Are we talking a matter of proper etiquette here?  Or should people know better?

But I'm getting ahead of myself.  First off, wine bottles can't talk.  Nor do they have arms.  Plus, sound doesn't even exist in outer space, so even if wine bottles could talk (which they can't), you wouldn't hear them screaming.  But if they could scream, and we could- in cases where sound does not exist- see what they were screaming (sort of like a "closed captioning" for outer space situations) I'm pretty confident they would scream in some sort of Blade Runner font.  But only in outer space.  If said wine bottle was in the mountains of Tennessee, it would scream in more of a "log cabin" font.  But, since being in Tennessee and not in space, we would be able to hear the screams, thus, the need for real-life closed-captioning would be moot.  And there'd be no reason for a wine bottle to scream in the mountains of Tennessee anyway.  That is, of course, unless it came upon a band of crazed mountain folk, all hopped up on mountain dew and such.

Which brings me to my first thought:  why would anyone want to send wine samples to a blogger who is really (truly) concerned about wine bottles in space?  What am I supposed to do with these bottles of wine they send?  I don't even have a spaceship.

No doubt, many a wine blogger probably broke ground with visions of free wine.  Admittedly, when I was offered my first sample bottles (I'll never forget you, Two Friends Imports), I had that "aha" moment that a deluge of good times were around the bend.  Freewheelin'.  Poppin' corks like Ted Danson was in town or something.  Yet, it was not the reason why I started doing this.  Honestly, it never occurred to me that free wine might be part of the deal.

photo credit:  gq.com

So, on the rare occasions when I'd get some free wine, I'd give it all a nice, evaluative taste, and then I'd post my thoughts on the blawg.  Tasting notes and whatnot.  Still, I figured doing all this was part of the game, but it wasn't my wheelhouse.

After a couple years in, I had another epiphany:  I don't like tasting notes.  Even more so, I don't like to read someone else's tasting notes.  Not exclusively, at least.  Not that there's anything wrong with tasting notes.  They help many folks build a memory of familiar smells.  But, to me, they aren't interesting to read unless I'm drinking that same wine at the exact moment that I happen to come across said tasting notes.  Or unless I've had the wine before.  Neither of which happen very often.  Instead, I'm stuck reading a memoir of someone else's senses.

Honestly, there a few folks who can pull them off.  When Samantha Dugan writes a tasting note, I immediately want to go find that wine and drink it until slip into a haze that finds me lounging carelessly in a hammock for hours.  But it's not where her bread is buttered.  They just happen to work when she does sling 'em.

When people I really like (say, a Steve Paulo, a Joe Roberts, or a Ben Carter) want to do notes, I can appreciate that they're just trying to keep the tasting chops sharp and honestly educate.  Plus, folks like them already have bodies of work that lends honesty to the notes.

But, too often, I read, "I tasted under-ripe bing cherries and bartlett pear skins and the essence of dew upon spring's first stinging nettles."  And that makes me want to break a bottle of wine and stab things with it.  Because it's so full of shit that anyone who wants to get into drinking wine must get the feeling that you have to be full of the same measure of shit to enjoy a dang alcoholic beverage made out of grapes.  Poppycock! (forgive the blue language)

Anyone who has taken the time to stop by this blawg should probably know that I don't write any tasting notes and I don't really evaluate any wines.  PR companies that popped by here couldn't possibly think that this is a "hotbed of wine evaluation".  If they keep sending them and keep offering to send them, am I being rude and "unprofessional" (as if there's anything "professional" going on here) if they don't get posted?  Furthermore, if I lay out in advance that "you can send me wine, but I will almost assuredly not get around to writing about it", does that exonerate me from the common courtesy of acknowledging these wines?

For some bloggers (like Beau Carufel, whom I like a lot), the answer is "no".  According to Beau, "Wine bloggers are under an obligation, which more and more of us seem to forget or dismiss, to write about what we're sent."  Totally disagree.  If I have a taco blog, and someone sends me sauerbraten, am I obligated to talk about it?  No!  So, if I'm not a "review blog", then no one should expect reviews.  If they didn't do their homework, then tough...

