Wine Blogs Are the Attention-Barking of Lonely Poodles
Monday, December 17, 2012
Eulogy for the Wine Writer
“The creature which we used to call a ‘wine writer’ has died.”—Andrew Jeffords
I’d first like to say how honored I am to have been asked to deliver the eulogy for Wine Writer. I think I speak for all of us here when I say that it’s been a very difficult stretch since we learned of his untimely demise. Yes, Wine Writer had been horribly sick before he passed, a pathetic shadow of what he once had been, reduced to a kind of Laubotomized babbling, a sad and tired victim of Parkerson’s Disease, covered in nasty Suckling wounds, his Hugh Johnson Feiring nothing but blanks. In the end, it’s true, he had ceased to have anything meaningful to say. The last time I saw Wine Writer I asked him how he was feeling. “Full-bodied and unctuous,” he replied, possibly referring to what he’d left in his bedpan. Yes, he was very near death for a very long time, and I’m happy that Wine Writer is finally out of his misery. You’ll pardon me for being religious, but I like to think of Wine Writer having successfully crossed over to that glossy and pastoral place where all wine writing goes to die, Wine Spectator. There is no greater death for Wine Writer. Unless there’s blogging in the afterlife.
It might be comforting to think that Wine Writer died of natural causes. Comforting, but wholly uninformed. It would be more accurate to say that Wine Writer was tortured, abused, and then neglected like the Syrah aisle at your local wine shop. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Who of us will ever forget Wine Writer in his prime? Remember those days? Most of you younger people don’t remember a time when wine writing was about two, and only two, things—Wine and Writing. I know, that’s hard to believe. Wine Writer was somebody in those days. He taught us about wine. He had insight and he was articulate, he was free of marketing jargon and the only numbers he knew were for his local bars. The only 100 Point Scales he knew were from his psoriasis. Don’t be surprised, friends, Wine Writer and flaky go hand-in-hand. In those days he couldn’t be bought. Leased, with an option to buy, absolutely; hey, it’s the wine business! But why buy that used ’57 Balzer when you can go out and get yourself a new 2012 Jay Miller, with plenty of plush upholstery and built-in airbag? Those were different times. The writing was as important as the subject. Remember those days? That’s what we’re here to mourn. There will always be wine, and there will always be writing. But now they’re seen together about as often as sommeliers and humility. It seems M.S. is always a disease.
Maybe it’s the changing times that helped kill Wine Writer. He became an Everyman, an Everywoman, an Everymoronwithacomputer. Maybe he died trying to be everywhere, his talent diffused and useless like an Alka-Seltzer dissolved in 10,000 gallons of water—sort of like Pinot Grigio. Maybe it was that Wine Writer was ultimately confused with Wine Typer. Typing is not writing any more than epileptic fits are dancing. Though there are a lot of Typers that should be allowed to swallow their tongues.
In his day, you could find Wine Writer in every major newspaper, as common as horoscopes, but far less accurate, of course. Any significant food publication had to have Wine Writer onboard to give them legitimacy. Now they have panels. Who wants panels? Panels are for protecting cotton underpants. I don’t want them telling me what wine to buy. It’d probably be orange. Now the glory days of Wine Writer in newspapers are gone. You have only to pick up The Wall Street Journal to see his bloated body swimming in Rupert’s cesspool. It’s best that we bury him today.
Or maybe we killed Wine Writer. Yes, I said “we.” All of us, like in “Murder on the Orient Express.” (Oh, sorry, I meant to say, “Spoiler Alert,” which, by the way, they should install on bottles of Two Buck Chuck.) Maybe our device-driven attention spans killed Wine Writer, like so many pedestrians splattered on windshields like moths on a hot day in Modesto by Millennials talking on their iPhones instead of watching the road. Our slavery to email and Twitter and Pinterest (who knew an entire world could be built around Harold Pinter?) has diminished our attention spans to the size of bubbles in a bottle of Krug Le Mesnil. Maybe we killed Wine Writer with neglect. We only have time now for scores and vintage charts, not thoughtful and joyful wine writing. We’re always in a hurry. Right now, as I speak, most of you are wondering if you’ve received a text message in the last thirty seconds. You wait for the buzz or the chirp or the vibration like one of Pavlov’s dogs, the one who can’t keep his balls out of his mouth. You killed Wine Writer. As much as anyone else, it was us. Though, to be certain, we were just ending his suffering.
