Carlo Rossi Paisano

Snakes

I love them. Carlo Rossi has little to do with it. I am listening to Teen Dream by Beach House and my kitten magoo is deciding whether or not to end its life as it turns on my floor. She contents herself with watching the record player obsessively. Perhaps she keeps it going. USED TO BEEEEEEEEEEEE….USED TO BEEEEEEEEEE…

Josh let me take his snakies to a party where they shat on my dress and scared the living shit out of me as well, but much less so after I discovered why I had watery pink grit going down my front…Sasha and Uri are just…just. Beautiful.



Drink this wine! Drink it when stars run out of your control and your feet lead you up illegal ramps into the night.

Bella Sera Pinot Noir

Today was picture day! My roommates and I had our Spring Bluebonnet Family Portraits done today (pics to follow).

I made a cake. It was to celebrate my roommate Carol getting 3rd place Masters in the rock-climbing competition yesterday. The kuchen was gluten-free. Thanks for leaving the mix, Oh Snap! It has pretty much ruined me for regular cake. Something about the texture…oh wait…it has one! That’s the difference. Most cake-mixes are so fine and refined and such that they don’t even really have anything for your mouth to grab onto. But this one, this Red Mills Vanilla Cake Mix, this one was delicious. I put a bit of orange extract in it to lighten things up and made a basic chocolate buttercream frosting for’t.



More later. I start work at 7am these days.

Drink this wine when you are tired of typing.

Gabbiano Chianti

Wal-Blah

In the Blue Haze of Commercialism (I shop there, it’s true, I just refuse to give them the satisfaction of another brand-recognition link), I am useless. Specifically, when I wear house-shoes. I mean, it’s the perfect place to wear them, for a number of reasons. Comfort, stereotype, and most of all, the floors. I slip around, run, skip, do fancy pirouettes in the pasta aisle, and generally become that guy. That guy who doesn’t notice a fuck about the busy, harangued and possibly-feeling-guilty-for-shopping-there pedestrians who just want to get their Digiorno and canned lemonade and gtfo. I’m sorry, those people! I have slidey shoes on! At least I am not that young lady wearing a karate uniform while driving a scooter.



yeah, some things don’t change.

Drink Gabbiano Chianti. Drink it when you want to caricature yourself in the Triscuit aisle.

Sterling Vintners Collection Cabernet Sauvignon

I completely forgot this wine.

Good times, eh?

On Monday, when the other two thirds of a new and glorious online triumvirate (pronounce it with a W, cause That’s More Fun) came up to visit me here in D-Town, I purchased a bottle of cabernet sauvignon* again. I know what you are thinking, this wine is too manly for me. Yeah. It was. You are right.

Thanks to Farmers Get To Work More In The Spring Time, we still had a bit of afternoon to enjoy, so we sat around in my backyard with said cab sauv and jammed around with a guitar, a mountain dulcimer and a few extremely impressive cameras. I am so intimidated by such monstrous and phallic pieces of optical machinery (Carlynne’s camera literally has buttons, levers, switches, zippers, trapdoors, hidden staircases and even a miniature sword tucked under the enormous battery pack) that I just noodle around on the dulcimer and fend off the dog, who is named after a lichen and appreciates cameras as much as the next man. We finish off the bottle and a six-pack of Shiner Double Wheat and Carlynne gets through another 2-3 layers of her ridiculous jaw-breaker lollipop, then we hit the streets.

This is where it gets a bit interesting. I really have no wish to go into florid detail, but the next…6? hours involved snakes, dogs, dreads, beer, waaaaaaaay too many cigarettes, dancing like a fool to Boxcar Bandits, beer, more beer, peeing on public buildings, yet even MORE beer, spending an unprecedented amount of time in the bathroom of Jimmy J’s (were we still drinking beer?), a nap on Scripture St, and a fireman-march to bed. I like to think the evening ended at water shots with Sarah Jaffe, but we all know it was over with the round of tequila purchased by one Motherfucking Zed. So, while I can’t honestly attribute this one to the forgotten cab sauv, I can say it started with that bottle.

Drink this wine to embark upon a memorable night.

I mean, memorable by others.

*Editor’s note: This was a Sterling Vintners Collection CS. The online guide to wines available at my local controversially misogynistic corporate discount store reminded me. Woo.

Lucky Duck Malbec

Drink this wine when the temperature goes from 85 degrees to 40 in a matter of hours.

Drink this wine if you are convinced that birdwatching entails much, much more than just old people in trees with goggles.

