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A HoseMaster of Wine Pulp Fiction Classic
Chapter 10 Queer Patterns
When you're a dick you can get put in some pretty crappy places. I wasn't that surprised that Tiny knew about the paper in my pooper, Tiny makes a living knowing everything, but when had it been put there without my knowing? It had to have been recently; I'd only just given myself my monthly prostate exam--I was a quart low, must be in need of a ring job. The only time that made sense was after Fugly the midget knocked me out in the Les Mars Hotel. But had Fugly done it? It was the nearest cavity for him, sure, but he'd have had to undo my pants, lower my Depends, slip off the fishnet stockings, remove my sheer black nylon panties, push aside my thong, insert the note, then put it all back before I came to. And midgets have a notorious fear of Depends, for obvious reasons.I carefully unfolded the note that had previously been residing in my ex-wives' Divorce Lawyers Hospitality Suite. It contained a simple message. I'd halfway hoped for a fortune, you know, like "Hey, it's dark in here," or "If you can read this you're following too close." But all it said was, "Here's your M.S. certificate, Shithead!" I wondered what that was about. And then suddenly I knew.
I left Tiny still scrounging for foie gras in the Cyrus dumpster and headed over to the Healdsburg Coroner's Office where Lorna and Veronica's sister should be dressing up the slabs by now. Healdsburg doesn't see a lot of murders, not usually anyway, yet the town has a Medical Examiner. Medical Examiner isn't her full-time job, by day she's a butcher at Big John's market. Stuffs a mean pork loin. Her name is Avril Cadavril.
Avril was getting ready to examine Veronica's sister. Maybe it's me, but drawing those lines all over her and labeling the different cuts seemed a little cold. I will admit, the chuck looked pretty good though, worth way more than two bucks. "Hello, Avril, is that the girl from the Hotel Healdsburg?""Yup," Avril responded. I'd sort of forgotten how unattractive Avril was. Two hundred pounds of sausage stuffed into one casing. But years of being a butcher, having more blood on your hands than Donald Rumsfeld, will take their toll. But, I guess, she knew the steaks when she took the job."Have you checked her anus yet?" This is what life comes down to. The joy of childhood turns to the acne-covered ache of adolescence followed by the uncertainties and badly chosen sexual adventures of young adulthood which finally lead to following a real passion--wine; you follow that passion to a small town in wine country thinking you'll finally realize part of your dreams and you end up an illustrated meat dummy with a dick standing over you asking, "Have you checked her anus yet?" God's great plan."No, Hosemaster, I haven't. You're the only asshole I've looked at all day."
I slipped on a pair of surgical gloves, quickly put my hands to my ears, fingers splayed, and said in my best Bullwinkle voice, "Watch me pull a rabbit out of my hat!" and gently explored Veronica's sister's Alaskan pipeline. Sure enough, there was a slip of paper.
"Well," I said to Avril, "look what I found."
"Inspected by No. 28?" Hey, it was a butcher joke.
"Not exactly. But, you know, Avril, I'm just trying to help you not be so behind in your work." The paper read exactly like the one that had been put into my Wine Spectator office, "Here's your M.S. certificate, shithead!"
"What do you suppose that means?" Avril asked me.
"Don't know, babe, but I'll do the suppositorying around here, if you don't mind. Where's the other woman's body, the one from Les Mars?"
"Sure," said Avril, "now I guess women are from Les Mars and men are from Anus. She's over here."
Avril walked over to an adjacent gurney and removed the white sheet that was covering Lorna like she was a Forest Lawn toreador and I was an adoring crowd. "Did you check her anus?"
This is what life comes down to. The wonder of childhood turns to the weekly beatings of adolescence followed by the wearing of women's undergarments in young adulthood which finally lead to discovering the joy of substance abuse--wine; you follow that passion to a hick town in wine country only to end up covered in a white tablecloth on a gurney with a dick standing over you asking, "Did you check her anus?" Praise the Lord.
I already knew the answer by the way Avril was staring at me, like she was a brand new shoe and I was a great big turd. I carefully turned Lorna on her side and began to check her Nigerian hijacker runway. As I felt around for the expected Surprise in Every Backdoor Box, the door to the morgue suddenly opened, and when I looked over my shoulder to see who it was I was shocked to see Veronica and Jessica bursting in. Thank goodness they hadn't arrived a few minutes sooner when I was paying a booty call on Veronica's sister.
"What the hell do you think you're doing, Hoseprober?"
"Looking for clues, Jessica. I think I've found something."
