What's the HoseMaster Drinking?

Seghesio 2006 Zinfandel Cortina Dry Creek Valley


I am an unabashed fan of Zinfandel, and always have been. I like that it's bombastic and unrelenting and unashamed of being way too much most of the time. It's like I have a twin! And I'm head-pruned too. "Cortina" is the soil type in the Seghesio Zinfandel Vineyard in Dry Creek Valley. (The wine was not named for the Ford Cortina, a car that, ironically, was dirt cheap.) The 2006 Cortina Zinfandel is an interesting wine. It started with a very ripe, almost late harvest, extracted, gutsy aroma that concerned me. But on the palate it showed lovely balance, some chalky finishing tannins and gorgeous fruit, where I was expecting a clumsier, over-the-top kind of Zin from the nose. This seems reflective of the 2006 vintage, the extended heat at vintage's end giving it the late harvest characteristics in the nose, but the age of the vines at the Cortina vineyard maintaining a lovely balance and freshness anyway. (I had heard of plans to blend the Cortina Zin with some Cabernet from Stag's Leap Wine Cellars in Napa in order to create a lovely "Cortina Fay" bottling, but, luckily, those were scrapped--like that joke should have been.) What you end up with is a Zinfandel with black raspberry and a pinch of white pepper flavors, with nice fruit intensity, elegant, supple, chalky tannins, and plenty of guts. I tend to like Seghesio's Cortina Zinfandel because in most vintages, including this one, it shows the power and eloquence of Dry Creek Valley Zinfandel.


The HoseMaster Score 706,865 Points


Disclaimer: All performers in this review were over 18 at the time of filming. Any resemblance to actual wine criticism is purely coincidental.

The M.S. Conspiracy

A HoseMaster of Wine Pulp Fiction Classic

Chapter 6 Anything Goes


After lunch I decided to tail Veronica. Which is the very definition of coals to Newcastle. She needed tail like Robert Mondavi needed a heat lamp. So I decided to follow her instead. This was a distinct pleasure. Watching her from behind was like watching a latex lava lamp. Veronica had missed her calling. She could have been a coffee grinder at Starbucks. I'd certainly pay to explore her grounds.

I was hoping that she'd lead me to her friends, but I didn't really expect her to. But it was a lovely day for a stroll, and I'd had worse jobs than following a gorgeous blonde pulling a trailer with two lovely lug boxes. I was so fixated on Veronica that I nearly missed spotting Fugly, the midget who'd held a gun on me in the late Lorna's room. So I was wrong; it turns out it was a lovely day for a troll. And I didn't think Fugly had spotted me at all, if you don't count the easily Wine Away-ed urine stains on my fly that the sight of his gun had caused to mysteriously appear. What was really strange was that the little guy appeared to also be tailing Miss Veronica. Why would Fugly want to know what Veronica was up to? What could be so important that he'd run the risk of following her too closely and end up getting bitch slapped by her buns? Which is better than having midget skid marks.

Veronica was taking her time, just wasting a day window shopping in the cutesy little boutiques Healdsburg was overpopulated with. Fugly was trying to look inconspicous by hiding behind fire hydrants and trash receptacles. Nothing more invisible than a midget humping a fire hydrant. Veronica seemed completely oblivious to her two tails. Or so I thought. I looked away for a moment and she ducked into a public restroom. Well, that made sense. You call it. Head or tails?

She was in there for a long time. But she was a woman, and that didn't seem out of the ordinary. So Fugly and I waited. And waited. This was getting weird. I was thinking about going in after her, hell, I'd been in lots of Ladies Rooms before, usually with a drill and a minicam, but if I went in after her Fugly would undoubtedly see me. I was weighing my options when Fugly disappeared. I scanned the Square, I looked behind every trash can, fire hydrant and Labrador retriever but that fucking midget had vanished like a Murphy-Goode Social Media Consultant.

