As we celebrate with all of our friends who make St. Patrick’s Day great, we raise a glass to Jameson for sponsoring this story.

Earlier this month, Jameson funded a party we threw, and then they sent us to Ireland. Now Awl publisher John Shankman and I mull it over.

Edith: John, do you like Jameson?

John: Why, hello Edith. I have heard of Jameson Irish Whiskey as a matter of fact. And yes, I do enjoy it. How about you?

Edith: Yes, I also like it.

John: (I just put on some exciting tunes to get ready for this convo.)

Edith: Haha, which?

John: If you must: Alesso radio on Pandora. My brother told me it’s cool. Seems like good times are around every corner when you have good tunes pumping, not too different from our trip to Ireland.

Edith: Lol true

John: Although in Ireland it was more about the rock n roll I suppose. *fists pumping* What’s it like wearing your Jameson sweatshirt in public post-trip?

Edith: It is wonderful. I love my new Jameson sweatshirt.

John: I saw you rocking it in an Instagram!!

Edith: Haha, yep! ~Jameson in the wild~

John: It was pretty fresh. REPPIN’ THE #BRAND.

Edith: How’s YOUR sweatshirt experience going?

John: It’s pretty dope, to be honest. I feel validated as a person who interacts with brands. I’ve mentioned this before and you’ve edited it out like every time, but I really feel like Jameson is an #authentic #brand with #real #people behind it, and that I now UNDERSTAND how the SPIRITS are made.

Edith: lol

John: I tell the story about how [Jameson brand ambassador] Dave “The Rave” McCabe enlightened us to how alcohol is made to everyone I see, and they all stare, mouths gaping! No one ever knew how the liquor came to be.

Edith: I

John: My big joke is that it’s yeast poop.

Edith: I’m dying over here

John: The tunes carry me, what can I say.

Edith: keep going

John: Anyway, since this is a public convo, what I’ll say is, to make spirits: 1. Grind up cereal to put in water. This creates sugars and essentially food-rich water.

Edith: I’m still whispering “dave the rave mccabe” to myself.

John: He was the man. I wonder if we can ever host Dave The Rave in NYC. Anyway, yeah, so step one: create food-rich water for the yeasts. Once we have the food water, we add the LIVING CREATURE(S?) known as yeast. The living creatures EAT THE FOOD! And then, what they … for lack of a better word … excrete is the alcohol! So you now you have water with some food and some alcohol in it. And hold on to your pants because step three is HASHTAG MOFO’N SCIENCE!!! And the monks from thousands of years ago knew this science, too.

Edith: lol

John: Alcohol boils at a different point than water (lower), so you boil the water/food/alcohol/yeast mixture to about 80 degrees and the alcohol evaporates (or as I like to say just vapes). Then the alcohol boils off into a tube and is condensed once it’s away from the rest of the mixture. And now we have alcohol. But alcohol made by science is not whiskey at all. It’s not even a spirit yet!

One of the most important questions I asked The Rave (in my mind, at least) is when we can classify the evaporated alcohol as a spirit. And the answer to that question is step 4 and a special process that Jameson uses to get its recipe just right. We’re now transitioning from #science to #art.

Jameson does a triple distillation process and once that process is done we now have a spirit. A spirit is born after step 4!

And finally step 5: the art of transforming a spirit into Jameson. Step 5 all made possible by Mr. Buckley — Ger Buckley — a person who in my mind, at least, is the greatest barrel maker on Earth. Since I don’t actually know that, though, I’m confident saying he’s in the top ten. #BARRELS. So we’ve birthed a spirit in step 4.

In order to get that smooth Jameson taste that we know regularly, it’s then put in an white oak barrel. The history of the barrels is another fascinating tale of commerce and trade, but suffice to say, the barrels themselves are on a journey and Ger and his team look for the finest barrels to put the spirits into.

Edith: I love what is happening right now

John: Step 5: Place the spirits into the white oak barrels in order to get the taste and flavor that we know comes from the green bottle. The spirits must stay in the barrel for a minimum of 3 years. But, as we experienced, many spirits stay longer and we get things like Jameson 12 year special reserve. And we even have some 18 year blends.