"What? Your breath mints?"
"No, Chief," I said as I removed the expected slip of paper from Lorna's Year End Review of Wines, "this." I unfolded the note. But, to my surprise, it didn't say "Here's your M.S. Certificate, shithead." The look on my face got Jessica's attention. I'd gone as white as a picture of wine judges.
I handed the paper to Jessica. "'You're next, HoseMaster,'" she read, "'unless you keep your nose out of strange bungholes.' What's this about, Hosepucker?"
I was about to tell her when Veronica screamed. I hadn't heard a scream like that since the last time I'd has sex with Avril. A loud, piercing, girly scream. Avril looked at me. She remembered when I'd screamed like that.
"What, Veronica," Jessica asked, grabbing Veronica by her shoulders and holding her tightly to her chest, turning her head away from the gorgeous dead girls, "what is it?"
Veronica was crying maniacally, gasping for breath, but she managed to point at Lorna, lying there so peacefully, my bad fortune cookie, my Pez dispenser of Death, and say, "She's my sister!"
I stumbled on to a wine blog a few days ago, DrinkWhatYouLike.com, and the author of the blog mentioned that one of his goals for 2010 was to meet the HoseMaster. Wow. Here's a guy seriously in need of a psychological evaluation. Of course, two of his other goals were to learn to stay inside the lines in his coloring books, and to learn to say "Gewurztraminer" through his sphincter. I wish him luck with all three. Though you might start with "Falanghina," should be a little easier.
But his delusional post got me to thinking. As did a comment by Charlie Olken on this blog to the effect that he'd like to see my list of the people I'd like to have a drink with in 2010, from a play by Tom Wark. Note to people who don't otherwise read wine blogs: Charlie Olken and Tom Wark are imaginary characters I created for HoseMaster of Wine, and bear no resemblance to actual human beings. And, well, since ideas are not something I am much given to, though I can say "Smaragd" with my armpit, I thought, what the hell. Here is my short list of people I'd like to meet in 2010.
Dottie and John
I know, I know, who wouldn't want to meet the folksy and charming couple who used to write a wine column for "The Wall Street Journal?" They created their own dream job, writing a column about wine to pay for their drinking habits without knowing anything about wine. This is brilliant. I wonder if I could get "The Economist" to pay me to write a column about candy. I love candy. I've tasted lots of candy. I have an awful lot to say about candy, and I can do it in a friendly and heartwarming style. And then I could go out and buy all the candy I want and "The Economist" would pay for it, and I'd start an "Eat that Dessert Day!," and I'd be on "Oprah" (which is different than being on Oprah, which is what cellulite does) and you wouldn't be able to look at a Tootsie Roll without thinking about me (of course, you probably can't do that now). It worked for Dottie and John! Why not me? The other thing I admire about Dottie and John is that they had the common sense to get the hell out of the print wine reviewing business before the whole thing starts to stink like your mother's chipped beef on toast left outside by the pool for a week, which is no doubt going to happen the minute Robert Parker dies, or 2009, whichever comes first. And, a bit of a warning, John, I wouldn't leave me and Dottie alone for very long...
Plus, I can't wait to say, "See ya later, Dottie Gaiter!"
Rachel Alexandra
Jess "Huckleberry" Jackson's fabulous four-legged sensation is the filly I'd most like to meet in a wine bar in Sonoma. OK, she's underage, but I've seen her teeth, she looks older. What a babe! Huckleberry isn't just a guy with the rare gift of being able to buy mediocre wineries and then magically transform them into genuinely worthless brands, the guy can sure pick horses! And when he purchased the sexy Rachel Alexandra (after a couple of cocktails I hope to be calling her "Rach") right before the Preakness and had the sense to have Hardy Wallace mount her (but, luckily, not be the jockey), well, is it any wonder Rach is leading candidate for Horse of the Year? And, really, who would you rather meet, Time Magazine's Person of the Year Ben Bernanke or Horse of the Year Rachel Alexandra? My thought is, if you're gonna meet a horse's ass, just meet an entire horse.
Dick Cheney
I love Dick Cheney. I love how he fights crime and all the bad guys in the world--Mumbles, Flattop Jones, Pruneface...hell, the whole Bush Cabinet. And the cool 2-way wrist radio, so people can listen to you jerking off. I love Dick Cheney! Oh. I guess I'm thinking of Dick Tracy. Never mind. Who wants to have drinks with Dick Cheney? What does he drink, sneer and tonic? And he'd probably accidentally shoot you afterward. And call you a pansy. And send your kid off to fight in a senseless war. Not my idea of a good time. Forget I even brought him up. Is he dead yet?
