Archive for February, 2011

I’m Such a Sucka

Thursday, February 24th, 2011

Just a quick note since I haven’t checked in for a while now. Ever notice how visual we are? I fall for it too. Trust me, there’s a reason some posts are 90% pictures. I used to think it was because I had the articulation of a small mollusk, but then I realized it’s only because I’m a sucka for the visually stunning. Case in point, have you ever purchased a bottle of wine because it had a pretty label? I have too. To add weight to this statement, this confession comes from somebody who works at a goddamn winery. You didn’t misread that. I work at a winery and just bought a bottle based solely on its amazing label. In my defense, take one look at this and tell me you wouldn’t buy it as well:

I have label envy. Why don't we have a Manga artist on staff?

That’s a bottle of Fetish’s 2009 V Spot Viognier. I don’t even particularly like Viognier, but there you have it. I saw the bottle and had to have it. Now the debate is whether or not I’ll drink it. I love and hate such things, because the truth is, what’s in that bottle may only be two steps from gasoline, but Fetish sold thousands of them. I love it because they pulled it off, even though it may be gasoline. I hate it because it makes our labels look so plain and uninviting. I have serious, incurable label envy.

On a brighter note, I went spooking around the Valley recently and visited some of the locals. I don’t really consider them competition per se, but I still like to see what everyone else is doing. It’s nice to see other boutique wineries still hanging in there despite the shit economy. The majors like Wente and Concannon can lick my sweaty ass crack. Anyone can mass produce barely drinkable swill or piss in a bottle and call it “youthful Pinot Grigio.” The people go there in droves for cheap, mass produced wine queefed out for the sole purpose of quantity. The boutique wineries attract those who really appreciate the art of wine making. It’s only at the teeny tiny vineyards that you bump into the real characters in the industry. Case in point:

Christ, they'll let ANYBODY drink at this place.

Sure he’s a pig, but the good thing is you’ll never hear him complain about the quality of the snacks at the bar. He also never claims to be a wine expert because he got drunk and puked in the bushes outside Mondavi in Napa. So there you have it. I’ll take my pretty label and questionable company over mass production any day. In the mean time, I’m looking for this in a size magnum:

Oooohhhh....pretty.....

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Spurned!

Wednesday, February 9th, 2011

Ummm, I see you forgot to clean the windshield there. Could be worse, could the the shit of a 1000 seagulls.

I have another Bay Area mystery for you all. Every morning last week I beheld a magickal sight while walking the dog. It was there for approximately four days, blessing the eyes with yet another chance to simply speculate.

What you see next to this paragraph is a van. Not just any van, no, this van seemed to attract a lot of flowers. Single red roses, little stuffed toys, perfume and even lingerie adorn this special van. My apologies for the crap angles, but I’m sure whoever this is wouldn’t appreciate me putting their plate up on the Internet.

This van remained parked in the same space every day collecting trinkets and clutter. Eventually, the dumping died down and all that was left was eerie silence and flowers drying in the sun. There was also a little bitty tiger on the windshield. And here we are, left to sigh wistfully and speculate. My mind has come up with three distinct possibilities. Here’s scenario number 1:

Baby ain't taking the bait. Careful backing up, that one thing is glass!

Baby is going to be so surprised when she sees what I set up for her. She’s going to come to the van in the morning, maybe not aware of how much love there is in the world, see all the flowers and Bada-Bing! Instant getting laid powder. Wait, I forgot. Is she going to be at that electronics show in Vegas this week or next week? Shit. I may have put all that shit out there for nothing. I hope the neighbor kids don’t steal the bears.

Scenario #2:

Nothing says "I'm sorry" like lingerie lightly coated in asphalt and cigarette ash.

I’m sorry. I’m really, really, really REALLY sorry. I am so sorry I’m going to cover your van in presents and hope like hell it counts for something. Surprised? If it makes you feel better the process of removing my foot from my mouth hurt just as much as your feelings. *sniff*

Scenario #3 (The one I think is most likely after watching this unfold all week with no words or actors.)

