Full, rich nose, akin to dunking my head in a mossy oaken bucket of honey harvested from the waxen hives of killer bees that migrated across the Mediterranean to angrily collect nectar from the blossoming lemon groves of the Sorrento plains. (All the while, seconded by friends helpfully pouring muted warm sage tea down the nape of my neck with an eye toward facilitating the removal of my head from said bucket. Thank you, John and Stephen.) At 16 years, this expression is barely the age of consent in every state of the Union; indeed, attentive listening to my glass reveals more than an affirmative: it begs to be drunk. Balanced, with a longer finish than The Return of the King–including the same deceptive multiple happy and sad endings, although this time, they take place in my throat and gullet, rather than Middle Earth. Dancing millipedes, birch bark canoes in Maine, warm spring mornings ambling amid running sap-sugar pine forests dappled by the sunlight.
–On the scale of Keanu Reeves roles–
The millenium-crossing Glenrothes 1991-2007 is Neo in The Matrix–It is The One.