So, whack a spirit in a barrel, let it age and then blend with other whiskeys. That’s essentially the process.

Edith: Which is also JUST THE BEGINNING.

John: Too true. But so, it’s simple science and then a really intense art/skill of figuring out how much cereal to use, how much to distill and how long to age to get the different flavors. Jameson Gold is a little spicier for example. I can’t divulge the secret process (AKA I don’t know it) behind Gold. But what did you think of the facility carrying out this process?

Edith: I liked it. It was intense. I loved the safety vests. (In pics Dave is wearing a more elaborate version.)

John: The vests were hot for sure.

Edith: I was honestly disappointed that neither of you took a picture of me in my vest. But anyway: facility.

John: Very heady. Mix of old world and new science. Runs 24 hours. CRANKS SPIRITS.

Edith: I liked that pot still with the porthole-window thing.

John: It was the inspiration for Desmond’s hatch in “Lost,” I thought.

Edith: Totally. That was a great observation.

John: Why, thank u.

Edith: Oh, you know what I wanted to ask at the time but was too shy to?

John: Please.

Edith: When Dave mentioned that Jameson production used to be seasonal back in the day because of the river — I wonder if that’s because the river was/is only cold enough for part of the year to do the “cooling down the alcohol vapor” part of the distillation process. Does that make sense? (Is anyone even still reading this??? lol)

John: Yah im gonna ignore tho. JK

Edith: And then with the invention of refrigeration, or something…

:-/

John: No, that’s a good question. The history of it all is remarkable.

Edith: Well I guess I’ll save it for Dave for another time. Because there is certainly no other way to figure it out.

John: Dave, if you’re reading, please email us the answer. One thing your question reminded me of, though, Edith, is — POP QUIZ TIME — Who gets the largest share of Jameson whiskey after it’s produced?

Edith: Haha. It’s either THE ANGELS

or America

John: YES!!! THE ANGELS!!! GREAT ONE A+! And how do the angels get their share of whiskey?

Edith: They fly into the warehouse where it’s stored and breathe in the alcohol that’s evaporated from the barrels.

John: YERP. So much whiskey evaps. I think like 2%.

Edith: Angels getting loose.

John: Having, dare I say, a spirited time?

Edith: Lol

John: Will you always remember St. Patrick’s day now? Or, rather, how were our guides, Paula, Hannah and Mary-Anne?

Edith: They were amazing. I am so curious about their lives.

John: Yes, they were very excellent. Kept things on track.

Edith: I still play Paula’s voicemail a few times a day.

Edith: John, how did you bring the spirit of St. Patrick’s Day in Ireland back home to America with you?

John: Well, I’ll say I have a deeper appreciation for the blended spirit that is Jameson whiskey. I learned it’s a product of science, art and history, and I appreciate that.

Edith: I wonder what the point of this whole campaign is. That’s the one thing I’m missing.

John: That, Edith, is the great question of all things. What is the point of anything?

[We go off record for a bit, solve everything]

John: Edith, do you think people will look at you differently when you order a Jameson now in your local bar when you have a Jameson hoodie on?

Edith: Yes.

John: Take you more seriously?

Edith: Yes.

John: And now if you’ll please excuse me I’m going to put on my Jameson sweatshirt and head out to my local bar for happy hour to share my knowledge of how whiskey is made and what IT’S REALLY LIKE IN DUBLIN on St. Patrick’s Day.

[Hours pass]

Edith: [alone, directly into the camera] The irony, or something, is that later that night I was the one at my actual corner local bar actually wearing the Jameson sweatshirt. *sips deeply*

Ultimately a product is only as good as the people who make it, and Jameson is made by real people, for real people. The care that goes into each bottle ensures every glass is warm and hospitable — whether its neat, mixed, or on the rocks — just like those who enjoy it. There is hard work and humanity behind every smooth ounce.

Jameson lives beyond St. Patrick’s Day through traditions held by groups of friends around the world. At family reunions and local dive bars, band practices and parties, in the happy hours and in the wee hours, Jameson brings people and communities together all year round.

