Early one morning as I made my way to the office, I happened to tune into my favorite AM radio news station just as the sports segment was unfolding. The sports reporter was relaying the audio from a locker room interview he’d conducted with a professional player.
I don’t know about you, but when I listen to and ponder the constructs of some of these colloquial dialogs while traveling along my cheery way, I sometimes find myself looking toward the empty passenger seat and asking the invisible traveler, “Do you have any idea what he just said?”
I know that he is saying something, and I suppose that to some it may even make sense. In the end, this is what it sounds like to me and often how I recall the exchange:
Reporter: “So, how do you feel about how the defense handled that second half?”
Player: “Well, the book shelves were just too heavy for us. We were drivin’ the oxen and tryin’ to get down by the road sign to pick up the groceries, but the snow plows were there drinkin’ some pretty stiff coffee and keepin’ all the rhubarb from walking the highline. We just need to keep our heads in the game and get through to water the grass and light the fireworks, know what I mean?”
Just once, I want the reporter to be honest and say, “Um. No, I don’t. In fact, no one knows what you mean because no one understands what those particular words in that particular order have to do with your particular sport as it relates to my particular question.”
There are some whiskies that do this, too. What I mean is that while some editions may indeed present themselves with professional league credentials, in the end, they are just, well, confusing.
The Laphroaig Select is an example.
The nose starts by offering the potentiality of silky smoke and a mild, but still promising, sweetness. But then you take a sip and suddenly it drops to a very dry and hostile place. It’s almost as if the fruit you were anticipating turns so irrationally toward becoming something foreign to the whole lot – something a little more like a dried butter and herb crust.
The finish is confusing, too. At first it feels as though it will be a medium spree teetering on the edge of the acrimonious features of the palate, and yet, like the surfeit of other editions bearing the Laphroaig badge, it turns toward a lengthiness that provides just enough time to sense the smoked fruit desired in the nose.
Just so you know, I felt it only proper to jot my notes and then go out to my car, climb into the driver seat, and ask of my invisible passenger, “Do you have any idea what the Laphroaig Select just said?”