Drink this wine when you witness unexpected anarchy over breakfast cereal.

Share this wine to watch it purple teeth and whiten cups.

Drink this wine to Anna Begins.mp3, who has time and time again fucked up your computer in this way or that, but you can’t manage to get rid of her because the base line kills you every time. Clearly I am suffering under delusions of nostalgia, since she has frozen my computer every SINGLE time I try to play or transfer her.

Drinkability. Smoothness. Nothing.

Silence.

Credits to The Motherfucking Zed for this weekend’s wine choice. Grab a copy of his blog before it runs out! They are selling like hotcakes.

Barefoot Pinot Noir

35 Conferette?!

Ho boy, this weekend is already curling around the edges, with me in the middle, sinking into a ball of tired.



I will keep it short, because my last post was a ridiculous drunkety ramble. I suppose that is sort of the point of this blorgarorg, but rambling is not something I do to impress myself.

Buy Barefoot Pinot Noir. Drink it when you want to experience bad metal bands or remember life through a fish-eye lens. Guys, don’t drink this wine. It’s terrible! I usually like Barefoot. Their red zin is one of my go-to wines. But seriously, I’d rather recommend a foot powder to sprinkle on your salad than this Pinot Noir.

Fetzer's Sauvignon Blanc

Good mushrooms and gravy, am I fond of parentheses...

You are a waterfall, waiting inside a well.
You are a wrecking ball, before the building fell.

The catalyst for this post was a previous post by Panic A La Carte about "Rachel Getting Married," which pretty much sums it up to my satisfaction, so I shan't recapitulate it for you. Suffice it, this movie emotion-grafted a feeling to me that I have never had before. It is that of loosening. Let me qualify that, you dirty-minded fools. For a few months there has been this knot lodged under my breasts. It is animate; alternately in my heart, knocking back and forth like a corner-caught cat, then again inside my lungs, writhing like a pair of head-caught snakes. Simile-caught, like a metaphor. But this movie has pulled out a loop. The opposite of suffocation. Alexander, with all of your sharping, you missed the point. Asia is not won with a sword. It is won with a pair of hands, kind and familiar with forming perspective out of the candid clay. My mind vibrates, but my chest loosens. I am only tendrils of empathy and the blissful ache of capacity. I am half-a-bottle-drunk.

HOCKET: Up until quite recently, I had been under the impression that some books just must be read. To appreciate a potential (and possibly heretofore unknown) aspect of one's life, this or that book or author is absolutely essential to one's intellectual repertoire. Hemingway. Faust. Joyce. Conrad. If you don't like it through the first 5 pages or 50, you really ought to truck through, because it'll hit you. If not now, perhaps in 20 years. This is what I feel myself telling...myself. But this evening I was sitting on my toilet, taking a quiet think, among other things, and I realized something quite profound. For me, that usually means something extraordinarily simple that I just hadn't gotten before, but this one seems more like self-assertion in the face of self-doubt than a classic 'aha moment.' I am the arbiter of my own literary taste. More so because I have been consuming books whole since I learned to read, around the age of 3. I did everything my older sister did for the first 10 or 12 years of my life, which must have been the very definition of annoyance. Perhaps the nature of me learning lends itself to my future decisions in reading, but I have had a while to discover my own little burrow in the universal nest, and I can say with complete assuredness, I will never again suffer through a book I am not ready to read. My style is just simply not compatible. I am not ready for Joyce. I did not enjoy him on the last three bus-rides to work, and will not enjoy him until something external compels me to. Who fucking remembers a book read in the wrong era of one's life? Not I. I enjoy this currently entertained attitude I have of displacement. I enjoy knowing that my appreciation for something almost always has to do with extenuating circumstances, because that means that any situation I am put into, I can draw my own conclusions. God lawerd, this wine is getting to me. WHICH BRINGS ME TO...

The wine of the night! Fetzer's Sauvignon Blanc. Sunset Rubdown says: "I'm sorry anyone at all dies these days." I am currently playing Shut Up I Am Dreaming (forgive the condescending review Pitchfork gives...) to avoid the over-loud voices of people who habit and frequent my current abode. I do not live with religious zealots. This is a super-plus...assault my ears before my reasoning skills.

Some day I will tell you about the guy at all who died these days.

Buy this wine! Drink it when you want to look up at the Kroger sign. Pass under it in slow-motion. Savor the feeling of 10-yr-old-swimming under a floating pool toy. Enjoy the completely different set of priorities.