“This is a special feature from a UK programme ‘The Tube’ broadcast in the early 80’s. The presenters are Jools Holland & Leslie Ash. This excerpt try’s to give a brief insight into the current New York dance club scene. It features famous clubs such as the Paradise Garage, Danceteria, The Roxy and a quick outside look at the grunge/rock club CBGB.” [Via]

This record seems like it is going to be pretty good. [Via]

I know, I know, we shouldn’t reward these kinds of thing, but there is something about the sheer insouciance of the headline, “Nipple, penis, or nostril — what’s the most painful place to be stung by a bee? (The answer might surprise you.)” that compels me to share it with the world.

Not gonna lie, this one hurts.

by Matthew J.X. Malady

People drop things on the Internet and run all the time. So we have to ask. In this edition, New York Times technology reporter Jenna Wortham tells us more about how people somehow still don’t know that it’s not OK to just reach out and touch someone else’s hair without asking.

Why do w girls keep tryna touch my topknot? Don’t touch my topknot! #DTMT

— ▵ Jenna Wortham ▵ (@jennydeluxe) March 12, 2014

Jenna! So what happened here?

So, I was at South by Southwest, at a party for the artist Kehinde Wiley. I was in a great mood, slightly tipsy, loving life, and invigorated after a good conversation with a good friend. I found myself talking to a random woman, as is the way at these things, and after we introduced ourselves, we shook hands. I smiled at her and looked into her eyes, but she wasn’t paying attention. She was distracted and staring my knot — which is not a particularly spectacular topknot, btw, its just a petite, curly bun of normal-colored human hair — and sure enough, after a few seconds, her hand started to drift towards my head. I quickly and reflexively buckled my knees so that her hand would miss and graze the air above my topknot instead, but I think my bun was especially voluminous that day because her fingers still brushed the top. And that annoyed me and spoiled part of my mood, and so I decided to tweet about it to vent a little.

I’m not a performative or public complainer, and I don’t use Twitter as an outlet for airing grievances, but I was really fed up by this woman’s assumption that my body was somehow a learning experiment or educational diorama, or somehow available to her for entertainment. I realize that it might sound like an overstatement to some people, but having someone touch me without my permission just fucks with my day and sense of privacy and personal space and sends me into a k-hole spiral of wondering what unconscious signal I may have given to indicate that it would be OK, even though I know there isn’t one. I just happened to find myself at the unfortunate end of an uncomfortable encounter that slightly ruined my day.

What the fuck is wrong with people?

I don’t know! For some reason, this has been happening to me a lot lately. Women, especially women of a Caucasian persuasion, have been stopping me to compliment my hair (which is OK) and then taking a smile or “thank you” nod in response as an invitation to get handsy with my hair (which is not OK!). In da clurb, on the street, and once, horrifyingly, at work. Maybe people don’t understand the difference between asking permission and assuming permission, or assume enough privilege to think that it’s OK, when it’s not. It’s many things — really rude and inappropriate, for starters — and makes me wonder what kind of home training a person has (or doesn’t have) that makes it seem OK to grope a grown stranger’s head out of curiosity.

I also can’t figure out WHY they want to touch the bun — to see if it’s real? Hard? Soft? Full of candy? No idea. I’m a person of mixed race, and people often take my ethnic ambiguity as an invitation to ask all sorts of prying, personal questions about my heritage, family structure, whatever, and these are things you learn to take in stride because annoyance doesn’t pay the bills — I can spend my time annoyed at stuff like this, or I can spend my time getting bylines and getting paid and being able to afford having various quorums of lady friends over for Sunday dinner, which is what feeds me and helps me grow and is way more important in the long run. But I travel a lot for my job, which means I go through TSA a few times a month, and they always, ALWAYS, finger my necklaces, pat my assortment of bracelets, and finally, smush down my bun with their gross flappy plastic gloves. And it never feels like anything less that a violation that must be endured to get on with my day and my life. These strange little encounters that I’ve been having feel the exact same way.

