures.

Once again shipped to parts unknown. This time a small cooperage. A fire built for a viking funeral. The farm hands, the pall bearers, are not gentle and with rough hands and rough tools they bring the barrel, bereft of its heads, to the fire’s edge. They scour the inside with sanders and plannars and the cask marvels as it feels the layers of char stripped away to reveal heretofore oak not touched by the light of day or the wetness of whisky. Then unto the pyre tossed to sit for some long seconds. Heavy char. But where there should be excruciating pain there is instead a renewed sense of usefulness. Removed from the flame and heads restored, a gleaming question forms in the barrel’s mind: “What next could I be?”

An offering to the nameless gods.

I made my first offering to the gods when I was just 15. I gunned a man down in an alleyway. I saw him first, luckily, and as he raised his shotgun to blow a hole in my chest I managed to raise the machine pistol in my hand and pull the trigger. The first bullet took him in the groin as I raised my hand. The recoil brought the bullets upwards and a line of gore sprouted from his stomach, then his chest, and my brain reminded me to let go of the trigger when I saw his throat explode blackish-red in the neon light of the damned city.

It was chaos then and I knew I did not have time to stop, but I did. I knelt down and touched his foot and I offered him to the gods. It was a silly thought at the time, that there were gods in the first place and that they might govern my life, but the thought popped into my head and I went with it.

I escaped the disintegrating city that night, leaving behind wails of horror and constant gunfire. I do not know how many more offerings I made that night. I only remember the first one and the first one still sticks with me to this day. I see the surprise in his eyes and I see the muzzle of the shotgun moving upwards. I see my own death coming in hot and fast with a precise dispassion and, of course, I see the way to avoid such a death.

As I ran that night; as I hid and hugged walls and avoided my neighbours who were also trying to escape that damned city I became aware of a certain type of governance. You see, we do not have control over the moments. There are moments each day that are beyond us and we are simply subject to the will of the gods who control that particular moment. I devoted myself to these gods, though I did not know their names, and begged them to preserve me for another moment. When the moments grew longer and hours ticked by I asked them to preserve me until dawn. As I turned back and saw the sun break over the damned city I was converted and baptized in the rays that struck me. I was an acolyte to the nameless gods who control the moments we do not. I am zealot of the gods who bring me to the morning safely. Each night, as I close up this little bar that resides in my corner of the Moon I raise a toast to them and that they bring me more moments and selfishly I ask to see another dawn.

It has been some years since I have made an offering like I did when I was 15, but I never rule out the possibility that the gods will ask for more. I listen each night, as I close up the bar, for the warning signs of another damned city and I resign myself to being held at the whim of the gods of the moment.

Objectifying Women

“What is anatomy?

Something of which we all have, but looks best on a woman.”

I have met this girl a few times now. We get coffee, or whisky when I’m drinking again. We sit and we talk and solve the world’s problems. A little salt in Liberia, a sprinkle of paprika in the Balkans, a dash of sugar in the Middle East, and set to simmer in the American Midwest.

Sometimes the banter is light and pleasant and other times things become more drawn out with the tendrils of our conversation reaching far deeper and more sensitive topics. Of course, it means nothing really, just a way for us to continue to see each other and talk about the things that interest us.

I worry though, and you’ll have to forgive me. I worry that I will not be taken seriously when I describe how much I appreciate and how wonderful this woman is simply because I find her attractive. Much ink has been spilled to point the finger at men who write about women and I worry that my point about this girl will be lost because I find her attractive.

She is smart. Not just in an intelligent way, but an emotional way as well. In one breath denouncing an easily solved atrocity and in another lamenting the circumstances that led to it and all the lives it impacted. Not single minded at all, but I worry that how I feel about her is invalidated because she also has magnificent breasts.

Therein lies the problem I am recounting to you now. I worry that there is not space for my adoration to be perceived both ways because of the inherent bias against a man and it is troubling. Is it wrong to admire her ability to quote Foucault in one sentence and comment on the delicacy of her pubic grooming style in the next? Does one invalidate the other?

I get it. I am a man and therefor the things I say are put through a singular prism created from a semen based epoxy. But, I must lament that fact because who then will write these things? Is there not some truth to the fact that this woman is both beautiful and intelligent? Can I not focus on both items separately and together as I please as long as I am not disparaging her?

Is it possible that there has been one too many men who have gone out of their way to describe a woman based on her looks alone that to even bring that matter into the mix is an insult? Perhaps, there has been one Pygmalion too many and we as men must avoid the physical nature of attraction and focus instead on the ephemeral side of attraction.