...alas, then I start feeling like a jerkass.  Thumbing my nose at free wine, and coming off as trying to big-time a little winery that is just trying to get some publicity in a saturated market.  Was Nigel Tufnel this conflicted after demanding same-sized meats for his tiny bread?

photo credit:  celebrityrockguitars.com

So, as this is a de facto swan song for my days of receiving free wine samples, I might as well list as many thoughts as I can get out here:

1.  I think Twitter tastings are cool.  If I get some stuff designed for a twitter tasting, I usually tend to participate.  Yeah, it's a bunch of people shooting out tasting notes, but I'm tasting along with them, so it's all good to compare and contrast and learn together.  That said, if you were following me on Twitter and weren't involved in the Twitter tasting in question, how you wouldn't be compelled to unfollow (at least temporarily) is beyond me. 2.  If I do get anything, I never give it away.  I will always open it and taste it objectively by myself.  After that, it may be consumed, used for cooking, slugged with friends, poured down the drain, or given to hobos who are 21 years of age or older.  Cause there's nothing more depressing than an underaged hobo with a discarded bottle of sample wine. 3.  Reed's, a soft drink company, sent me a non-alcoholic soda called "Flying Cauldron Butterscotch Beer".  It tastes like something that dead elves who go to elf heaven probably drink.  Flying Cauldron butterscotch beer is sent directly from elf heaven.  It's that freaking delicious.  A PR person asked if they could send me some as a sample.  I said, "yes, and I will absolutely be sure to talk about it on the blog, you magical purveyors of the preferred beverage of elf angels." 4.  There are a few PR folks and wineries that are really cool and whom I like.  And if I have a relationship with someone, there's a better chance that I'd have an emotional connection to the product and want to write about it.  Such is human nature.  I'm no critic, just a dude that cranks away at a keyboard sometimes.  That may not be an objective approach, but I'm not in line for a job at the Wine Advocate either. 5.  I recently tasted through some wines from Tudal Family Winery (that were sent to me as samples).  They were really good.  Very balanced, with reasonable alcohol.  Sauvignon Blanc, Pinot Noir, Zinfandel Blend, and a few Cabernets.  Tasty with the steak and sauteed broccolini I made.  After tasting them, and then drinking them with the food, I took them out by the fire pit and drank them by the fire.  They were really good there, too.  Made me with I had a hammock out there.  So, I guess you'd say that Tudal Family makes some really tasty steak/broccolini/outside/campfire/hammock wines.  That's about as good as I can do for a tasting note. 6.  Anyone who thinks my approach isn't correct, or isn't "serious" enough, or is setting wine blogging back is taking him/herself too seriously.

The one (absolutely only) redeeming quality of an awful commute is that it gives you time to think...

Even this is a stretch, but as someone who cruises 17 miles and 39 traffic lights twice-a-day, I have to justify this baffling madness. If only for sanity's sake.

Today's wandering mind took me into retail wine sales. As I concentrated over the creeping, sweaty feeling of my air conditioning perhaps breaking again, things became very clear. Too clear. Sort of a zen-like clarity of thought, not experienced since I realized "race car" spelled backwards is "race car".

Quite honestly, I felt like Doctor Emmett Brown after he hit his head on that 1955 toilet, jarring loose the vision of the flux capacitor, which... makes... time... travel possible.

Unfortunately, my epiphany- a sweaty guy sitting in Atlanta traffic thinking about how to sell wine- would make a far-worse movie. But here it is anyway:

Colorful, huh? What does it mean??

Well, here's where I'm going: seems that all wine consumers can be roughly lumped into four categories, based solely on two criteria: wine knowledge, and wine curiosity.

1. The Disinterested Creatures of Habit (low knowledge, low curiosity): otherwise known as the "gimme my 1.5L of Woodbridge, sonny!" crowd, these folks know what they like, are adverse to change, and don't want to try new things. They are loyal to brands, appreciate consistency, and have little interest in learning about wine. As my mother once said when we ate filet mignon and drank KJ Chardonnay for the ten-millionth time on her birthday, "Son, I've been around. I've tried everything. And now, I just know what I like." For the record, mom is not ten million years old. Not even close.