Perhaps most of you aren’t aware that for the past ten or fifteen years the Wine Writer you knew wasn’t the real Wine Writer. He was an impostor. The real Wine Writer wouldn’t have published Hedonist’s Gazettes or Buying Guides or Picks of the Week or Top 100’s--wine writing that is lazy and self-absorbed, easily digested like your own spit, redundant and trivial like watching “Entertainment Tonight.” Wine Writer was being insufferably abused while his impersonators cashed in on the simpleminded and sad who were reading their unoriginal and empty words, and florid and vapid descriptions. Wine Writer may have died just a few weeks ago, but he’d vanished like Ambrose Bierce many, many years ago.
Which reminds me of Bierce’s definition of “Critic,” from “The Devil’s Dictionary.” It applies to those Wine Writer impersonators.
CRITIC, n. A person who boasts himself hard to please because nobody tries to please him.
I like to imagine that one day Wine Writer will return. Perhaps he is already among us, waiting for all the noise that is the great democracy of the Internet to die down so that he can be heard. Waiting for all the iPhones to be turned off so he can have our attention for more than a few seconds. Waiting for people to value insight and original thought instead of recycled and inarticulate words. Waiting. Waiting. Death has all the time in the world.
After 19 years as a Sommelier in Los Angeles, twice named Sommelier of the Year by the Southern California Restaurant Writers' Association, I moved to Sonoma County to explore the other aspects of the wine business. I've spent, OK wasted, 35 years learning about and teaching about and swallowing wine. I am also a judge at the Sonoma Harvest Fair, San Francisco Chronicle Wine Competition and the San Francisco International Wine Competition--so I can spit like a rabid llama. I know more about wine than David Sedaris and I'm funnier than James Laube. Stay tuned for an informed but jaded view of everything wine and everything else.
I'm living proof that alcohol kills brain cells.
What the Critics Are Saying About HoseMaster of Wine
"If you want a great hoot and howl moment or two...go read the HoseMaster's year-end reflections...that guy is without a doubt the funniest SOB in the blog-world...and thank him for having the brains and balls to target his laser of laughter on anybody...HoseMaster for President...HoseMaster for Blogger of the Year...although he would be the first to say the bar is so damn low for that award, he should win it every year..." --Robert Parker
"No one is immune from California sommelier and wine judge Ron Washam's skewering. He polishes that skewer with boundless enthusiasm and acuity."
"Washam uses his own blog, HoseMaster of Wine, to skewer the industry in general and wine blogs in particular. If your mouse scoots to your browser's close box while reading a wine blog, Washam may be the blogger for you."
--San Francisco Chronicle
"...that guy Hosemaster has real talent...if you ask me sign him up for Comedy Central...he's the funniest guy since Adam Carolla's hilarious book...IN 50 YEARS WE WILL ALL BE CHICKS..."
"Ron Washam, former sommelier, is easily the most bitingly funny blogger/wine writer that we have ever come across. He is an equal opportunity crusader who pillories big wineries and amateur bloggers alike, as well as everything and everyone in between...One needs a sense of humor and a tolerance for earthiness to enjoy reading The Hosemaster. We must have both because this guy deserves a wider audience, in our humble opinion." --Connoisseurs' Guide to California Wine
"In my opinion, and that of many others, his blog is one of the best. And in terms of satirical or parodic wine blogs, it has no peer. Ron’s alert eye catches every pretense and skewers it with laugh out loud mercilessness."
"This site should carry a warning label. It's sort of a Dave Barry/George Carlin approach to wine. The Hosemaster (real name Ron Washam) skewers fellow bloggers and industry savants with glee, while offering hilarious wine guides such as his Honest Guide to Grapes..."
--Paul Gregutt, Seattle Times
"Washam is a skilled wine judge (I have judged with him) who is willing to judge wine double blind, in public. To my knowledge, Parker does not do this and never has. So Ron's credentials are in place, and so is his sense of the absurd."
--Dan Berger, VintageExperiences
"...I consider Ron a very talented writer and I’ve long been an admirer of his scathing wit..."
"And if any free sites think they can conquer the world, there’s always the Hosemaster to take ‘em down a notch."
--Tyler Colman "Dr. Vino"
"Those of you who know Ron either love or hate him, because he throws jabs like a punch drunk boxer, and we’re all in the firing line. He’ll throw them if he hates you, and he’ll throw them if he loves you. He’s a satirist of exceptional quality."
--Jo Diaz "Juicy Tales by Jo Diaz"
"I must say you are an idiot. I've never liked you. I have no idea why people find you funny."