Transcript after the jump.
Waitress: Would you like something to drink?
Me: I'll have an old-fashioned.
Waitress: Is Maker's okay?
Me: Yes, that's fine, thank you!
OkCupid Date: Hahah. I'm glad that worked out for you.
Me: Did you Google me?
OkCupid Date: Yes, yes I did.
Previously: House White.
"If you know what Pappy Van Winkle is, you're already mad at me. If you don't, I'm about to change your life. Pappy, officially called Family Reserve, is the top-of-the-line bourbon made by The Old Rip Van Winkle Distillery. It comes in 15, 20, and 23 years old. There's a cult." —To your health.
I like whiskey in my hand for its color, on my tongue for its bite. And I like whiskey in a poem when it raises the stakes, when it threatens to spill or be drunk too quickly, too deeply, for all the wrong reasons. Whiskey can soothe or stoke a poem, casting its amber hue over the lines, lending its light. To top it all off, whiskey is an iamb – so I was surprised to find my hunt for woman-penned poems that mention the liquor specifically more arduous than expected. Sexton has that blistering response to the old song ("Cigarettes and Whiskey and Wild, Wild [...]
This is the first installment in a series about women and whiskey.
As soon as I enter the Nashville Whiskey Festival, I start looking for a way out. I'm already dehydrated and surly—my walk here ended up taking a half hour longer than I thought it would, and involved clambering under a highway, over train tracks, and through a neighborhood of barbed wire fences and flickering-light warehouses. All I want to do is sit down, chug some water, and plan out my next 10 drinks.
Instead, I enter a loud, narrow room, lined with tables on the perimeter. I find a palette of bottled water and snag one—they're tucked [...]