I'm Off to A Big S.H.I.T. Event

I'm off to Northern Italy for the "Where did Teroldego?" event put on by the Sustainable Heroes of Italian Teroldego. This is a new organization to me. Frankly, I don't know S.H.I.T. However, in my capacity as one of the finest wine bloggers on the planet I am invited to countless wine festivals and events all over the world. It's not easy to choose which events to attend. But I have come up with a solution. I attend the ones that pay the most money for me to show up. No, they don't give me cash. But it costs them quite a bit to cover my airfare, hotel, gambling addiction, propensity for hookers (though I do prefer the cheapest ones, if only to educate my olfactory buds) and laundry. You'd think this would guarantee my praise of their wines. You'd be right. Except if I go and there's an actual wine expert there, then I just parrot his opinions. I mean, come on, let's face it, no one's heard of Teroldego. I thought it was the island next to Trinidad. Turns out I won't need my snorkel. Except for the cheap hookers.


Yes, I am going on a junket, though they told me I was taking a plane. Aren't junkets those slow Chinese boats? No? Oh. I'm going on the S.H.I.T press junket, though I'm about as much a member of the press as Octomom is a member of the human race. I looked it up, like I had to for Teroldego, and the word "junket" comes from the Old English for a reed basket that was used to carry fish. So now I know why I was invited along with all the other bloggers. I'm a widemouth basshole.


The S.H.I.T. producers are anxious for their wines to gain further exposure. So they asked around about who the most influential writers are on the Internet. None of them were the least bit interested, so they asked a bunch of bloggers to visit them and taste and write about their wines. They'd already booked the hotel anyway. It will be a crash course in Teroldego for us, and a good dose of American ignorance for them. I'm excited to learn all about this mysterious grape. I'll be one grape closer to joining the Wine Century Club! It's long been my goal to taste more grape varieties made into wine than I have IQ points, and now that I'm up to 45, I'm but 7 grapes away from my goal! And if there's a Teroldego Gris, which you'd think there would have to be, I'll be even closer.


This wine journalism thing is really cool. I went out and got a WSET credential (Wine Studyin' and Elevator Training), a CSW (Certified Sycophant in Wine), and passed my First Level of the M.S. Exam (Fun With Corks--How to Look Like A Walrus), so I qualified to have my own blog filled with opinions and facts I made up on the spot. Now here's the really cool part. Turns out you don't have to go to school to get a journalism degree! Who knew? No, it turns out that if you type, you're a journalist. This explains a lot. Like Alice Feiring and Tim Fish (hey, no wonder he gets so many junkets, he's a fucking Fish!) and Leslie Sbrocco. So, look at me, I'm a wine journalist. I'm going to Northern Italy. Which is right next to Trinidad, I'm pretty sure.


Look for my daily reports about my trip. You'll be able to live vicariously through my crappy photography and tales of fascinating seminars I'll be nursing my hangovers through. I know one thing. Those Teroldego guys better not be using a lot of oak on their wines. If there's one thing I know, it's too many wines in the world use too much oak, and I'm not afraid to point it out. That's just me, I have one opinion and I never get tired of it. Just because you've produced a wine from your family's vineyards for seven generations, that doesn't mean I can't teach you a thing or two. I'm not just going to roll over and say nice things about your Teroldegos because you invited me on a press fish basket. No, I'm going to be critical, I'm going to educate you about wine bloggers. We're not to be trifled with. We don't get rich writing a wine blog. We do it for passion, we do it for our twenty-five regular readers, we do it because our voices need to be heard. We do it as a way of learning more and more about our favorite subject--ourselves. We do it to learn about wine, there is so much I don't know. For example, I don't know S.H.I.T.