I suspect the Disinterested Creatures of Habit don't cause shop owners many problems, and turn a good business. But they're probably not much fun to work with, and they buy low-end, with low margin, but perhaps high-volume, sales.

2. The Annoying-as-Hell Know-it-All (high knowledge, low curiosity): I do not work in wine retail, but I can only suspect how many insecure, blabber-mouthed twits come into to wine stores to challenge the personnel. "Oh, really? 'Grenache' from Spain? Don't you mean [with a disturbing, overdone Spanish accent] Gar-nacha??" As I said, I don't work in retail, so I don't know if this actually happens, but based on the proliferation of snobbery and one-upsmanship that oozes from the world of wine, I wouldn't be surprised.

The "listen to how much I know" guy or gal is probably a terror to engage. But, they probably buy some more-expensive stuff, based on some knowledge, and a level of understanding in the production of wine. Higher price doesn't always equate to higher quality, but- as they say- you pay for what you get.

3. The Geek (high knowledge, high curiosity): for lack of a better adjective, these are the most "enlightened" of all consumers. They are the ones who don't only ask for the weirdest, most unique bottle, but they bring in something crazy for the shop owner to try. The "let's get weird" crowd would hang around the store for hours and hours, just to be surrounded by wine, and people who like talking about it. The advantage of these folks would be that they know what they know, but they also know what they don't know. This crowd also understands the sheer vastness of wine, and it always looking to try something new.

For these reasons, the geeks are open to suggestions, check their egos at the door, and just want to enjoy the shopkeeper's latest gems.

4. The Eager Novice (low knowledge, high curiosity): with all due respect to the geeks, these folks are probably the best of the bunch. Because, not only do they love wine, but they are yet-to-be jaded, spoiled, or too critical (stages that all wine geeks seem to go through, yours-truly included). From a geek's perspective, the Eager Novices are sponges for knowledge. They love to learn, and geeks love to teach. This crowd wants to try new things, takes an earnest interest in information that would send most folks into a coma, and ask all the fun questions. They are primed to be molded into future geeks.

From a sales standpoint, shop owners should never let the Eager Novices out of their clutches. If I am honest, genuine, and can provide valuable information, education, and recommendations, I'm going to create a great deal of loyalty from those who thirst for that knowledge. And as novices become geeks, they may bring new novices into the fold...

***

But, alas, these are merely the thoughts of a traffic-jam. If only I had hit 88 miles per hour...

Truth that wine is everywhere, if you want it to be. Even on an uninspired stretch of highway between Atlanta and Macon...

...and no, there weren't a couple of escaped convicts stirring a batch of pruno in one of the toilet reservoirs. You know I would've gotten a picture of that jive. And probably a taste. And then a shiv in the ribs, otherwise known as a "Putnam County tickle".

Actually, I was heading down to middle Georgia to snap some shots of a renovation project-in-progress for the day job. I should really carry the camera with me more often. When you know you can capture something on film, so many more interesting things pop out at you.

So, I snapped a shot of an unassuming rest area bathroom. I had to: it reminded me of Walt Disney World. As soon as I walked in to that very clean space (kudos, state of Georgia), the powerful scent of bleach and cleaners smelled exactly- EXACTLY- like it did during childhood trips to Disney. The brood would pile into whatever prototypical family vehicle we had at the time (be it conversion van or station wagon), and roll down I-75 for 7 hours until we hit Orlando. Being pea-bladdered kids, we must've stopped twenty times at rest areas. I don't know how Dad did it.

But what I do know is that moments like these only strengthen my conviction towards the evidence that suggests a strong connection between emotions and olfactory memory. Considering I was on the way to the greatest place on Earth for a child of 5-10 years old, there was a heap of anticipation associated with that endless drive. Ergo, I step into a public restroom 25 years later, and I'm immediately whisked back to Space Mountain and mouse ears.