Ron Popeil
I always think, what if Ron Popeil had turned his genius to wine? Why didn't he? The guy comes up with Pocket Fisherman and Spray On Hair (which, by the way, looks great on the rainbow trout you've caught with Pocket Fisherman) and, of course, Veg-O-Matic, what might have he invented had he tackled the wine industry? Though I think they did use Veg-O-Matic for Santa Barbara County Cabernet once upon a time. Maybe he would have invented Pocket Port Tongs that you can heat up in one of his rotisseries. Or a Ginzu corkscrew that even goes through a Stelvin and never dulls! But wait, there's more! If you order now you'll receive this handy Magic 8-Ball Point Generator! Just ask the Magic 8-Ball what score your 2005 Opus One deserves, flip it over, and, magically, it displays the proper score in its window! 84! And it's never wrong! It's exactly how the major critics do it! What would you pay for this? $50? $75? If you call in the next fifteen minutes, it's only $19.99 plus shipping and handling! Operators are standing by!
Aside from these five, there are many others I'd love to meet. Among them:
Robert Mondavi, this just in, still dead. But I'm patient. We'll have hot toddies. Very hot.
Osama bin Laden, still living in a cave, but recent intelligence suggests it's at Jarvis.
Stephen Hawking, love him in "Glee." Want to confirm that he's a Muppet.
The wine business lost a lot of very important people in 2009. OK, they weren't lost, they died. Why do we always say "lost" when they aren't lost at all? We know exactly where they are. Rotting in Hell with all the other inebriates. OK, let's start over. A lot of very important people in the wine business died in 2009. Many were overlooked by the vast majority of the wine-drinking public, but not here at HoseMaster of Wine. You know, my favorite part of the Academy Awards is the Death Montage--the morgue the merrier! So here's a brief rundown of those in the wine business who were bulked out in 2009.
D.B. Cooper (1932-2009)
When you talk to the best winemakers in California and ask them who made the finest barrels, the name that jumps to their lips is usually D.B. Cooper. After a long battle with termites, Cooper could no longer stave off death. Cooper was eulogized by Michael Jordan as "a fellow king of hoops who knew how to perform under fire." Not that Michael Jordan. Cooper turned out perfect barrel after perfect barrel in a world filled with cheap junk foudre. He was our barrique Obama.
Michel Rolland (1947-2009)
The wine world lost its most famous consultant in 2009, Michel Rolland. Michel consulted for over 30,000 wineries worldwide, most notably Chateau C'estmoulle-Plonque in Bordeaux and Blankcheckiet Estate in Napa Valley. In his prime, Rolland commanded as much as $25,000 for fifteen minutes of his time, a salary that placed him right up there with Bill Clinton, Heidi Fleiss and Sarah Palin's speech therapist. He was widely condemned for his contributions to the globalization of wine, though astute tasters could tell the differences between his wines by reading the labels. Rolland was responsible for countless 100 point wines, none of which any of you will ever taste, so stop your whining and go back to your crappy 92 point wines and feel miserable--100 point wines are too good for you and you know it. Rolland was killed in a freak hyperbaric chamber accident where he was micro-oxygenated.
Ann O'Smia (1953-2009)
Ann O'Smia was one of the country's leading wine critics in her role as chief wine reviewer for the prestigious publication "Wine Extortionist." Ann is credited with creating the subtle form of magazine blackmail that asks wineries to pay to have their labels displayed next to their reviews. When that was a success, Ann cleverly asked that wineries pay "Wine Extortionist" not to 
publish lousy reviews of their wines. If a winery made horrible wine after horrible wine they were required to place a full-page ad. This practice continues today in every major wine publication--the full-page ad a sure sign that the winery produces crap. Ann's innovations made "Wine Extortionist" the most successful magazine of its era, and Ann its most powerful critic. It was said a bad review in "Wine Spectator" could cost you hundreds of cases of sales, but a bad review in "Wine Extortionist" only 75 bucks; and a great review in "Wine Spectator" cost you the respect of your peers, but a great review in "Wine Extortionist" only 75 bucks. Ann was killed in a rear-end collision with Marvin Shanken--no cars were involved. Ann in her usual tasting mode, wine contortionist.
And, happily, several bloggers died this past year, among them:
Hardy Stew, 45, whose blog about how wine affected his personal life, CirrhosisoftheLover, was the first to combine wine reviews with stories of his struggles with impotence. Though his blog was very popular, he struggled every day with getting it up.