I hope this bottle is safe to use as a butt plug, because something tells me if she ever sees you again, she's going to shove it clean up your ass.

Apology NOT accepted. You can take your dick out of that ho, shove it up your ass and go fuck yourself, you motherfucking douchetard. How stupid do you think I am? Fuck you, fuck the horse you rode in on and fuck the ugly ass horse that rode yo’ momma to make you. If I ever see you around here again, so help me God, I am going to take these flowers and shove them right up your ass. Now, take your shit and get outta here because I don’t want it. And don’t you leave that shit on my front porch, I’ll just take it back that hoopity ass van you drive and dump it there.

Love is fleeting and fragile.

So what is the truth? I don’t know. You don’t know. And eventually the van, flowers and gifts disappeared. Whether the owner of the van took them, the neighborhood kids poached them or the landscapers tossed them I’ll never know. It’s just another peaceful day in the neighborhood.

Found: One very sad bear/dog thing laying on the sidewalk. Owner can pick it up at his/her own risk.

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Posted in The Daily Grind | No Comments »

God Save the Who?

Monday, February 7th, 2011

Last Sunday was Superbowl Sunday in the U.S. For those of you tuning in internationally, the Superbowl is the culmination of way too many fucking months of American style football. Because we in no way resemble North Korea or the USSR circa 1977, we need to start every sporting event with the playing of our national anthem. We do this because we are most assuredly patriots and not because we resemble a military dictatorship in any way. Sometimes the national anthem goes well. Other times, a little something like this happens.

Okay, grab a tissue and dab up the blood leaking out of your ear holes, it’s over. Thank God, because this bitch has no talent for this sort of thing and didn’t even attempt to get the lyrics right. This is a theoretically talented pop star with an assload of money and an entire entourage, including a police detail, all to herself. Why the hell couldn’t she get three lines of a song right? Seriously, were there no interns to beat before sending them off to look that shit up on Wikipedia? It’s the national fucking anthem, for Chrissake. It’s not like they asked her to actually remember epic poetry or the ingredients off a tortilla bag or something.

Maybe I’m being too harsh. After all, it would appear most Americans don’t know how to read or write English, let alone remember a complicated treatise like the national anthem. Let’s face it; we learn that song when we’re about five years old, and generally only sing it at sporting events. Singing at sporting events essentially means that everyone is drunk off their asses or at least getting there and all lyrics are negotiable. We’re all little hazy when it comes to anything patriotic besides depriving fellow Americans of their basic civil rights and making sure everyone, including the mentally incompetent, have access to automatic weapons. Of course it takes a non-American to point this out.

Okay, so here’s the idea. Let’s throw out the national anthem. Seriously, just get rid of it. Nobody knows what the hell it is and most people’s improvisations aren’t nearly as funny as Eddie Izzard’s. I’m having a thought here. Let’s make our new national anthem Bad Romance from Lady Gaga. No, no, no, NO. Hear me out. I think a bunch of slovenly drunkards who are too lazy to learn the damn thing even when they have to sing it in front of millions of viewers would do well with Bad Romance. I think we could all get through lyrics like these:

Rah-rah-ah-ah-ah!
Roma-Roma-ma-ah!
Ga-ga-ooh-la-la!
Want your bad romance

You can get through that drunk or sober, and even if you can’t, the improvisation is infinitely easier. See:

Blah, blah, blah, rah ah ah….
Roma, Foma, my ma!
Goggles are embossed!
Want more sad fire ants!

See? It works. I’m not being a pinko, commie, fascist, socialist terrorist here, I’m just trying to make life simpler for everyone. Think about it, then call your congressperson. Together we can make a difference. Now about those bleeding earholes: fill them with this.

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Posted in Musings on Mediocracy | No Comments »