The nose on the Westland Garryana 5th Edition, locks me in a botanical hothouse with Melania’s deranged florist. I’m in a biblically-proportioned downpour of orchid petals, good luck crickets, and molasses distilled from cherry juice. (The crickets are surprised.) There’s also honey made by artisanal bees from fermented crabapples.
[John: Bill! There’s no pollen for the bees to collect from fermented crabapples!]
Stop harshing my mellow! Where was I? Oh, yes, it’s as intoxicating as falling into the arms of your succubus lover. Stephen and John both got “argan oil hair conditioner,” so it’s clear here who the poet is. I’m getting also some proud, militant oak, alert to malfeasance and ready to drop the oak hammer on evil-doers. After flattening the bad actors, there’s also the Best. Incense. Ever: a veritable smudgestick of awesomeness that could cleanse even a supervillain’s evil lair.
The mouth is tannic, abundant with burnt umber embers and is like chewing toothpicks made from a Stradivarius cello. Stephen and John got a stale mix of airline peanuts and Cancun sand, inadvertently brought back to the US by a chagrined senator, who isn’t grinning much, because of course they did. We get also peat resonating in a little channel amongst oak gong waves, which is as amazing as it sounds. We also got an ebonite door jamb dropped into a lacquer bowl of dark miso soup; the kind with skinny slivers of scallions, tiny tofu cubes, and wiry enoki mushrooms.
The finish, at first, is a drying off from the wet orotundity, the vibrato profundity, of the mouth. Stephen noted that this would be perfectly offset by a stanky janky cigar. John’s eyes rolled up into his head, and emitted noises that sounded like, “Glug, glang, bang, clang.” We’re pretty sure that was a good thing, but with John, you never can be sure. It’s fine and well-composed, yet brash and bratty, like a grilled kielbasa. I murmured it was replete with a sweet, sweet, peaty complete note. (I am the poet, remember?) It’s a long juicy afterburn fading to an afterglow transfiguring to the afterlife: It is the apricot nectar of the gods! And then, just when you feel in heaven, Jim Carrey crashes your birthday party saying, “Smoooookin!” to the delight of one and all.
On the scale of the catchiest, earwormiest Broadwayiest songs of the highest order–
The Westland Outpost Range: Garryana 5th Edition is “Gary, Indiana” from The Music Man–It’s a great song, but click the link at your own peril; you’ll find yourself unable to stop singing, “Gary, Indiana,” aloud to the confusion of everyone in the room with you. Similarly, it’s a great whisky, but open the bottle at your own peril; you’ll find yourself unable to stop drinking, “Garryana, vV.” [Garryana version V]
–Our thanks to Westland for the sample!