I believe it is a fallacy. That it is more important for me to wonder what she looks like in the throws of a good book as opposed to what she looks like in the throws of a good orgasm. I believe we are in a place now where one thought is outwardly praised more than the other and I believe that is where we have gone wrong as humans.

It is a personal fact: This woman is gorgeous. I could lie to you and say that I did not realize this until I spoke to her and felt her life-force knock against mine, but the truth is that I watched her walk into the bar and my cave-man brain started itemizing the things that I found particularly appealing about her. I won’t bore you with the details, but friend, let me tell you this lady has legs that would make a fertility goddess forget about hips.

Then we spoke and talked some more and the things I said were improved or eclipsed by the things she said. In the midst of this I felt my gut tightening. No one would believe me. To say, I have found a Unicorn out in the wild: “Ah, yes, fellas let me tell you she is stacked and it was delightful to hear her relate the parable of the previous reincarnation of Buddha to the homeless epidemic we are experiencing in the sad peripherals of our great cities.”

It’s a lot like using niggardly in a sentence. If you use it too early on most folks spend the rest of the sentence deciding where they come down on the racist implications of that word rather than listen to the rest of the sentence. Because I mentioned that she is ‘stacked’ the fact that she was able to use a philosophical story to fully describe a modern problem is lost on the audience.

There is a point to this. You see, I am blessed in having met a woman with such an equilibrium of beauty and intelligence. It makes it easy on me in describing her because I can tap into where the blood rushes. I can describe what makes her attractive to me and I can explain what it is like the swim in the estuaries of her personality.

I suppose it is not too much to worry about after all. She is what she is and if it turns out that I have exaggerated then others can rest easy that such a being of perfection does not exist, or if I am right on the money then I cannot be assailed for telling the truth about what I saw. I am practicing honesty and as it occurs to me there is nothing wrong with a little heroine worship. I just don’t want people to be distracted, you know? I feel that if one were to focus just on how beautiful she is then they would be missing a whole other world of what makes her so lovely. If one wanted to circumvent the typical protests and focus solely on her intelligence and personality they would being doing a disservice to how those things are presented to the world.

Inevitably, this wonder-woman will discover that I am far beneath her. I know it will come and am resigned to that fact. It will be a click in her mind as I say something that reveals my true nature: a drooling idiot, who was taught manners in the same way apes are taught sign language. It will be a good realization and she will leave and I will look to the door for more potential partners.

But, what of the next one?

Why build a bar on the Moon?

Originally, the bar was supposed to be on the Sun; but if I followed through with that I could only be open at night. I feel as though the patrons I cater to require their libations day or night and so I settled on the moon.

The Moon is a tough place to set up shop. What with their dry counties. However, I know honest people just need a drink and sometimes they just need a drink to hold onto for dear life. A beverage to see you through the small, but particularly violent storm that is day-to-day existence. I hear you, friend. Which is why I opened this speakeasy. As long as you keep it to yourself and away from any of those Lunar Magistrates; I think we will get along just fine.

The Moon has changed in the short amount of time I have been here. Not as shiny and new as it used to be. Each crater a little less deep, each dust pile a little less charming. But, I don’t let the diminished luminosity of the Moon get me down. I serve folk their drinks and sometimes I sit and I talk with them about their troubles.

This one fellow came in the other day. Real business type. Ordered with authority and wore a suit like plate armor. He was busy trying to heat up his glass of whisky with his eyes and I focused on cleaning glasses myself. He quietly ordered another neat whisky before upending his own glass and downing the whole thing in one go. You see a fella down a drink like that and it just picks at your brain why he did it. I’m not one to let questions like that stew, so I ask him about it as I bring him another drink. I almost wish I hadn’t.

Business hasn’t changed much in the last century. Everyone has to make a dollar, sure; but some search for ways to get it faster and harder. It didn’t take much, just a little suggestion and he told me everything I had already suspected. He told me about Earth and another outbreak. He told me about the cure and just how much it cost to make it and just how much it cost to buy it. He told me how difficult it was to live with what he did and how there were drugs to suppress those feelings. He told me all this and then downed his drink, left money on the bar top, and put on his hat all in one smooth motion.

I tried a moral suppression pill once when I was just some kid. Let me tell you; there is a reason I work a job with booze close at hand.

After all that I didn’t hate the man. In fact, he is one of the reasons I opened a speakeasy on the Moon. Everyone needs a place to drink. Some folks drink slow and easy and others, like the businessman, drink quickly and with purpose. Him, like I, won’t ever forget why were drinking though.

At some point in your life you’ll need a drink. If you’re on the Moon, come have a drink at my place. It’s cheap, I sweep up the dust, and there is no judgement on my side of the bar.