I casually walked over to the Ladies Room where I'd seen Veronica enter. I waited for the appropriate moment when no one was looking and I walked in. The stalls were emptier than Charlie Olken's arguments for the 100 point scale. Where the hell had Veronica gone? I don't mean where had she gone, I know where she peed, but where the hell was she? Now I'd lost her and the midget. I guess I'm not much of a tail. But maybe that comes from having a rather small coccyx.

"Hey, Hosefitter, you want to explain to me what you're doing in the Ladies Room?" It was Chief Jokes. This wasn't our first time together in a public toilet, we'd met at IHOP once, but that's another story.

"I'm looking for a client." Yeah, I know, that didn't come out right.

"Number one or number two?" I guess I had that coming.

"Were you following me, Jessica?"

"No, Hosepimple, don't flatter yourself. Even cops have to take a wiz now and then. Mind if I tinkle on the taxpayer's money?"

"You always do."

"Oh, in case you didn't know," Jessica said as she locked the door to her stall, "I'm going to take the M.S. exam next week."

What's the HoseMaster Drinking?

Ridge 2004 Grenache Lytton Estate California

I've been a member of Ridge's Advance Tasting Program (ATP) since Harvey Steiman was in diapers. So, like, five years. I am rarely disappointed by the ATP offerings, but I wasn't particularly thrilled with the 2004 Grenache from Lytton Estate. Maybe I just don't get what Ridge is trying to achieve with this wine. Hey, far be it from me to question anything that Paul Draper, Ridge's legendary winemaster, puts into a bottle. For my money, Mr. Draper is one of California's winemaking geniuses, and the rare one that isn't self-proclaimed. I'm not qualified to carry his spit bucket. But the '04 Grenache, just released, struck me as clumsy and awkwardly tannic. I've always found the great Grenaches in the world to be graceful and luscious, but this wine is about as graceful as J. Edgar Hoover in high heels. There's some dark fruit on the nose, heavyhanded American oak as well, with a brief burst of blueberries on the palate, which fade quickly into an overly tannic finish. I'm being a bit hard on this wine (hell, it was a bit hard on me) because I've come to expect much more from Ridge. And, like Lou Dobbs' bad toupee, I don't see it getting any better with time.


The HoseMaster Score 146,333 Points


Disclaimer: No animals were killed or injured in the writing of this review, except for the cow who gave its life so that I could narf a steak with the Grenache. Thanks, Bessie!

My Old Addiction

I have a confession to make. This won't be easy for me. But it's time I do something about my addiction. No, not that one. I'm not giving up my membership in the Panty of the Month Club. Not when I've finally made it to the Bob Hope level! Thongs for the Memories. No, I have a much worse addiction. And, so, inspired by my friend Tom Wark's struggles with smoking at Fermentation, I have decided once and for all to try to come to terms with my horrific and crippling addiction, an addiction that has turned my waking hours into a living Hell, an addiction that has consumed me, ruined my life. And perhaps talking about my sickening addiction will help others out there begin to confront their own demons, help them stop before it's too late, before their lives are as empty and wasted as mine has become. I don't know if I can succeed, if I can put my life back together, return to the happy life I once had before this catastrophic addiction, but I have to try. I just can't take it any more. It's driving me to an early grave.

I'm talking about my addiction to wine blogging.

Wow. It felt good to admit to it, this ugly secret I've been hiding. Like the vast majority of wine bloggers, I work in secret. Very few people know of my desperate plight, so few people witness the horror that is my wine blogging. Sitting at my computer late at night, alone, typing words and sentences that no one will ever read, no one but other wine blogging addicts, those other lost souls who feel the pathetic and relentless urge to spout their mindless opinions about wine as though someone, anyone, will listen or care. And, glory Hallelujah, maybe even Comment! It is a cavalcade of the hopeless.

I know what you other wine bloggers are thinking, what your delusional mind is telling you to believe. That it's just the HoseMaster's problem, it's not mine. He has a problem with wine blogging, that's obvious, hell, the asshole relentlessly rambles on and on with stupid opinions about wine, the 100 point scale, the wine business, Robert Parker (still dead), and Jancis Robinson's pouty breasts, but I'm nothing like him. Wake up, Mutants! Read the following symptoms of wine blogging addiction and see if you fit the descriptions.

