Partagas and Lagavulin Distiller's Edition PX

The world is my humidor,  (echoing Frankie goes to Hollywood laughter). The world is my humidor, my humidor filled with seething tropicals, built of sherry casks and staffed by Montse and her crack team of Catalan adulteresses.  Privacy is an illusion anymore but cigar smoke repels and Islay offends and the hour's untenable and the seating crude.  So we are alone, you and I, except for the whiskey, old enough to smoke with us and talk as though he still had his balls.  But even the fiercest malts mellow and the distiller's art matches this fire with that smoke, this rough burn with that emollient oak.  But I'm talking too much. Talk to me about Spain, old friend.  I miss Spain.  

Maculan Pino & Toi

Yellow straw gold, not quite Rapunzel not quite Jarrod.   The label made me think of Toro y moi, but the wine makes me think about oysters.   Maculan, the maculate, the stained, the blemished.  STAIND.  One of those cool smooth-surfaced screw caps that seem classier somehow for their impracticality.  Apples and pears, fake butter, a whiff of gas.  I shall call this nose Qatari Picnic in a Golden Eye starring a young elizabeth taylor.