A Tea Party of Wineabees

"The Wine Blog Awards judging is almost done. Yes, we had originally planned to have the judging complete by now with the public voting to be opened this Monday, May 17. However, the task blossomed a bit this year: more categories, more nominations, and more judges. Each judge has to sift through many, many blogs and we are waiting for data back from only a couple judges."--Wine Blog Awards Website



I'm sorry. It's my fault. I probably never should have agreed to do it. But I thought it would be fun. I thought it would be interesting. I'd spend long, contemplative Spring afternoons lost in a world of wine and language, savor the wisdom and knowledge of thoughtful and insightful people. I thought it would be hard because there would be this wealth of talent that I would have to whittle down to a mere five nominations per category, but that it would be a good kind of hard, like the New York Times crossword puzzle or a 57-year-old's morning erection. But now the nightmares won't stop. I'm afraid to fall asleep. My waking life has become unbearable. And the voices...My God, the voices won't stop. So many voices, so little to say. Make them stop! Please, for the love of Asimov, make them stop!


Sometimes I think it's the couples wine blogs that haunt me the most. "He loves wine, she loves fashion.." AAAAAARRGGHHH!! Somebody stop them! We don't care! You can't make us care. Your lives aren't interesting. I don't have any idea who told you they are, maybe your high school guidance counselor when you were twenty-five, but, believe me, they're not. And the pictures, the endless pictures, the endless fashion pictures, if you're idea of fashion is early Knott's Berry Farm, it's just more than I can bear. It's not a wine blog, it's Vanity Fair for female serial killers mixed with wine opinions for the addlepated. But they're not the only ones. Is this some sort of new advice couples therapists are dispensing to troubled marriages? Start a wine blog together! "She's a wine expert, he just loves the smell of jockstraps, won't it be fun to follow along as she teaches him to love wine!" NOOO! It won't. It's a nightmare. Teach him in private. Really. We don't want to read about it. Write a blog about him teaching you about something, humility maybe, and leave us alone. Oh God, my head...


I see these Wineabees everywhere. There was a time, back in the golden days of civilization, before the Internet, when people learned about wine quietly, by reading books, by traveling, by attending tastings. They didn't proclaim their ignorance for everyone to read. They didn't form big bands of wine ignorants and endlessly praise each other. "Great post, Thea! Hope to see you at the Wines of Trannies event in the City. Can't wait for those Post-Op Pinots. You rock!" "Great post, Sonadora! I love everything you write. You taste the cheapest wines! You rock!" I've had to read through these blogs and I can't get the voices out of my head. I didn't sign up for this. I hear hundreds of these voices, but they all sound the same. I walk down the street and I hear a sad little voice say, "...comes with a natural cork closure..." and I want to jump off the curb in front of a truck. Did Hugh Johnson ever utter the words, "comes with a natural cork closure?" Has Jancis Robinson ever declared, "This Sancerre would go perfectly with the latest Lady GaGa release?" Did Gerald Asher ever devote 1000 words to what wine goes with Hostess Ho-Ho's? I read through dozens of wine blogs and now there's this constant drone in my head, the kind of drone that goes with brain cells not dying, but committing ritual suicide.


So I thought I'd try a site that sounded like it might be porn. You know, NectarDrinker.com, or something like that. That sounded promisingly sick. But, no, it's not, it's just more of the same dreck. Only this guy, this guy is like the kid who was hit in the hammer by his weird uncle when he was seven and now he goes up to everyone he meets and says, "You're really pretty," and a wet stain develops in his pants, which is only a sign of freshness in baked goods. He just goes to every wine blog and comments, "You're really pretty. I love your blog." And he wants to be Gary V., models himself after the one guy who's living proof that Darwin was right except he should have said "descended" not "ascended." This NectarDrinker wants to package himself. I'm all for that, so long as it's in an airtight package.


It's just that these voices won't stop. The constant whine of the untalented, the voices of the democratization of wine. I hear them nonstop, I can't get them out of my head after sifting through all that tedious prose, those mind-numbing wine descriptions, the incessant noise of their rallying around each other proclaiming their God-given rights to express themselves and their uninformed and dull opinions, a Tea Party of Wineabees drowning us in their witless prose and borrowed opinions. Those voices haunt me. What happens to wine when everyone's an expert, when everyone's voice is heard? I don't know. I can't hear anything amid all the clamor. I can only hear the corporate marketing people laughing.


