The big highlight of the day was the Jim Beam Bourbon Country tour.

Lee Crane put the idea in my head this morning. I mean, hell, I’m in Bourbon Country for fuck’s sake. He sent me this link and I went to the top shelf, focused on the Jim Beam tour and split down I-65 on the Bourbon Trail. In a little less than a half hour, I was pulling off exit 112 and heading west towards Happy Hollow road. This was the home of seven generations of the Beam family, all the way up to grandson Fred.

212. “Let the tour begin.”
213. “Hair of the dog.”

The tour was brief, with a quick, fuzzy documentary and a well-stocked giftshop. I did get to sip a couple snifters of their latest batch, so that was interesting, and drove home just how fucking gross this stuff is. On ice or room temp, well, it doesn’t make a difference. I mean, it’s like sipping lighter fluid. Maybe I’m no Southern Gentleman or anything, but I’ll stick to slamming the stuff with one goal: To get real hammered. Nothing graceful about it. Gets me there fast, and mean, and then I’m off and wobbling.

They guard the original recipe. Our hunch: 1 part corn mash, 1 part evil.

214. “A bourbon divided.”
215. “Where it all begins.”
216. “Guarded yeast.”
217. “Barrell lockup.”
218. “A couple thousand barrels in there.”
219. “Springtime curing.”
220. “Skyward towards inebriation!”
221. “Big walls.”
222. “Grandson Fred, hammered, toasting the 6th generation.”
223. “Contemporary Beam barrel type.”
224. “Roll out the barrels.”
225. “Sipping bourbon, in the sun.”
226. “Suddenly sad for little Gary.”
227. “A carefully-sculpted message to Jack Daniels, in Tennessee.”

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I love when folks claim that “they are a ‘certain kind of whiskey’ drinker.” Just how did they figure out which one was “the one.” I mean, it’s all rotgut. It comes down to packaging, honestly. Knob Creek has a good look. Fresh, industrial, like a CSA design from the roaring, mid ’90s.

The origin of our allegiance: It started in Vegas about seven years back, with one Evan Rose. This one time, on our way over to the tradeshow early in the morning, Evan and I saunter up to the casino floor bar to get a simple orange juice or something, and after a little lip from grumpy bartender, Evan orders up, “Two Beams.” He hands me my shot and proceeds to gargle it in front of the guy. “That’s how we do it,” is what Evan had to say to the bartender and we were off to start our day.

And that was it. Instant allegiance. Jim Beam. Pretty dumb.