Hear ye, hear ye! As in everyone else yells here on blogs and The Book so it’s time I tossed
my kepi just some hat into the ring! A dear friend of mine, you might call her a “close female friend” or even “a naughty lover” or “my wife” perhaps, has pontificated with a post both sarcastic and solemn in that since we’re all jumped up on the banning wagon in the name of ending hate, racism and maltreatment of other human beings that mayhaps, despite a flag coming down in South Carolina (and Disney) along with the removal of the bigoted benchmark that is The Dukes of Hazzard, we as a society have not, dare we dare say it, gone far enough!
These things were stricken from history as of late, tossed unforgivingly into the black hole of current public outrage, because they were seen to idolize and celebrate a treasonously dark and terrible time in our past. A time when some of us (not me, I was born in Ohio!) saw fit to use our numerical and technological advances to squash an entire race of people in the hopes our tight fisted trampling would further our own dreams at the cost of those trampled. “Step in line” was the word of the day and any deviation brought swift punishment, even unto death. The South, and by default all Southerners (including transplants from Ohio that may or may not have a battle flag pillow and/or belt buckle in their possession) are absolute pieces of shit bent only on keeping “the man” down. No, no…this can not be argued!
And it presents to us all a unique and upsetting challenge.
Which I will get to, monumentally, in short order. But! Being a man of humble of heart I realize that even though I am overly blessed in the realms of intellect, event hosting ability and physical fitness, the grasping of such a delicate and time trodden affair might indeed escape me so I turn briefly now to look for guidance from a great man, a hero to one and (most) all, whose thoughts on the subject will surely elucidate these issues with a kind clarity
He may have said it best when he uttered “I have no purpose to introduce political and social equality between the white and black races. There is physical difference between the two which, in my judgment, will probably forever forbid their living together upon the footing of perfect equality, and inasmuch as it becomes a necessity that there must be a difference, I, as well as Judge Douglas, am in favor of the race to which I belong having the superior position.”
And who could forget those equitable, progressive and healing words “As long as blacks continue to live with the whites they constitute a threat to the national life. Family life may also collapse and the increase of mixed breed bastards may some day challenge the supremacy of the white man.”
I can’t be too sure what all this means as I’m a modern, college educated man after all and thus at odds with the delicacies of discernment however, the one thing I can gather, the one aforementioned monumental conclusion that I in my limited faculties can arrive at, is this:
Disney must close.
This may seem ludicrous, reactionary, even sofa king 2 pid, but when you consider the righteous groundswell that has brought such radically overdue reformation to the backs of pick-up trucks and T.V. Land’s evening schedule these past few weeks it become stupendously unarguable and not as 2 pid as you might have at first thought.
The Confederate Battle flag and all its ilk are now effectively outlawed as our country takes a stand against inequity. Lifetimes of hurt feelings hand in hand with a whole bunch of “I’m really mad right now because social media sure is” are walking towards a bright new tomorrowland. A tomorrowland that ironically should not include the House of Mouse. Just look at their “Tomorrow Land” for example.
Besides being Brad Bird’s weakest offering to date, the actual place offers nothing but a white-and-chrome-washed version of the future. Remember how fun the worlds of Elysium and Battle Angel Alita were for the common man kids? Then let’s go and have that Wall Street wet dream of a utopia shoved down our throats like some kind of Stanley Kubrick’s 2001 (percent am I right?) The whole right side of both flagship parks flaunts a lifestyle that none of us will ever be able to afford. And that’s after we walked down mainstreet.
“Mainstreet U.S.A.” Does it get any more exclusionary? A lot of minorities live in or near cities. Not in the suburbs and never on any Main Street. So hurry, get the hell out of there. Quick! To Fantasyland! A entire world populated by…fairies? But, that’s a pejorative in some circles. Even their leader Tinkerbell has had her good name tossed about as an insult in the past so here, now, at the happiest place on Earth we’re reminded that this glossy, kid-funded empire featuring finely flitting fun-loving friends is just a cover so that secret slandering can occur daily, and right in your face! Off to Adventureland I supposeeaaaoooSHIT!
Another prime example, forced down our throats, of white European privilege. Look at that “Swiss Family Robinson” house built all up in those trees. Sure Disney, remind me again how easy it was (and still is!) for White America to insert themselves into and subjugate “the jungle”. No nudging or winking needed here you crass, corporate curs. We all know exactly what you’re saying with this kind of display. Moving on then I suppose, to the biggest offender of them all.
