“Asteroids do not concern me, Admiral,” Vader said interrupting Piett’s nervous explanation. “I want that ship, not excuses.”
“Yes, my Lord,” the stiffly obedient soldier responded and bowed his head as the mechanized canopy of Vader’s meditation chamber lowered and hissed shut. He turned to make his way back to the bridge of the Super Star Destroyer when he heard a muffled call through the chamber wall. Vader was saying something else.
“This whisky isn’t the oldest in my collection,” he said, handing another dram to Bob and then taking one for himself. “But just like you, young lady, age isn’t necessarily a qualifier.” The compliment made her smile. “The whiskey was aged for about eight years,” he continued, “but its upbringing is one of incredible refinement. It was finished in three different types of wine barrels— Mourvèdre and Sauternes, both from France, and then another from Austria, but I don’t remember the type.”
The whiskey world has similar categories. There are some whiskies that choose to reside in the training levels. There are others existing in more competitive realms. There are, of course, the elite few that sit atop the highest shelves of whiskey spectacle. I’m thinking that the folks behind the Kilbeggan Single Grain Irish Whiskey are not only well familiar with Death Ball, but by their name they tip their hats to the “kill begging” rule of the second tier, and by this, place themselves no higher.
I think that one of the creepiest, and perhaps most humorous, of the sleepwalking occurrences so far was when Jennifer and I were watching a movie and Harrison suddenly appeared out of nowhere-as if he’d emerged from the darkest corner of the room. He was wearing sleep pants but no shirt, and with a semi-literate mumble, he complained that he was cold. Wondering how in the world he made it down the stairs without us seeing him, I told him to go put a shirt on and get back into bed. He did. A few minutes later he emerged from the same dark space again to say he was still cold-except this time he was wearing a shirt but had taken off his pants.
Maybe it was said and maybe it wasn’t, but either way, the statement remains incredibly righteous. “Only the white man’s leaders,” the old Indian chief observed, “would cut from the top of the blanket and sew it to the bottom and believe he’s made it longer.”
Daylight Savings Time is a pestilence upon this land. It’s a pall of demonic blackness that chafes life’s skin, relentlessly shearing away until the emotional nerves are exposed and the mind is alight with disorienting misfires of confusion, pain, sorrow, and general frustration.
My phone was humming on the kitchen counter and calling for my attention.
“Guess who’s at Walmart?” the voice on the other end of the line said dryly.
“What?” I asked. The mobile signal was momentarily choppy.
“Guess who I just saw here at Walmart?”
“Who?”
“You’ll never guess.”
“Who?” I prodded.
“Santa.”
There was a moment of silence between us.
Scanning the shelves of my favorite shop, my eyes beheld only the familiars, those I had seen so many times before. It was late. I was tired. I stopped in on the way home from a hospital visit, taking the chance that the proprietor, my friend Tony, would have a surprise in waiting. Finding nothing, in my downcast exhaustion, I decided on a familiar highland single malt, called for Tony, and then made my way to the register while reaching into my pocket to retrieve the sum total of my “Squirrel Fund” (which is the secret stash I keep hidden year ’round, feeding it every so often with single dollars and loose change).
The giver of this gift, put me to the test. I had previously bragged to my dear Jennifer that the only curves that rivaled her own were those of my whisky bottles. Needless to say, she did not see the humor.
Have you seen the movie “Rocky”? It’s the story of an up and coming boxer who trains hard, eats right, goes the extra mile, and in the end, gets his chance at the title fight. Of course, everyone expects an exhibition by the reigning champ, a bout expected to last only a round or two. But to the world’s surprise, Rocky gives the champ a sterling run, and in the end, even though he loses at the judges’ tally, he is still standing and the crowd chants his name. That’s Glengoyne; an underestimated contender destined to be the champion.