To this end, I've also noticed that the aromas in wine that are most familiar to me often stem from moments when I was enjoying a glass with friends, loved ones, or overlooking vineyards (the latter- I believe- explains why a bottle brought home from wine country never seems to taste as good as it did while you were there). So, I posit that if you want to learn more about wine, and build up your olfactory memory, don't forget to step away from the tasting table once and a while. Take a break from critical analyses and blitzkrieg tasting shows. Grab a bottle, and some friends, pour a glass, stick your nose down in it, and inhale. Take your time. Enjoy the wine. Savor the moment. And you may find you've learned more from that glass than you could from a dozen trade tastings...

...unless it's a glass of pruno. Swig that shizz down and pray for the gag reflex.

As soon as the chaps at Zephyr Adventures unleashed the announcement that Charlottesville, VA would host the 2011 Wine Bloggers' Conference, I knew there'd be controversy. Allan Wright might as well have been Ed McMahon, announcing a perfect score for Sinbad over Dennis Miller's 3.5 stars on that ill-fated night in Star Search history. Out of left field, California heavyweight Paso Robles and- if the conference was to move East- shoe-in "big four" producer New York were kicked to the curb in favor of...

Sitting on edit #4 "on paper", and probably thought #500 in my nebulous cranial space...

Just really don't know how to approach my thoughts on Virginia, on wine, on bloggers, and on blogger conferences. And, of course, the cosmic collision of them all.

I could fill a book with my feelings of gratitude, confusion, defensiveness, agitation, admiration, surprise, and other sundried adjectives to describe an addled mind. But a blog post is no place for a book's-worth of words (looking back on many posts, I need to tie a string around my finger on that one).

In an effort to better formulate my own opinions, I've gone out and read the reaction of those who were quick(er) on the trigger. I saw a (quite) thorough account of disappointment, light-heartedness, pleasant surprise, a weird mashup of snark/gratitude, and some understandable defensive positioning from homers. Funny how I don't remember this variance of reaction after Walla Walla. However, so much opinion out there makes one introspect quite a bit. What did I get out of it all? I think I know, but translating it to the written word is shaping up to be quite a... well, a bitch.

Looks like the only way that things can be sorted out is to break this mess up:

1. Talkin' wine
2. Talkin' conference
3. Talkin' blogging

But why the disclaimer? Because I know that many of you who read this are not bloggers. And many don't care about a conference that went down in Charlottesville, Virginia. However, I trust that there will be bits of value to any readers in these posts.

And if there is not broad-reaching value, I'll post a picture of monkey doing gymnastics or something...

When someone tells me he doesn't like wine, I sort of get it. It's simply a case of a bad introduction.

Not so oddly (bear with me), I credit George Harrison with this surprising measure of leniency/understanding. For anyone who has lived under a rock for the past 50 years (or, for the legal-drinking citizens reading this blog who were born in 1990... cripes!), Harrison was one of the original Beatles, an accomplished songwriter, an amazing solo artist, and a ridiculous guitarist. I mean, the guy wrote "Something", dammit. And- of course- he put together All Things Must Pass, perhaps- in this guy's humble opinion- one of the finest rock albums ever compiled in the history of popular music. George Harrison was masterful; an icon. Rock & Roll history must be re-written without him.

Alas, this was not my first impression of the "quiet one".

In 1987, I was eight years old. My older brother- sort of a rock & roll appreciation savant- kept a healthy dose of MTV and VH1 on the tube at this point. Amidst the extraordinary cheese being pumped out by ailing acts like Billy Ocean and Mr. Mister, I distinctly remember a particularly-creepy fellow with an awful mullet and a penciled-in five o'clock shadow playing campy guitar riffs while some 80's jerk-ass tried to get a prize out of one of those jerk-ass claw games at some jerk-ass arcade for some jerk-ass 80's dream girl. I further recall that stupid song being played during elementary school physical education classes, usually involving me having to dance with girls. At eight years old. Not cool.

Alas, the artist was George Harrison, and the song was "Got My Mind Set On You", a cover of a James Ray R&B tune from 1962. I don't remember much more than I've already described, but one thing was (and still is) clear: it sucked. The day I found out Harrison was the lead guitarist for the Beatles, I was stunned at how one person could fall so far from grace*.