Fun fact: Thunder Mountain is built on an Indian burial ground. Well not really but seeing as this country was ripped from the hands of those folks who already lived here when we whites, blacks and every other color but red showed up hundreds of years ago it sort of is. Nope, living together, sharing the resources, that wouldn’t be good enough for the founding fathers. Time to manifest some motherfucking destiny and decimate and entire culture along the way. All this took place under Spanish, British and yes, American flags but strangely no one is calling for a ban on those. You could fill Splash Mountain ten times over and the Rivers of America while you’re at it with all the tears shed from the Native lives, the Native families, the Native generations shredded in the name of our collective bright new day. Frontierland is a giant playground celebrating a time when our journey was beginning just as so many others were coming to an end. Under the heels of our boots.
My tongue has been nestled in my cheek for much of this Disney diatribe and while you could make several humorous cases that the parks point out what you can’t financially attain tomorrow or today while questioning your sexual proclivities and asserting Anglo-Saxon dominance, the woeful reality of that there Wild West wonderland is striking in just how hard it’s overlooked. Folks will bitch up the biggest bitchstorm in recent memory to the point that some executive somewhere preemptively pulls a harmless old series off the air in the fiery name of fairness. But I’ll bet those same folks couldn’t tell you one goddamn thing about Geronimo. And they would stand there on property waiting for the afternoon parade gleefully washing their ignorance down with a side of pulled pork.
We are so absolutely vitriolic about 1865 but completely untroubled by 1885.
If we’re banning shit, let’s ban all of it no?
Something like this starts and you know inevitably that it’s somehow got to end. Justified began in 2010 and over the course of six seasons took us all on a ride through the hills and hells of Eastern Kentucky with almost eighty episodes of the best television you’ll ever get a goddamn look at. Most of my Watchins are around twelve or thirteen hundred words long and feature a dozen pictures or so. I could write ten times as many words and not fully explain my appreciation for this show or properly caress you into watching it if you haven’t already done so. I could post a panoply of pictures to expose you to the epic shit-tons of guest stars piled high upon an already outstandingly impressive main cast, but again, my thoughts on the images might not move you to invest the time to see any of them in action. So I’m left, here at the end of my day, seated and solemn like a distiller ready to boil down this meaty masterpiece unto its purest and most convincingly flavorful form. Justified had seasonal story arcs and a few more series spanning main arcs but the soul that lived in the heart that beat in the breast of this, the lord of all lawman shows, is one simple, time tried relationship between two men.
Marshal Raylan Givens and outlaw Boyd Crowder.
Timothy Olyphant and Walton Goggins in what might be the performances of their lives. These two were born for these roles harder than Ben Affleck was born to never play a superhero. For more than half a decade, Oly and Gogs took each other to so many different deadly dances that the will they/won’t they/wtf-did-they-just-do dynamic almost takes on a life of its own. And this story is brimming full with life. Several lives in fact. And the hero and the villain are touched by them all and touch them all back, some more violently than others. But for a white hat chasing a black hat in a gray world kind of show populated by guns and gusto Justified never slips into cliché, is rarely predictable and remained fresh throughout its run. Henry Winkler never once appeared in an episode because no sharks ever needed jumping. In a world of Dexters and Sons of Anarchys that sought to convince us the only way to write a series finale was to hire writers who had never seen the show, Justified‘s end was a happy slap upside the head reminder that great entertainment still wanders the wilderness along with lumberjack serial killers and the worst, unnecessarily computer generated biker gang boss in history. And unlike Jax Teller’s last, this ride was always fun.
There were of course serious times and sentimental ones and a heavy sadness grew in every dark corner of those Kentucky hollers we came to love over the years but in the end there was always at least a little bit of hope. Elmore Leonard, who created Raylan Givens and wrote the original novella upon which this show was based, liked his good guys to win even if things got bad along the way. Breaking Bad began as a Disneyland fantasy only to end in a damnation that forced you to feel every damnable act. All merriment was exorcised from that show like a demon. Thankfully the better angels of Justified‘s nature proved ”gritty” could still exist in a narrative that kept well outside of the godawfully depressing. Justified always managed to keep its heart light which is an admirable undertaking considering that heart’s size. I rode along for all the concern and for all the carefree too, and I’d enjoyed every country mile. It was mentioned, at least a few times, that Raylan and Boyd used to dig coal together. By sticking close to those two, the producers made sure that no matter how big the world felt you realized this tale didn’t much meander outside of one small town. You moved in as a new resident during the first episode and were sad to be packing up and moving on come the last.