Symptoms of Third Stage Wine Blogging Addiction

I've begun to fall back on topics that are hackneyed and utterly devoid of originality in order to post five days a week.

The need, the craving, to wine blog often leads to this kind of behavior. See Steve Heimoff's latest post about Chardonnay. Read it and see if your reaction isn't the only possible reaction, "Duh!" Steve! Get Help! This kind of crap does not bode well for your mental health.


I check my blog's hit counter twenty times a day hoping it will move past eight.

No one is reading your brilliance. No one. There are freaks out there who stumble across your wine blog because they've done a Google Search for "girls who spit," but, other than that, you have no followers. You imagine you do, you fantasize about long responses to the comments you're sure are going to come from admirers of your palate and wine acuity, but they don't exist. I'm talking to you Brix Chicks. No one reads you. You might as well be the ads on buses.

I spend hours every day posting comments on more successful wine blogs trying to capture more hits.

You know who you are, you find a way to comment on Fermentation, The Pour, Heimoff, all the top 10 blogs, even though your comments are nearly as stupid and unfathomable as the blog you write, hoping their readers will click on your link out of boredom. You heard me 1WineDude, get help! And you, Dylan, whatever your blog is, man, let it go, stop before it's too late, your name on a comment is the wine blog equivalent of Quaaludes, but with greater laxative effects.


I spend hours and hours writing tasting notes even though I've cribbed most of the descriptors from winery websites because I don't really have any experience with wine, but, hey, I'm entitled to my opinions and wineries should send me free samples.

The laboring over tasting notes is a sure sign of the wine blogging addiction. It is the equivalent of other emotional disorders and bizarre delusions like collecting gigantic balls of twine, or building replicas of venereal disease sufferers out of toothpicks, or liking cats. There are wine bloggers in this category too numerous to mention. Folks trying too hard, locked inside their horrible wine blog addiction, dedicated to their delusions. Which wine is best with what music. Might be interesting if it weren't so pathetic. And then there's the abomination known as Wine Blogging Wednesday--the monthly meeting of Wine Blog Abusers. It's like watching the Napa Valley Wine Train derail--funny, at first, until you think of the waste of life it entails. All of those who participate in Wine Blogging Wednesday need professional help. Say, an English grammar tutor. And the saddest case of all, the addicted Wine Blogger whose every post is an obvious cry for help, the 10 point scalemeister himself, Alder Yarrow of Vinography. A life wasted.


It's too late for Alder. I'm just praying it's not too late for me.

What's the HoseMaster Drinking?

Cep 2007 Pinot Noir Sonoma Coast


Here's the finest Pinot Noir in California for $25 or less. Well, that's not much of a recommendation when I think about it. What's the competition at that price point? It's like saying, "Here's the best steak dinner for under $20." So forget I said that. This is delicious, satisfying, gorgeous Pinot Noir. So don't ask what I peayed for it. It's produced by a prestigious Sonoma Coast winery that, for some bizarre marketing reason, doesn't want its name associated with Cep. So I've chosen to peay attention to their request and not divulge the winery. I have certainly had far more expensive Pinot Noirs that weren't this good. You don't always get what you peay for. "Cep" is French for root vine, which explains the label, which otherwise could be misconstrued as a divining rod. Which, I guess is what a vine root is, so maybe that's not misconstruing at all. The aroma is very feminine (by which I mean it would never agree to let me take it home unless I peayed for it), filled with red fruits, which, if you're going to hound me about it, reminded me of huckleberry. There's plenty of spicy notes, and just a tiny bit of earthiness, more mushroom than anything. But it completely overdelivers on the palate. It's just gorgeous wine, bright with acidity, not particularly tannic, not at all ponderous or overextracted; it delivers the delicacy and beauty of Pinot Noir in a beguilingly complex way. I still can't get over the price for a Pinot Noir of this quality.

The HoseMaster Score 702,006 Points

Disclaimer: Let me make it perfectly clear. I did not have sex with that woman.