Unfortunately for this little tike, I harbored quite a lot of ill-will towards a great musician, based solely on a first-impression that painted a very atypical picture of the body of work. Such is- far too often- the case with wine.

Some people love Two Buck Chuck Chardonnay. That's fine. More power to 'em. Yet, some find it to be vile, nay, unholy. Here's the rub: I posit that rather often, folks' first impressions of the noble Chardonnay grape is in the form of a bottle of TBC (or equivalent) at a backyard cookout, a tailgate, an engagement party. I further suggest that a good measure of these people think it does not taste very appealing. At that point, they make a broad-brushed declaration that Chardonnay is no good, and not for them (or even worse, wine in general).

Sadly, Two Buck Chuck is a widespread and easily-acquired ambassador of a grape that produces some of the most expressive and complex wines in the world. However, because of an unsavory introduction, a stigma has been created; one that can be difficult to shake for some. However, I can imagine how this situation could be completely reversed. What if a person's first taste of Chardonnay was in the form of an incredible Puligny-Montrachet, for example? One chance encounter (unfortunately, leaning heavily towards the cheap stuff, based on availability and price) could mean the difference between a wine-hater and an instant oenophile.

Here's my point: those who have made up your mind, open it again. Like in the world of music, even the same artist- hell, the same song- can be manifested in dozens, hundreds of styles and expressions. And if you still can't make peace with Rock & Roll's Chardonnay, there's always Techno's Riesling, Classical's Pinot Noir, Reggae's Roussanne, and Hip Hop's Mourvèdre.

It's not that I don't love you, I just love Champagne more. Or, should I say, I love to pop some bottles for good friends.

Off a roughly-seven month run consisting of kids' birthdays, family events, weddings, and the miscellany consuming the life of a thirty-something suburbanite, the past weekend seemed an appropriate time to slow down and enjoy. Fun and food with good neighbors, some splashing around and hopefully-not-pooping-in-it pool time with the li'l critter, and general relaxation. Rather, relaxation that has been a leprechaun riding a unicorn. That is to say, rare (but surprisingly easy to find online).

So, while the blog is peppered with occasional posts in which I feebly gripe about being too busy to write, I've penned this one to say I haven't posted in 5 days because I desired to get off the grid. Take some time to enjoy the blessings that have surround me. You know, at least for a couple days.

Funny how we can get so caught up in studying wine, discussing wine, analyzing wine, and arguing about it. The past weekend has served as a good reminder that our beloved beverage works its most-brilliant wonders when it is simply enjoyed in the company of friends...

...and I was talking about the kid pooping in the pool, not me. But I can see how that would throw some folks.

On my first trip to Napa (just about four years ago, to the date), I embraced the valley. It embraced me, planted a warm, sloppy kiss right on my wine-stained lips, and slipped me a little tongue-

Granted, I still had some hair on my head back then, and I was benefitting from a post-wedding build, necessary to wedge myself into the big day's tuxedo. Perhaps Napa couldn't resist-

But my (swiftly) fading looks are inconsequential. The point is that the Napa Valley- it's wines, it's sweeping vistas, and it's intoxicating charm- got my panties in a wad. I had no idea wine of such quality existed. Like being ensnared in an awkward teenage infatuation, I'd fallen in love with, become obsessed with, the fermented grape. And like any first kiss, particularly if it was shockingly good, my experience in Napa has imprinted my soul and changed my life forever.

So, any time I hear of friends or neighbors heading out for the first time, I get a little geeked up. I become a pro bono travel agent. I send emails documenting places to visit that make my longest ramblings here seem shorter than Charlie Sheen tweets (and the emails are twice as maniacal). I get into this frenzy because I can't wait for others to experience what I did. "They'll finally get it," I think. "They'll understand why I'm psychotic. They may come home psychotic, too. We can be psychotic together."

Yet, when folks return and tell me they have "no desire to go back to Napa", I'm admittedly a bit taken aback. A lot taken aback, and that's a ton, because I'm not even sure what that saying means. Naturally, I'm inclined to pry.