But knowing when to go, and doing that on your own terms, brings its own joy. And that’s why weekly editions of Western Watchins end here today.
I know. I can hear the collective gasp of all four of you as you wonder what you’ll do for five minutes every Thursday morning now but don’t worry…I’m not done writing. Not even done with reviewing westerns. But there is a time for everything and now these wonderful reviews have had theirs. I kept my promise and never once stopped a one of them once I had begun. Sometimes they were fantastic, a few times I was delightfully surprised, more often than I’d wanted all I got was garbage and the stench of that pile wasn’t worth the sniffin’. I’d almost wrapped things up at 100 with Josey Wales but a new reader left me a simple comment that encouraged to me to continue. My words are marked with humor and their own inspiration. That’s a gift I don’t take lightly, a blessing I gladly share and the drive to do so weighed on me so much that the thought of ending my Watchins would bring furrows to my forehead and knots to my gut. I had to understand that it’s not the subject matter being discussed as much as it is the man behind the discussion who truly matters. I’m proud that for more than two years I’ve used my beloved westerns as a springboard to crack jokes and wax poetic about everything under the sun. I’m proud that I’ve made you laugh, moreso that I’ve made you think. You keep on coming back here and, in one manner or another, I’ll keep doing both. Now, before we ride off…
Justified is an undeniably outstanding show and one that’s incredibly special to me on a personal level to boot. My wife and I started watching this show with a dear friend of ours and finished it off the exact same way. That man is one of only three in this world I know who, beyond any shadow, would be there for me no matter the cost to himself physically, emotionally or financially. Unplanned, he and I both drained the remaining whiskey from our glasses just as Raylan and his Chief did the same on screen making for one culminating toast I’ll never forget. Then it all ended. Just as it had begun. With Raylan and Boyd on opposite sides of that proverbial coin. How do you even rate the kind of emotion I feel for all of this?
With something as unique as the show itself.
Timothy Olyphant had starred in Deadwood, a glorious show that never got the glorious send off it deserved. This time around I think Sheriff Bullock via Marshall Givens would have none of that. One shining Silver Star then is what I’ll leave here for Justified. The cylinder sits empty, no more triggers need be pulled, the smoke will clear and that star will forever shine. I’ve seen some tremendous T.V. in my day but nothing as good as all this, to say it’s once in a lifetime viewing is not at all an exaggeration.
And I’m not at all exaggerating when I say that it’s been my pleasure to write these 126 reviews, for myself and for all of you. Finding the right place to stop was a decision I did not take lightly and once I’d set my sights on Justified the additional burden of not only giving it a perfect sendoff but one for the Watchins as well sat with no little weight upon my mind. I’d already delayed it by a week and even contemplated pushing it off again doubting my abilities to compose, at the current moment or any future one, the perfect goodbye. But perfect is just an excuse. Wait for perfect and you’ll die having gotten not a damn thing done. I will never write the perfect review. I will never draw the perfect picture. I will never run the perfect race. I will never be the perfect husband. I will never be the perfect friend. And neither will you. But that’s a wonderful reason to get up tomorrow and every day thereafter my dear amigos.
Just to see if, on that particular day, you actually can.
Got me a busy week ahead, got a busier weekend on the tail end of that and I got a feeling in my gut that next week’s Watchins is gonna be something special. I didn’t feel justified in rushing it out the barn door so allow me instead seven days of delay along with the following insight.
If you’re in a room with other people and you’re the only one talking, no one is listening.
We all know folks like this. The moment they’re in earshot they’re shooting and it’s an unassailable barrage about what they’ve been up to, how great they are and what they’ve been up to makes them even greater. Even preachers, motivational speakers and candidates for public office pause and whether through direct conversation or simply casual eye contact they’ll confirm that you’re hearing them and, more importantly, they are hearing you. Good public speakers acknowledge you, are interested in you. The bad ones aren’t interested in much past the edge of the stage. Someone who listens builds a rapport and earns your respect. Someone who never shuts the fuck up will never be afforded these treasures.
And treasures, I can tell you, they are.