I have some theories about why it might be mostly behavior exhibited by white American women, but I don’t want to generalize because my friends know how to act right and my mother is a super Southern white American woman, and I’ve never seen her touch someone in a way that they might not like, and if she were present when any of these women made a grab at my head, I can picture her stopping them mid-air with a quickness that would be viewed in cinematic slow-motion because Mommadeluxe is amazing and she don’t play when people try to mess with her kids. But it did not happen once while I was in Norway, which might be the whitest place I have been in recent years, nor in any of the other vast assortment of countries I’ve visited over the last few years.

BTW, plenty of people of all colors and backgrounds have asked me to touch my hair, and I have no problem with that, even though I think its a liiiiittle bit weird. Like, how have you not touched curly hair before??!! But, like, just be cool and ask. Maybe the person whose hair you want to stick your hungry little hands into will say yes. I once let a Swedish guy who asked me about my hair play with it and give me a head massage (his idea!) on a beach in Mexico while the sun was coming up, which sounds very creepy, but I assure you it was not. It was peaceful and relaxing, and he was super gracious and kind, and we parted ways on the best terms for two people who will likely never run into each other again.

Lesson learned (if any)?

To be quicker on the draw when I see topknot fetishers approaching? IDK. In hindsight, I wish I had said something to her. Usually, when I see people going in for the fondle, I lean my body backwards, just slightly enough to get out of the way while making eye contact and shaking my head “no” until they drop their hand. Then I just continue the conversation as though nothing happened, which usually dispels the awkwardness, preserves my dignity, and keeps things from getting to the point where we would have a conversation about boundaries and discretion and the appropriateness of racial tourism.

I resent that I have to have a conversation about it, which is why I didn’t tell this woman about herself, because it would have been weird and a bummer to have that talk in the presence of all the other lovely partygoers — plus Kehinde was in earshot, and I just decided to bounce rather than stay and get into it. Again, I resent that I don’t have the luxury of never worrying about how my behavior is perceived in a public place, or other people’s comfort level and thinking about these things, and that the experience of a modern woman of color in 2014 is one of enduring other people’s idiocy and self-righteous behavior and being the bigger person, almost all the time.

Just one more thing.

Save Nori! And Terio. I worry about them both so much.

Matthew J.X. Malady is a writer and editor in New York.

If all you did in your life was co-write one of the few songs that it is indisputably impossible to remain sad while hearing, it would have marked yours out as a successful life, but you, John William Oates, have written a bunch of other terrific things and are part of popular music’s pantheon of duos, so on this, your 65th birthday, we salute you.

This is actually a surprisingly comprehensive look at the state of play in New Jersey. If you are someone who doesn’t know much of this already it is the kind of thing that you should read with the pleasant awareness that you won’t need to read anything else on the topic because you’ve put in enough work with this one.

The Internet has more symbolic birthdays than, I dunno, something else with a lot of symbolic birthdays, but if today’s anniversary of the first request for comments has in fact prompted him to look back on his 45 years, he is probably mired in a deep existential crisis as he reflects on how far short he has fallen from his initial promise, how badly he has disappointed even the people who loved him the most and how he no longer has the excuse of youth on his side to mitigate the terrible faults and mistakes he continues to make over and over in spite of the fact that he has seen so many times just how badly his choices have played out. As he sits alone wincing at each painful memory from his past and wishing that someone would come along to pull the plug on the present in which he is mired and a future he cannot come up with any alternative to avoiding, he quietly hums a slow and joyless “Happy birthday” which is off-key and repeatedly interrupted by horrible sobs that sound like the death throes of a small mammal being tortured by some gang of childhood sadists. He walks to the bathroom, washes off his face and forces himself to stare into the mirror for as long as he can stand to look at himself. He puts on dark glasses and heads out into the streets, hoping to remain unseen for another few hours so he can continue to play out his pageant of self-loathing and despair in peace. “Another fucking year,” he mutters as he runs his hands through his thinning hair before holding his head there for a moment in an unmistakable gesture of agony and defeat and then, with a shudder of resignation, puts his arms back at his sides and walks on, bent and stooped, eyes dead, unaware of anything else around him. Happy birthday, dear Internet. Happy birthday to you.

“Marijuana — also known as pot, weed, or cannabis — is the most commonly used illegal drug in the United States. Marijuana is a psychoactive drug, meaning it’s a chemical substance that affects behavior and mood.”