My neighbors just got back from a trip, and they felt that everything was very expensive. Yes, Napa can be expensive. They mentioned $25 tasting fees. Hmm... more than I remember paying. No big deal, those fees can easily be neutralized by the purchase of a bottle. Tasting fees are always credited towards purchase, right?

Nope. But the fiscal raping was not even the worst thing I heard. "They didn't tell us anything about the wines. We didn't learn anything. They just shoved a sheet of tasting notes in front of us and told us what was on special." Oh, you dirty bastards.

Now, let me go on the record and say that my "facts" are based on anecdotal evidence. I can't say first-hand that any of this occurred. But I don't think these are vindictive folks, and I honestly believe they were met with disappointment. I'm not going to name the wineries in question, but I was able- in order to validate some of the story- visit some completely random websites: non-specified Napa winery #1, non-specified Napa winery #2, and non-specified Napa winery #3, and I confirmed that tasting fees range from $15-25 a pop. Why not just buy a bottle at that price? Rather, my friends paid $30-$50 to taste five or so small pours, then spent another $30 on a bottle. All-in-all, they traveled across the country, rented a car, drove to the proprietor's place of business, got zero education and experience, and paid $60 for a $30 bottle of wine. So much for the value of cutting out the middle-man... and the warm fuzzies towards wine country.

Listen, I understand that these places have a lot of overhead. I know that many tasting rooms thrive on tasting fees. But we're talking some pretty heavy-hitters here. I'm sure Beringer and Mondavi don't keep the lights on with tasting fees. Not when they're producing millions of bottles per year. So why not evangelize? These two spots put Napa on the map. In fact, Robert Mondavi virtually invented the American fine wine industry. The large vintners should be creating wine consumers for life, not scaring them off in the name of a quick buck.

And if what I heard about no education is true, then shame on these wineries. They've perpetuated the mystifying nature of wine. I subscribe to the notion that people warm to what is understood and familiar. If they don't know what they're drinking, then they're probably not going to buy it, whether the taste costs $0.50 or $50.

I understand this scenario is not that case with all Napa wineries. I'm lucky to know some really terrific people in Napa, from winery personnel to PR folks to growers themselves. I can confirm that some are educating the eager masses, sharing their best, and using the tasting rooms to convert skeptics, sell bottles, and make customers for life. But how can their reputations not suffer when the biggest and brightest in the market- the standard-bearers for America's most celebrated wine region- are actively participating in screwing up a huge opportunity and alienating potential wine drinkers?

Hit the mark next time, Napa. It could pay dividends in the long run. Connect with your tasting room customers. Educate them. And please don't rip them off because they simply don't know better. Make out with their thirst for knowledge like you're making out with Mariah Carey on a red carpet at some undisclosed Nickelodeon event. Because that would be awesome. And a little weird. But certainly not disappointing.

Humble appreciation is a tricky thing. It can cause even the most secure bloke to question his worthiness. Gratitude- in the mind of one who has benefitted handsomely from the generosity of others- is often not enough. A creeping desire to return the favor causes neurosis... at least when you're neurotic like me.

This week has undoubtedly marked one of the most remarkable in my career. I say "career" not to insinuate that this blog is any sort of bell cow, but I felt it most appropriate to not even bring the birth of my daughter, the marriage to my wife, or the day that Quantum Leap came out on DVD into the mix. So, from a food and wine perspective, the past week has been phenomenal.

Folks opened their cellars and let me take a drink, asking nothing in return. I enjoyed magnums of Grand Cru White Burgundy (that will make your toes curl and kick the "anything but Chardonnay" crowd in the groin), Riesling-based Eiswein that outdated me by 8 years, and Red Burgundy double that spread. There was aged Hermitage and Châteauneuf-du-Pape and some of the finest, hardest-to-find wines from California. They even shared wines they made themselves... microscopic-production stuff tasting of their own foot-treading and an honest desire to create something great. Something to share with friends.

In 4 days, I tasted through a lineup many will never experience. But I don't say any of this to brag. I'm simply pointing to the fact that I can't bring game like this to the table yet. I've only been buying wine- really buying wine- for a few years. Even my oldest, best stuff is too young. Yet the real rub lies in the fact that these venerable bottlings go for two, three, four hundred bucks a pop. This guy's got to buy socks without holes in them first.