When someone shares with me after an event, in person or online, about how much fun they had, how inspired they’ve become or perhaps just how they felt noticed for the first time in forever, well that right there is my definition of success. And it’s a success more valuable to me than any gold. Anyone can talk into a microphone but it’s another thing entirely to change someone’s life for the better while doing so and have your own life change in return. It’s a tremendous gift, one I’m terribly thankful for, and it all comes back to listening. To the audience as a whole and to each individual heart in attendance.
I’ve stood in front of thousands over the years at so many outings I’ve lost count. As an established attention whore my breast, along with other more manly sounding parts, has always swelled with excitement. Excitement knowing that I’ll soon be bathed in fleeting admiration and cell phone flickerflash sure, but also so excited, more excited, the most excited…that right then and there I’ve got the opportunity to make a lasting connection to anyone within the sound of my voice. I’m here for you, you’re here for me.
My thunder cracks, and the room goes boom!
I stand in front of you all now in much the same way. For years a few of you have faithfully read my reviews. You all know my favorites, the rest and the worst. It’d be a real shame if I went on ranting and never took a moment to quietly see what y’all have to say. That’s important. Bein’ pals is a group effort else we’re just a gang of miscreants with a mal appropriated mouthpiece that never lets another open theirs. Everyone’s got a voice and while we all use them in different ways not a damn one is any better than any other just for being louder. So for a week I’m gonna go silent on the subject of that there western genre instead hoping you will do the kindness of sharing with me, here or on Facebook, what your favorite western is. Or the one that should be avoided at all cost. Or one of both flavors if’n you’re feeling inclined.
Know how very much I appreciate you, the dedicated, that have kept with me for so long. Hell, I don’t even know how many of you are really out there but figure if I just sit still for a bit, I might just find out.
Gracias, mis amigos, muchas gracias.
A short list of better things to do than watch this film:
Go shopping for groceries in another state
Debate politics on social media
Lick a donkey’s balls
Have a donkey lick your balls
Shit your pants
Eat that shit
Eat that shit and then die
Holy Water Joe (Acquasanta Joe or Weihwasser Joe if you’re one of those Spanish or German foreign people) is a masterfully inept presentation of something desperately trying to call itself cinema. If I had to guess, here’s how it was made. Somewhere in Italy in 1971, trimmed or otherwise excluded material from several late-in-the-era spaghetti westerns were written upon index cards and then thrown onto a writer’s desk. He stapled them together in random order before asking a prop guy to rent a cannon. Armed then with a cannon (that went ‘boom’) and his script (that went ‘bust’) the writer, one director, two producers, and several people who thought themselves actors, proceeded to push this mess out of their collective rectums and into our faces.
Like so many others save for the very worst, Holy Water Joe here contained pieces of what might have been an enjoyable puzzle. The film as a whole however was like taking a dump, spotting a quarter buried in the turd, then quickly realizing it just isn’t worth your trouble as you pull firmly down on the flush lever. There were only tiny treasures here and none of them worth sifting through the slop to recover. It was overstuffed with ideas that went nowhere featuring plenty of plot but no pertinent points. The costumes were the best that the early 1970s and a minuscule budget had to offer (kepis with shiny vinyl visors for instance) and the score was much the same making the entire movie feel like it could turn into a Blacksploitation flick around any bend. Should they ever decided to release a special edition Blu-ray of this one they’ll have to include this clip I found of the composer hard at work.
Almost all of Holy Water Joe is terrible and then the finale is amazingly worse. Our titular ho-hum hero faces off against some jerk who got his hands on the cannon. Of course Joe runs right at him because it’s just one guy right and he knows that even a highly trained compliment of soldiers are only able to manage three aimed shots per minute. The jerk fires off four in the same time span, three of those in thirty-eight seconds. Multiple chances to hit the protagonist plus ramp up the intensity yet he misses on both counts. Four damn shots and almost a fifth but thanks to Joe with a quiver full of arrows, that “I’m not sure I can do this” look in his eye and his many questionable decisions including standing still ten feet directly in front of the cannon before repeatedly taking his eyes off the jerk attempting to fire said cannon, the good guy prevails! Yay, the movie is almost over! A few more poorly scripted, poorly acted and ridiculously portrayed things happen and then it really is over. But mayhaps not for those closely involved…
Of the three leads (not including the cannon) one’s career (Lincoln Tate) petered out well before he died prior to collecting any social security, one (Ty Hardin) felt so bad he became a preacher in Arizona cleaning up the sins of both your past and your kitchen, and the third (Richard Harrison) went on to “star” thirteen times as “Ninja Master Gordon” in various ninja themed/certainly horrendous movies that still probably don’t suck quite as much as this one.
