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.

Love The Wine You're With

My Dear Winos,

Hello, and welcome. I hope you are feeling nice right about now, as we explore tonight's topic:

You Can't Hurry Love


This past weekend was bottle #2 in my journey through the middens of grapedom, punctuated by beer, which was an unfortunate side-affect of bingo night at Bingo Wonderland with some old and some new friends in North Houston. I had such a blast. Bingo halls are what I consider to be the perfect microcosm of America at its most...well, American. Immigrants, forgive the presumption, but I kinda know now how it feels to arrive unexpected in a foreign place in the middle of everyone determinedly trying to make $12 turn into $600.



Anyway. The next night, some of the us (Carlynne, Zac and myself) suited up in fine style (Retail Casual and Pauncho Chic) to attend Zac's show up in Huntsville, at the upstanding-and-quite-responsibly-supervised all-ages club right next to the Mason Lodge. He plays the computer in The Fatal Exception, which is a super-duper band filled with diddly-diddies, MMM-sah MMM-sahs and pure, unapologetic awesome. Maybe a little apologetic, but that's only because some dancing daisy in the front kept kicking out the connector cable. His wacky physical antics made up for it for sure, though. Very cool stuff, so imagine my extreme pleasure and gratitude when I was formally asked by the front-man to dance on stage for the show. Enter tonight's host, Mr. Fetzer Cabernet Sauvignon.

Picked up at my local, newly fancy Wal-Mart, this $8 bottle features a rich and robust heft and an extra rocket pack designed to send any lady in a way-long skirt into about 40 million dizzying flash-bulb circles. Like a true strong and manly icon, the cab sauv left me in the early morning, scribbling an uncomplicated apology all down the back roads of Conroe. Buy this wine! Drink it in your local seedy back alley parking lot while, once again, everyone else drinks Big Flats. Inescapable. I swear.