About a half year or so ago, I was spending some time with a master distiller when he told me that something he would be releasing is the best whiskey he’s ever had. I’ve referenced the conversation, writing that one of the best Whiskeys to be released was coming soon (not naming it); I based my scoop on the master’s awesome rep, track record, and humbleness. I’ve also referenced how much I like him and the brand. Suddenly I felt like it was Whiskey Fight club, and you know the first rule, right?

Of all the replies and emails I’ve gotten on the blog and twitter, a common theme is: “Shut your mouth; you don’t want another Pappy, do you?” A Whiskey Voldemort is born. It’s funny in so many ways, as I’ve paused before mentioning this brand. It has been and is getting much harder to track down.

Is this what good Whiskey has done to us? Whispering online, afraid of another empty shelf? Afraid of what happens when your “discovery” is “discovered”? How many times have you left that special bottle or two behind on a store shelf rather than buying them all, only to wake up in the middle of the night, sweating that you’re a dumb-ass and should have bought every last one?

Then it’s a couple days to get back to your “babies” you left behind and (insert “Psycho” theme song here) your “Preciouses” have been stolen. So, I feel for these people when they say, “Hey, Truth, shut the xxxx up.”

I feel your pain. It’s mid-September as I write this, and the next 60 days brings the “Treasure of the Sierra Bourbon,” reminiscent of the Bogart movie about a group of friends that go gold prospecting with all great intentions until greed drives one to murder. In the next 60 days, we change in this annual Whiskey Olympics where the best get the brown medal. We use code words like BTAC, PVWFR, GTS, Billy Webber, FRSBLTD, OFBB and PHC7, so those who already know don’t spread the word and make it worse. Reviews exalting how great some things are DON’T get re-tweeted or referenced.

I’ll admit it: I followed a booze delivery truck last year. By luck, this special delivery and my presence in the store intersected. Christmas in November. I felt so clever as my Preciouses came off the truck at each stop. I’m not proud of it, but I know some of you out there are thinking “lucky mother …”.

It’s turned into the Whiskey version of a cash grab booth, but instead of snatching at dollar bills, we’re grabbing for that floating photo of Benjamin and $100 – and in this case, instead of Benjamin Franklin, it’s an old guy nicknamed Pappy, smoking a cigar.

We even desperately resort to the amateurish ways of a Whiskey newbie by making a few calls: “Hello, do you have any Pappy left?” “Sold the last one this morning!” Whiskey grab miss.

"Hello do you have any —— ——- special secret Bourbon?” (That is now the Whiskey Voldemort, and you still can’t say its name.) “You say your boss didn’t want any that he was offered because that’s what winos used to drink? Nooooooo!” Whiskey grab miss.

"I’m looking for this special Bourbon that only comes out around this time each year." Click. “Hello? Hello?” Whiskey grab miss. 

The Whiskey grab tank is usually not fair; it’s all about timing. HALLOWEEN? screw the candy, that’s when the website says my Preciouses are being delivered.

I’m not alone. If you love your American Whiskey, you know exactly what’s going on in my head: One bottle limit? Hmmmmm. … What’s in my car to come up with a disguise? … I can use cash this time. … I wonder – if I pretend I’m a crackhead, will they sell me the second bottle? … Where’s a damn wig shop when you need one?!?

This is a sick hobby. I’ve become a Whiskey Gollum.