Neither preaching nor mystical teachings could have saved this one though and maybe Lincoln just decided to croak before having to ever watch it again thus proving himself wiser than us all. 1 round in the chamber and it’s probably the wrong caliber if anyone bothers to check. There is so much I could have done other than spend time watching this like anything other than watching this so I’m glad someone else on the internet took it upon themselves to post a warning for everyone about Holy Water Joe and whether or not you should partake. When you see the following know that it is better produced, more finely performed and singularly less retarded than the film of which I’ve just written:
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I am not joking in the slightest when I say that the priest was more animated and the puppets more convincing than nearly everyone in this week’s Watchins. Which brings me to next week’s. More than a hundred movies are in the books. We been on this road a long, long time and traveled so many, many miles. Some of ‘em great, some of ‘em ungodly, but every last one of ‘em lending something to my experience.
And that amigos, in the end, is what life must be about.
Years ago great herds of bison traveled through Frankfort, Kentucky and when the time came to ford the comely Kentucky river legend has it they did so at a locale just north of the current Buffalo Trace Distillery. Legend also has it that those same buffalo built the original distillery with their very own hooves. You can doubt me, or that part of the legend I just made up, but I have whiskey so soon I won’t care what you think. I’m kidding, I don’t care now. But, I do care a lot about fine whiskey and even more about the mighty buffalo who made this distillery, the oldest continually operating one in America, a must see for little old me.
And what a sight it was:
As soon as you park you’ll know you’re someplace special. Look at that brickwork! Look at the water tower! Look at the sign that says you’re missing the last tour of the day! Oh shit on every shingle, we’re going to miss the last tour! This can’t be happening. And it wasn’t. After straining to keep my cool while running like a lunatic into the gift store the assembled staff, lovely ladies all, smiled past my coolunatic exasperation to assure me that while the online information was up to date the onsite signage hadn’t been changed just yet. I was relieved. Details like this one don’t often escape me. I’m so anal-retentive I have backed up bowel movements from kindergarten and the thought I had blundered with the buffalo so close at hand had me concerned. The staff’s kind reception immediately turned that dismay into delight:
That’s Kim on the left, with her easy smile that let’s you know she’s just full of Southern hospitality. And that’s me on the right, with my idiot smile that let’s you know I’m an idiot. Or at least as happy as one. If you were seeing what I was seeing, you too would gladly smile any smile that came to your lips.
We’re deep inside “Warehouse C” now. It dates back to the 1700s and holds 24,000 barrels, give or take, tenderly within it’s wooden guts. With almost an hour to go before the last tour began proper Kim walked Angie and I over and allowed us a few moments to stand quietly in what is basically a bourbon lover’s Holy of Holies. The angel’s share hung heavy in undisturbed air and with each rarefied breath I drew came the realization that this was another of those perfectly imperfect moments we had been blessed to experience damn near constantly as we drove around the heart of Dixie. Just my wife and I wandering amongst delicious oaken history. I couldn’t thank Kim enough and the actual tour hadn’t even started yet. And then the actual tour actually started!
We kicked off with a recounting of where the distillery had come from surrounded by artifact full shelves (full of artifacts!) and pictures from every era and incarnation of the property. There was no mention of the original buffalo that had built the place but other than that oversight the facts we were presented with were numerous and tantalizing.