Gary Vainasfuck, 48, of WineLiberryTV, whose illiterate and thoughtless ramblings about wine on his creepy video blog captured the imaginations of pathetic losers everywhere. Gary inspired an entire generation of wine drinkers to believe they too could be wine experts without knowing a single solitary thing about the subject. His death leaves no void.
HoseMaster of Wine, 57, from complications.
I'm seriously suffering from a nasty case of Holiday Hangover. I am so glad that the Holidays are over, the relentless thrum of Christmas and the false cheer of New Year's Eve. I'm starting to think Dick Clark is the perfect host for a New Year's Eve party. Aside from the fact that he gives new meaning to the phrase "stroke of midnight," that partial paralysis is exactly what I feel after all the celebrations, insipid Top Ten lists and obituary recaps. Just the thought of doing HoseMaster of Wine for another 12 months makes me nauseous, like I've just digested another post at Dr. Vino without proper sedation. Much of the discomfort I'm feeling is just post-Holiday melancholy. I wonder why I bother to continue writing my corrosive and largely ignored blog. What is it that drives me to sit down in front of a blank computer screen and try to come up with something halfway original several times a week? Why don't I just give in and be like most bloggers? Recycle winery press announcements like a brainless tool, review wines no one cares about in the least except the marketing cannibals that sent the free samples, spend most of my time commenting on other blogs in the vain hope that their readers will check out my blog and find out how fascinating and insightful my borrowed opinions are? (Give it up Nectarwine, your comments, like your blog, leave one yearning for less.) Why write original material when there's a world of pre-fab wine ideas to pretend are my own? Pride? Nah. You can't be the HoseMaster and have any kind of pride.
There is a constant drumbeat of criticism of California wines that goes, "California wines are too sweet and fruity while European wines are just right, and better with food." I won't debate that here. But my opinion is that if anything is too sweet, too sickeningly cloying, too much like saccharine, it's the vast majority of wine blogs. Ugh, they're sweeter than an episode of "Barney," and less articulate. I wonder if French wine blogs are as noticeably sweet, so incredibly simple. Perhaps I don't have an American wine blog palate, but taking in seven or eight of these blogs every day is certain to leave you in a diabetic coma that would make Aretha Franklin jealous. The complaint against sugar is that it leaves your senses dull, deadens the palate. Well, suck on a dozen wine blogs and try not to end up like Ariel Sharon. You might as well treat your senses to endless repeats of "The Ellen DeGeneres Show"--you know Ellen, right, the flat-chested Mike Douglas? Wine blogs are filled with sweetness, way past the threshold of human endurance. Reading wine blogs is like watching the goddam Rose Parade--a succession of giant, lavishly decorated, self-important, artificially sweet, slow-moving creations that vanish from your memory the minute they turn onto Colorado Boulevard. Luckily.
Is it that new wine bloggers, eager to be read, be successful, emulate the most successful wine blogs and that's why most of them are about as entertaining as celery? Try this some time, read them aloud, see if they sound interesting then, or if they don't sound more like infomercials for stuff that is but days away from being landfill. Really, try this. Do it in your best voice, try it with a comic edge, hitting the punch lines with emphasis, selling the verbiage in your most professional reading voice. They are woefully dull, as if you're attending a reading of Henry James in Esperanto. Drives me nuts. And then a new blog appears and it's the same thing, only now it's Henry James in Navajo.
And, of course, now it's all about video podcasts, a la Gary Vaynerchuk. I don't know Gary Vaynerchuk, I've only viewed one or two of his podcasts, but the guy has singlehandedly put a stink on the whole wine business with his idiotic behavior, rudeness, insipid wine descriptions and all-star tribute to Mammon. But he's successful! Like Howard Stern and the guys who make Jackass movies! So let's give him awards, Wine Enthusiast! Glorify this kind of behavior! Why, it's bringing the masses to wine, educating them so that they can go out and know how to behave when it comes to tasting wine! And, hell, maybe if we hitch our minor league magazine to his star we can grab some of his audience! Dignity apparently died with Robert Mondavi.
But at least Gary has some presence, albeit obnoxious, on camera. All the newer wine video blogs, well, let's just say most of them validate why the United States doesn't allow prison executions to be televised. Watching people taste wine and then extemporize about it is about as interesting as listening to someone do a crossword puzzle. "Oh, what's a four letter word for what my opinion's worth? Starts with an 'S' and ends with a 'T.'" I do love the cheap sets however. Always makes me feel like I'm right there with them in the motel where they're hiding from the personality police.
