inter-bloggal-connectivity.

lehaberdasher.blogspot.com

you could call it a sister blog where posts are made. look it up, check it out. snap.

high tides.

As far as the soles of my feet were concerned, I was approaching the coast, for with every step the dampness showered my toes. The matted feel of the sand and its more than frequent pebbles appropriated the mass of my attention, dispersed only by the ebbing tide and a few pique notes of debussy. The heat of the sun bleeding through the depth of my shirt, spreading its warmth along my posterior. Salt and fish poured forth readily, rushing through my nose, firing synapse after synapse. The rush etched its way into the sounds of the tepid breeze, streaming through the endless infinite. Brown pastel patches tone the perplexing water. With each pass the curvature of the glass water magnified those sand and particles from under its passage. White and grey feathured sentinals peck and take caution of the domain. Looking up, the lush and lively cresent of the distant shore winked at me with assured recognition. The houses along its breadth played with my heightened imagination. Gouges from the stony beach made precarious locations to sit. As I sweep my eyes to the left, the sharp and pronounced metal remained rusty and unmovable, trying to hide the imperfection of its descending slope. On the lit up grass, an elderly couple still caught up in youthly love share notes of separate novels, leaning pleasantly into each other's forms. There's too much to notice. The world is an ocean of molecules, each drop a moment to fixate and relish in its unique beauty. The positioning of their feet, crossed and bathed in photons, photogenetic nourishment from Apollo. A wheaping willow, behind my back, crouched in its reach for the sky. Bent in posture, destined to appreciate only the ephemeral passings of love and irreparable heart break under its hulk. From the green crescent protrudes a few deadened hands, captured in death, suffocated from below by a hearty litter of reasons. I always wonder why others don't think as I do, a unique wave. The spectrum of our capacities is vast and oh too real. We range from pebbles to mountains. Will the ill of intelligence bring us to shambles?

mildly angelic.

oh, vishnu.  Why oh why did the Wylies have to cross my eyes.  Classically crafted by famed Oliver Peoples, myself normally fond of tortoise, am struck and held by its beige/clear plastic and gold titanium features, especially with the green lenses.  Everything about this optic protection shouts retro in a positive light, something I would find my mother wearing during the eighties.  They happen to be limited edition and, with their price tag, would lunge and rip into leathery scraps my wallet, but something tells me I must.  I must. I will. Time for narcotics trafficking?

sea-faring niceties?

S.N.S. Herning?  S.N.S. Herning.  S.N.S .... is it a coincidence that this remarkably limited Danish sweater production bares my initials?  Let's just believe in cosmic alignments for a moment and assume the planets have fallen in line, or rather I've spotted this beautifully knit sweater for a reason.  Using a 'bubbling' technique that is to encourage natural insulation, these sweaters are made individually, in small production, and as proof, are all accompanied by a signed tag displaying the artisan whom produced your (my) future...and I'll leave it at 'future' because it definitely seems a sweater as such will last for years to come.  Anyway, along with a pair of black derringer rachel comey oxfords, this particular button up sweater has made it to the top of my wish-list....if only I celebrated Hanukkah, christmas and or Kwanzaa.  fuck.

another day, a second bottle?

Within my bildungs roman, an evening with my buddy jake st. john, the two of us found ourselves having made the decision to go to Bacchus, one of milwaukee's Bartolotta's restaurants, for a single drink to ease into the evening while waiting for a third friend.  Sitting down at the wooden bar, to the left was a man who closely resembled Woody Allen (blegh) flanked by two obviously expensive bimbos who were enjoying drinks - probably on Woody's tab.  Jake, ordering a Hendrick's Gin and tonic, was quick to decide being in his current state of ordering the floral, mashed cucumber, spirit.  I, trying to fall into stride with single malts, decided on the macallan 12 year aged in Sherry Casks.  Served neat, in a cognac glass (not traditional, but close enough), as I placed the glass to my lower lip, I was immediately intoxicated and overwhelmed by the nose of the scotch.  I was figuratively taken aback.  Potent, intense, etc, I had a LITTLE worry about whether my palate could manage the taste...an adolescent mental mistake.  When I took my first sip, I was amazed at its smoothness.  The complexity of the flavor was to be truly appreciated.  It was, indeed, a pleasant experience.

On my second household bottle of scotch, I decided to choose the same as that night (rather the selection of the grocery store forced my hand...not unwillingly).  It's color is richer and considerably darker than the balvenie, semblance to a raw honey.  The nose, as before, considerably sharper, but being taken from a tumbler, is much milder in comparison to my first encounter.  The taste, not as honey-like (a deterrence), but not offensive by any means.  It scrapes my tongue, therefore is noticeably less smooth in comparison to The B, but does have a smokier essence.  I guess I can somewhat make out the sherry slash spice that's mentioned on their simply descriptive website, more tasting are in order.  My conclusion stands as such:  at this point, the Macallan was a good purchase, but at the same price range, I would rather pick up the Balvenie doublewood 12 (or if my wallet is ambitious, further aged), BUT I feel that my palate will form and meld around further servings of the scotch and I look forward to my increased appreciation of its reputation.

delicious, but everyday? the slippery road.

yes.  single malt whiskey scotch.  the balvenie doublewood 12 year.  First aged in whiskey oak with a second storage in sherry oak casks.  I enjoy this sensational, honey-in-appearance, whiskey.  Without much experience in the deep realm of scotch - balvenie and two macallans - I do have sense of fine scotch: it tastes delicious.  With its fruity nose, the balvenie 12 has an attractive golden color that gives off an austere aura from its soon-to-be relieved container.  With a nice nip to my tongue, the scotch has a rich and sweet delivery.  Perhaps a touch smokey?  At this point, I will leave it at that until my palette has developed further, and I will just say that I wouldn't be surprised if I fill my decanter with the balvenie 12 again.

a citation

Ideally, I should wait for the world to stop turning or rather my reading the last page before I write anything in regards to the Amis' novel, however, I have been thrilled with my encounter with the quote I'm about to present.  A feeling of elation and bubbles took me...

"She had a sudden, antic desire to lift her dress to the waist, pivot,  and bend - like a terrible little girl, with a terrible little daddy."