Another fabulous building and a good shot of the ubiquitous flags proudly proclaiming that the Buffalo Trace Distillery is a National Historic Landmark. Presumably because of the buffalo builders I’m sure existed. What also exists in this picture, unbeknownst to both myself and my lovely camera girl at the time it was taken, is that unassuming little building in the distance. It’s called “Warehouse V” (that’s awesome), it’s the smallest bonded aging warehouse in the world (that’s incredible), it has held every millionth landmark barrel since 1952 (that’s outstanding), and if you get too close buffalo will run out and trample you to death (that’s hopefully true!) Before I could confirm what I already knew to be indisputable buffalo facts, we took a load off in here:
There were old church pews and more neat old things all around then you sat down and were treated to a short, endearingly cheesy, all-American retrospective on why whiskey is great and Buffalo Trace among the greatest of whiskeys. We were ready to roll over to bottling when our guide Scooby-Doo-ed this secret door open:
This led into another warehouse stacked full of barrels. A secret whiskey warehouse! That bookshelf was like the door to whiskey Narnia and I imagined that once inside a good, kingly lion would not have to die for my sins but rather get loaded with me before we both went and committed some. You can never tell what a sip from those experimental barrels might lead you to do and while on prominent display here (check that pic again for the labeling) Buffalo Trace’s master distiller has experimental barrels stewing all over the place. His name is Harlen Wheatly and he’s a bit of a madman which makes for a bunch of amazing tastes coming out of Frankfort. This warehouse and that one too, Harlen’s got ‘em in all the warehouses, and even one (“Warehouse X”) that holds nothing but whatever curious concoctions he just came up with in a building specifically designed to vary and monitor the influence of temperature, humidity, light and air flow. It’s the one environmental impact study anywhere that I actually give a shit about because it isn’t full of shit and is being utilized to make more delicious shit that one day I can put into my mouth exclaiming past the flavor “this right here is the shit!” Lord Wheatley even makes vodka. So whiskey and vodka and buffalos all in one place. I checked my pulse and was still surprisingly alive.
After stumbling (still alive!) around the grounds for a few more minutes we came upon Blanton’s Bottling Hall. Tis a magical place wherein spirits are put into bottles for shipping unto you at which time those spirits will be removed with earnest. There’s a pride in this room as, like Maker’s Mark, every bottle is hand touched for a fine finish before it leaves the door. The folks inside were genial and hardworking, grinding out arduous hours so that you and I will never be without those wondrous whiskeys.
I was moved to the point I almost considered playing “Love Will Lift Us Up Where We Belong” on my phone just so I could pick someone at random to carry outside triumphantly as the tune crescendoed. However, unlike Richard Gere, I did have somewhere to go and a handful of stranger, albeit a pleasant one, would have prevented me from filling my hands with the forthcoming samples.
And Buffalo Trace has a lot to sample.
Eighteen brands to be exact and at the end of the tour we got a mouthful of four of them in their under construction/soon to be renovated tasting parlour. Two were familiar to me: Buffalo Trace Straight Bourbon Whiskey which tastes like a warm afternoon in the sun and White Dog which tastes like giving the sun a blowjob. One is a pleasant burn filled with flavor, the other is an opened Ark of the Covenant burn filled with regret. How the delectable former evolves from the damnable latter is a mystery I need never understand but will forever appreciate. Just as I appreciated Maker’s Mark Mindy for giving Ang and I the heads up that we absolutely needed to knock back some Bourbon Cream. Beyond any doubt, Bourbon Cream is the elite of all like libations. Right before we had tried Eagle Rare and it was good, Angie’s new favorite in fact, but Bourbon Cream is fuck my face five times till Tuesday flabbergasting. And it made raiding the gift shop far too easy.
That’s a real happy camper right there but the location, liquor and loot had little to do with that. Spending some time anywhere with someone you love any day makes that precise moment one of the times of your life. That day the clouds were growing grey to match my hair and I ached a bit from the road but I was standing at a place where pioneers used to walk and pioneers still do, my beautiful wife and I among them. Man and beast had been drawn here through the ages, not hard to figure out why.
6 rounds in the cylinder for the Buffalo Trace Distillery. Our tour here had a different pace and different things to peruse compared to Maker’s but it was just as enjoyable if for different reasons. One way to sum it all might be to say that in Loretto we learned about the feeling behind a great whisky while in Frankfort we learned of the facts. Here our guide was a former state folklorist and what he lacked in comfortably conveying his thoughts he made up for with his quirky tidbit-based breadth of knowledge. Mindy, you took the blue ribbon on that front but Buffalo Trace still got a hold of me as only something buffalo themed ever could. I’m a sucker for that kind of sentiment. I was a fan before I stepped hoof on property, after the tour I was a diehard. That was from just one tour. The distillery offers five distinct versions and all of them free of charge. Plus they host a 5k run every Fourth of July? Well damn amigos, I’m brassbound and bison proud, guess another turn at the Trace is in my near future. So now…what about you?
Why not have yourself a drink and then an honest think, about where’n you might like to go.
Then, by all means, go!