Just Wanted Wine

So much when you write about wine, or concede you’re drinking it, you have to cite and stipulate specifics.  But tonight I’m refusing to do so, I’m just drinking wine to drink it.  And frankly, it’s not that good.  One of the bazillion tasting rooms in Kenwood, one of them that I stopped by one day ‘cause I was bored, on my way back from Fairfield, teaching.  Sipped again, and yeah there’s something off about it— but I still sip.  Why not.  It’s raining outside, my wife’s asleep on the couch and my little daughter, 3 weeks old tomorrow, as well sleeps.  And I’m the writer who just rose from the couch, form another “Law & Order: SVU” rerun and made himself write.  To this Merlot.  Growlingly, I refuse to name any specifics.  And why…  I don’t need to.  And they say, “Watch what you say, it’s a small industry, you don’t want to burn any bridges, bla bla…”  The wine industry is full of this, this passive and conveniently removed intimidation.  Oh I’ll abide, I’ll conform, but the industry needs reform.  Just not tonight, I’m sipping, I’m enjoying my flawed wine, not letting any of the industry’s contagions in.

When I first entered the wine business, or “the industry” as so many of them call it with that putrid elevating octave, I poured in a tasting room.  Then I went to another.  Then another.  Another another another…  That’s what wine industry most immediately and colorfully sees; loyalty lack, and rampant at that.  There’s a specific for you, even more flawed than what I sip: the industry itself.  Even the tourists notice, one long ago saying to me, “So, it seems like so many move around place to place, is that common?” And what do I say but something evading like, “I don’t know, you know…” But not in my house, not tonight, not with my wife and daughter sleeping in the nearest room.  I’m enjoying my wine, it’s wine, my wine right now and I don’t care how much “brett” it has (and that’s definitely the flaw, in concert with uneven acid and fruit composition).  But I’m not a critic, or judge, certainly not one of those ill-nurtured skainsmate sommeliers.  Just a wine chaser, lover, sipper and drinker and writer (and often writing while drinking, but that’s the wine giving me less flaw, gifting me with more character truth).

It’s late, and I should be asleep like them, but I had to come to the office and put the glass to the right of the keyboard as I always elect; a wined pattern stretching years, even back to when I lived in that San Ramon apartment when I would tarriance at the (I think) Albertson’s down Crow Canyon toward 680.  And I’d buy whatever bargain bottle I could gently drop into that plastic basket, thinking I was quite the “wine guy”, much why I hate people especially those daring call themselves bloggers or even more repugnant ‘writers’ with “the Wine Guy” after their name.

So here’s precision for you, reader: I’m drinking wine.  Writing.  And I’m quite calm in my simplistic quietude.  So rate, or throw some score at, that…..