Well, like I said, I guess the Holidays put me in a bad mood. Sorry. Forget what I just said. It's the morphine talking.
A HoseMaster of Wine Pulp Fiction Classic
Chapter 9 Losers Live Longer
When you're a dick things often get sticky. I'm not comfortable around women crying, it makes my scalp itch and my fingers long for the feel of a throat. Veronica had become hysterical at the sight of her sister dead in the tub. Her sobbing had triggered the same in Jessica and it sounded like a reunion of Charlie Sheen ex-wives in the room. I'd had enough. I needed to start pounding the mean streets of Healdsburg. OK, they're not so much mean as they are sassy. I needed to start flatfooting the sassy streets of my town searching for the midget, or for Veronica's friends, or maybe for a reason to keep doing this stupid job. Seeing two lives cut short in their prime was a reminder, a reminder that none of us knows when we'll take our last breath, that our lives, no matter how miserable, no matter how low we've sunk, whether pedophile or wine blogger, have value. OK, wine bloggers not so much. When are they going to make them register so you know when one moves in next door to you?
I left Jessica and Veronica in the room with the sommelier float, hold the ice cream, and decided it was time to pay a visit to the M.S. bigwigs. I knew they were in town, but I wasn't sure where they were staying. Somewhere cheap. Those guys spend money like it's First Growth Bordeaux--only after they've kept it for 50 years. More than likely they were staying somewhere for free, a winery, or one of Huckleberry Jackson's guest houses. They'd be there a week and you'd have to use a pressure hose to get the smell of smarmy off the walls. I had no idea where the M.S. thugs were hanging their fake credibility for a week, but I knew someone who would--Tiny. Nothing happens in Healdsburg that Tiny doesn't know about. Tiny was the publisher and gossip columnist for our local rag, the Healdsburg Herald-Flatulence, and I knew where he was most likely to be. Dumpster diving behind Cyrus.
Sure enough, Tiny, all 550 pounds of him, was shoulder deep in the dumpster behind Cyrus, Healdsburg's finest restaurant, proud recipient of two Michelin puffs. I'd met those two puffs at the bar in Cyrus, oddly enough, but that's another story. I greeted Tiny with our usual salutation.
"Hey, Tiny, what's shakin', aside from your proctologist?"
"Don't bother me now, HoseMaster," Tiny replied, "I'm getting my prix fix."
"I've just got one question for you, Tiny. Where are those M.S. clowns staying?"
"Oh, I heard you were looking for them. This have something to do with that dead babe they found like residual sugar in Zinfandel? You know, sweet but pruney."
"No, no, I just want to talk to them about getting a client of mine into their exams."
"What client? You mean that gorgeous blonde that was in your office this morning? Man, HoseMaster, she was stacked like the barrel room at Clos du Bois."
"Look, Tiny, all I want from you is where those chumps are staying. Do you know or don't you?"
"Oh, man, caviar!" Tiny lived for these gourmet moments. When I'd first met him he was rather svelte. Now he was so big he couldn't fit through the front door of his apartment. What he really needed was to lose a lot of weight, and soon, or he'd lose everything, his job, his reputation, his thong, and then losing the pounds wouldn't help, it would just make him a homeless svelter. He was devouring the caviar rapaciously; then he quickly spat it out. "Nah, that's not caviar. Mouse turds. Though they do taste of the ocean."
I was getting the feeling that Tiny didn't want to tell me where the M.S.-creants were residing. "Come on, Tiny, I don't have all day. I need to ask those guys some questions."
"Just leave it alone, HoseMaster. Don't forget, losers live longer."
"What's that supposed to mean? I'm not going to leave anything alone. I'm already in this up to my nozzle. You know, this whole thing has started to stink, Tiny, and I'm beginning to think you know something about it. Now, are you going to tell me where they are, or aren't you?"
"OK, sure, HoseMaster, I'll tell you where to look. It's somewhere dark and humid, a place a lot of wine has passed through, a lonely place no one would ever want to explore."
"They're staying in the wine caves at Bella?"
"No," Tiny said, returning to his foraging. "Bend over, shine a flashlight up your ass, maybe they're staying there."
I looked. They weren't. But I wouldn't have been surprised. There was something else up there though. A note, folded and neatly inserted. Great, I thought, just perfect, story of my life. Other guys find a mysterious message in a bottle, I get a message in a butthole.