So, I'm stuck with the aforementioned humble appreciation, and a sneaking suspicion that those who offered up their best could receive no better payback than seeing others enjoy. Be this the case, the only courses of action left are to be thankful and to pay it forward.

This week have been an epiphany of sorts, and I can't wait to pop some dusty corks for my friends and family. That is, as soon as they get some dust on them.

Take a look at this sissy:

This is what pops in your mind when you think of the "wine connoisseur", isn't it? You know I'm right. He's a twit, a bore; he thinks he's better than you. Of course he's drinking wine, because it's what boring, self-righteous twits drink.

To most of you, it's a libation that oozes pretentiousness. There are special glasses. One bottle can cost as much as a night on the town. Drinkers- especially the ones who claim NOT to be snobs- throw out ridiculous descriptions like "essence of tortilla", "persimmon whispers", and "candied antelope". By proxy, wine is a beverage meant to be sipped and savored, rather than knocked back with the intent of easing the pain of 14 hours in a steel mill or 14 years in a hopeless marriage. Beer and liquor: the ironclad choice of barflies, cowboys, and blue collared factory workers. Beer and liquor: real drinks for real men. Right?

Well, what if I told you wine- REAL wine- was so tuff that I misspelled "tough"? What if I demonstrated that wine isn't necessarily made by that jerk who turns his nose at your light beer, but by regular folks with some serious cojones. Sure, their finished product can be elegant and ethereal and sensuous (three more for the horrid "descriptor bin"), but the means to that end are stained with purple juice, gallons of Tecate, the sweat of cellar rats, and the blood of a coyote or two.

I recently read a short account by Christopher Weir called "Cellar Men" in the compilation Travelers' Tales: Adventures in Wine. The story begins at the inception of harvest, with the author creeping between the vines- shotgun in hand- intent on scattering flocks of starlings that are sniping the ever-ripening fruit on 100-year-old Zinfandel vines. What follows is a tale of sleep-deprivation, beer, shoveling mounds of grape must, endless hours of cleaning and sorting and crushing and pressing; weary toil and disasters narrowly avoided. In the end, a dead coyote found in the vineyard is mounted on a nearby fence post... a totem to the primal, grueling, macho nature of winemaking.

Beyond the pages of this book, I've seen the struggle in the eyes of those in the wine world. I recall normally genteel Brent Beecham of Georgia's Montaluce Winery using language more fit for a Tarantino film when I uttered another four-lettered word: "bird". I've seen Ed Thralls' (at the time, interning for Holdredge in Healdsburg, CA) thousand-yard stare, claiming not only extreme soreness of the body, but a pervading "stickiness" from being covered with grape juice.

And the spiders. Oh, the spiders. Every crate of grapes in from the vineyards comes full of them. Or so I'm told. I haven't had the joy of experiencing harvest, but- in a weird way- it seems like something I would love to do, and the reason has nothing to do with a creepy "sticky grape juice" fetish...

...my fascination is best described in Weir's words:

The author's sentiment sums up so much of what I've heard from winemakers, vineyard managers, and cellar rats. It further bolsters the reason why I not only have a hard time passing judgement on many bottles, but why you'll rarely see reviews and descriptions on these pages. Sure, understanding that stuff is important to a greater appreciation of wine, but when a sleep-deprived guy risks his life- teetering over a fermenter during a pump over- to put the best wine he can into my glass, I feel like a real creep telling everyone on the interweb that it was a "failure, tasting of boysenberries rather than the varietally-correct lingonberries."

I can't imagine anything better than a coffee-buzz at 2 AM, running on nothing but caffeine, loud tunes, and the hopes that the finished product captures a little bit of that madcap scene in every bottle. I think that's what the author's trying to say. A wine so handled is going to have some soul. Some balls. A wine made of the frozen hands of the picker, the twisted ankles and stained fingernails of the cellar rat, and the determination of a winemaker dealing with what Mother Nature throws at him. Hell, there's nothing sissy about any of it.

