Wild Turkey & the Future

A few nights ago, I poured myself an ounce or two of Wild Turkey 101 Kentucky Bourbon, over ice, which might represent an appalling affront to the arrogancenti who claim to be bourbon purists. Screw them. They stumble over simple instructions fit for idiots; their pretenses only highlight their intellectual limitations. (Here is where I admit to being judgmental, opinionated, and occasionally hard to be around.)

I like my bourbon cold, as if touched by an icy blade of a knife keen to do irreparable harm to someone deserving of vivisection. My mood that night, and possibly this afternoon, as one might guess, was dangerous and unforgiving. The reasons for my acrimonious frame of mind were unimportant; it would have been wise, though, to just be aware of them and steer clear of any scythe I might have had in my possession. My thoughts toyed with the idea of learning to sharpen the implement so that it would easily cut a hair in half, lengthwise. I wanted to be able to swing my scythe with such precision that I could split molecules of air into fragments of equal size. Imagine how deadly such a sweep of that scythe might be to an unfortunate dimwit who stumbles into its path.

But I was talking about bourbon, wasn’t I? Indeed I was. The amber drink in my glass hid behind ice cubes, teasing me and taunting me to take just a sip, a little taste, an arousing touch of the elixir that will turn me into a growling beast, ready to engage the universe in a fierce battle for superiority and dominance over time and space and a thirst for blood. There it is! I’ve revealed the secret power of bourbon! It has the capacity for turning modest desire into a libidinous hunger unmatched in modern times. Only the thirst of Eros, who ‘loosens the limbs and weakens the mind,’ can compare to the power of bourbon when mixed with the right time, attitude, and longing.

Those emotions, though, are pretenses. They are scraps of camouflage that hide the stark, empty, hollow sensations that validate the inadequacy of the man who was holding the glass. They belong to the makeup artist who transforms pasty-faced actors into heroic figures, artificial characters who leap tall buildings and solve unsolvable problems. Emotions are powerful, but they are vaporous. When confronted with facts, emotions dissipate into scurilous mists that leave only wet traces on lips and faces.

Who are we, these men with bottled emotions, who own land and ride horses on the outskirts of well-do-to-cities? We? I am not among the horse-owning class. Nor am I a significant land owner. No, I am a wannabe, a character in a third-rate novel; a detective whose trousers are stained with olive oil and whose aftershave reeks of garlic and fresh fish.

I did not achieve my goals today. I could not keep myself away from the local social media. And I wished a friend’s husband happy birthday. Wait. I think he is my friend, too? Why do I consider his wife more of a friend than he? Ah, it’s only because she and I know one another a little better. Nothing more. I spent more time on Facebook than I said I would. Miserable bastard! You can’t even keep a promise to yourself!

I re-potted several tomato plants today, plants I grew from seeds of tomatoes I consumed for sustenance and pleasure. I hope the transplanted plants survive and give me enormous volumes of tomatoes. I adore tomatoes. I could survive on tomatoes and tomatoes alone. I’d be willing to try, anyway. For awhile.

Dinner tonight will involve the flesh of a dead pig, AKA pork tenderloin treated to spices that will be reminiscent of time I wished I’d spent in the Middle East or Northern Africa. I could have been Moroccan, had I been born in another place and another time. I just wanted you to know.

I’ve not yet started drinking, though my writing suggests otherwise. I promise. I am just in the mood for liquor and libidinous interactions. Hah! I’m too damn old and ugly for that. But I’m not too old for a gin and tonic, forged from cheap gin and cheaper tonic. But it requires the juice of a fresh lime; that is what transports me to a time and place where I can forget the past and strive to conquer the future.


About John Swinburn

"Love not what you are but what you may become."― Miguel de Cervantes
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5 Responses to Wild Turkey & the Future

  1. Pat Newcomb says:

    I have had similar musings over a glass of 12 year Single Malt Scotch (though not quite as – shall we say – poetic). What an act of faith – growing new tomatoes from seeds of those you’ve eaten. May your crop be green and plentiful.

  2. Jeez! Now I may have to sneak in to sample an array of delightful stuff!

  3. Colleen Boardman says:

    I bought a bottle of Sapphire today (and a bottle of Don Julio 1942, a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, and another tequila recommended by the owner) so I can probably manage to save some of the 209!

  4. Thanks, Colleen. But the news about the 209 is disturbing. I may have to sneak into your house in the wee hours and spirit away a jigger or two of 209. (Did you notice I said I would “spirit away” your gin? I crack myself up, sometimes. 😉 )

  5. Colleen Boardman says:

    Another excellent piece, John. And on that note, I’m going to go fix a gin & tonic. Oh FYI, a few months ago I told you that I’d donate my bottle of 209 gin to your gin tasting gathering that you were going to do for the auction. Well sorry, unscrewed that cap last night. Decided that the auction is waaay to far in the future to keep that bottle intact.

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