The Madness

I have about 10 unfinished posts sitting in limbo: uninspired, unfocused, drunken louts stumbling into the night's air, seeking the next bar after all the bars have closed.  These posts are half-complete; blog versions of Return of the Jedi Death Stars.  Where the metaphor falls apart (as they so often do) is in the fact that these posts- unlike incomplete Death Stars- are not able to destroy planets.  Planet destructing ability is the Waterloo to so many potentially great metaphors...

So, left with an inability to put cohesive thoughts together, well, for the past 3 months, I decided to default to the only reasonable alternative:  turn on Iggy & the Stooges' Funhouse (at a reasonable volume... there are kids in the house, for pete's sake), drink not one, but two La Croix flavored sparkling waters, and just start writing.  Whatever comes to mind.  Death Stars?  Really?  I dunno, but it came to mind.  Just put something down on paper so that I can jar something meaningful loose.

And who the hell is Pete?

Call it stream-of-consciousness, I suppose.  Every writer (term used extraordinarily loosely) gets his William Faulkner moment.  And not that I'm trying to compare myself to Faulkner.  How could I?  I never understood a damn thing he ever wrote.

And then, there is wine.  That's why we're all here.  And by "we", I mean me and a bunch of Russians who accidentally ended up on this site through a search engine because I'm pretty sure I've reference Ivan Drago many times.  Maybe something like Argentine Malbec being the Ivan Drago to Rocky's Cahors.  At the time, it probably made sense.  To my Russian friends:  Ivan Drago was a fictional character, but I still toast you.  Nostrovia, comrades!  And if that toast is too Anglicized, then На здоровье!

photo credit: http://maki-ubermach.deviantart.com/art/Nostrovia-152503208

While we're toasting, let's talk about wine.  First thoughts about wine that come to my head:
...

That didn't work.  This stream of consciousness thing is tough when your mind is a complete blank.

Anyway, go drink some wine.  It's good.  Made from grapes.  Vitis vinifera, which translates to "wine grapes".  I'd ask a Latin-speaker to confirm that, but they're all dead.  At least the real ones.  Not the posers who teach it in high school and tell buyers to beware.

The end.

Or, perhaps the beginning.  Of what?  I have no friggin' idea.  Bear with me here.