For these reasons, and so many more, I just never have any problem pouring a glass of wine when hanging out with the guys. You shouldn't ever have to take issue, either. Next time you want wine- in a bar, at a tailgate party, or even at the hunting camp- pop a cork, because wine is, without a doubt, a manly drink...

...honestly, how many dead coyotes were involved in the making of your friends' Bud Lights?

I'm pretty sure that whenever a blogger gets on his virtual soapbox and explains with remorse a lack of current content, no one really cares. Take the following cookie-cutter statement*:

(*these hackneyed statements are usually accompanied by a low-quality picture of some jerkass- likely the blog author- sniffing wine in an exotic location or something.)

Heard that one before? Hell, I've written that one before...several times. However, making such a statement is decidedly pompous, if only for the bold assumption that folks are actually reading.

"But I saw that 200 people visited my blog today" (this is my inner monologue...pompous!)

I used to think that number mattered. Then Google Analytics crushed my spirit (as math often does). The average "Time on site" metric of "0:07 seconds" made if very clear to me that my decision to write a wine blog instead of making sketchy internet porn has been bad for business.

Fortunately, some nice folks over at Snooth were kind enough to name-drop this wine-soaked porn desert as one of the "witty" wine blogs they're currently reading (along with Another Wine Blog and Gang of Pour...interesting and quirky spots also devoid of porn, meaning I haven't visited them much). So, while this doesn't necessarily mean that more readers will stick around in this corner of cyberspace, it does suggest there will probably be a slight uptick in visitors (temporarily), as they will only to be turned off by pompous crap like me expressing contrition for not posting much in the past week.

So I guess I better get back on my game (if I ever had any). If anything, that means more drinking, and- well- drinking leads to the actions truly worthy of apology.

Anyway, thanks for coming by, and...really sorry I haven't posted in a while. Stuff has been crazy-busy in real life, but there's been a lot going on, and I have a ton to write about. I'll start posting a bunch of great stuff soon!

A couple neighbors of ours just had a kid. As it turns out, that's why people move to the suburbs. They buy houses, quit going out to eat at any cool places, pull weeds, cut grass, then have a bunch of kids. The screaming-kid-and-urine-filled neighborhood pool is the only source of entertainment, save drinking. When I bought my house, I had grandiose visions of lavish barbecues every weekend: complete with the finest meats and cheeses, beer that flowed like pee in the neighborhood pool, and horseshoes. Horseshoes aplenty.

Okay, I was a little more wise to the situation than that. I suspected the party would slow down once bars were not within walking distance. It's okay; the free-wheelin' lifestyle afforded in my early 20's was not sustainable. An innate instinct to migrate to a subdivision and create 2.5 kids strengthened. Clearly, I was not alone in this shift.

So, derailing ramble aside (as usual), there's another newborn in the 'hood. As a first child saps one's energy like a metroid attached to the head*, preparing meals becomes a nigh-impossible task. The wife and I- now crafty veterans- decided to put together a tasty treat to satiate the weary on a night thought to be designated our turn to feed the troops.

*this is a REALLY nerdy joke, even for me. I just can't forget how those little f'ers would really set you back when you could sniff victory after hundreds of hours invested in no social advancement. Screw you, metroids.

Through communication error- something in which I excel- the couple had already eaten, and we were (perhaps fortunately) left in the possession of this:

A rather simple concoction: homemade sauce (olive oil, crushed canned tomatoes, garlic cloves, fresh basil, salt, pepper, red pepper flakes, and ground fennel seed), fresh Mozzarella, Fontina, Pecorino, fresh oregano and basil, and roasted garlic. I piled this on top of some pre-made Publix dough. It's as close to making it yourself while still being lazy. The dough comes in a ball; just let it rise in an oiled bowl with a damp towel draped over, punch down, flatten, and toss. I make a decent homemade dough, but I also have a little kid. Spare me the grief concerning the shortcut, and allow me to play the "new kid" card.

I paired with a juicy, amply-acidic Zinfandel-based California red blend, and dinner was off to the races.

However, to Amy, Scott, and little Griffin: we're sorry for the goof, and we owe you a pizza. Just don't feed it to the kid.