Oh, the Tea Party of Wineabees declares, if you don't like it, don't read it! We can do what we like. Just don't read our wine blogs. We like what we do, and we like what our friends do, we don't need you, we don't need your scorn or criticism. And, like any respectable Tea Party, on the face of it they have a point. For what's American about criticism? The Internet, wine blogs, they're not about criticism. Criticism is Socialist. The hierarchy is clear and only a fool tries to buck the system--opinion first, facts a distant second, talent just now turning for home. The Tea Party of Wineabees is untouchable and right and we value only the first and foremost of the Internet hierarchy. And we are legion. You have seen the future and it is mediocrity, and you'd better learn to accept it. The old status quo has to go. The hell with them. It's our turn now. Some people like to stand on the shoulders of giants, we prefer to be the midgets who use the giants' genitalia as a speedbag.


Sorry. The voices are getting to me. I've tried to read through all the nominated wine blogs; God knows I've tried. I even read the ones who nominated themselves, the hammerheads who look in the mirror and say, "You're so pretty" to themselves. But the voices only get louder and louder and I fear I'm losing my mind. But I hang on, I hang on knowing that wine blogs, like so many dwarves, won't live long. The voices will finally fade. And all that will be left is just the abandoned sites, like so many strip mines that have polluted the landscape and poisoned the people nearby.


Good Luck with the Wine Blog Awards, Everybody!!

The Teachings of Don Jon, Master Shaman

I first met the old Don Jon, Master Shaman (M.S.) and former host of several rare parasites, of the great Taqui Nation, at a bus stop in Lodi. I was there while in a witness protection program having successfully testified against Lorena Bobbitt in the famous Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contest controversy, which I'd done with relish, which is more than you can say for her. Don Jon took one look at me and seemed to peer into my soul, which is when he removed my watch and wallet. A friendship was born, and it was through Don Jon that I discovered the Road to Wine Enlightenment and became a Wine Warrior. Don Jon was the Wine Road Runner, and I was his Wile E. Peyote.

The Taqui Nation is the guardian of all wine knowledge, and has been since Jerry Mead went to the great Wine Pow-Wow in Poway, which is where Taqui believe all wine warriors go when death claims them. They believe there are only a few certain wine deaths--cirrhosis, poor storage, and being floor-stacked at Trader Joe's (Trader Joe was one-sixteenth Taqui, though his eponymous stores couldn't be Taquier). The Master Shamans of the Taqui are the teachers and mentors of all who desire to walk the Road to Wine Enlightenment. It is only because Don Jon saw in me a true Wine Warrior, a man of the vine, a wine lover gifted with pure vision, that he accepted me as one of his students. That, and I blackmailed him for having stolen my wallet.

I was to become a Master Shaman myself, versed in the Taqui lore of wine and tested over and over again by my mentor, Don Jon. But it was a difficult journey, one where I was forced to drop my foolish notions of reality, like wine blogs matter, and see the wine world in the way of the Taqui. So much of the wisdom of Don Jon has been lost. So often I was in an altered state of consciousness, an alternate universe, which was a lot like French Laundry only the service wasn't as good, though it was equally hard to get a reservation, and never on a Saturday, unless you're blowing a sommelier, even for a Taqui, who'd been raised on a reservation. My notes from those sessions are indecipherable, like an Alice Feiring blog post. But I did manage to record some thoughts from Don Jon about the Road to Wine Enlightenment. It all begins when you accept that everything you've read and heard about wine is a reality that does not exist. Especially in the Wall Street Journal.


"The first thing you have to accept is that all paths lead to the same place. Nowhere. All wine knowledge is passed along to you in order to get you Nowhere fast. And then it is your path to continue to spread that knowledge so that others can get Nowhere. This is the point of all great wine books, and the point of all wine classes and wine blogs, to lead you by the hand, one incorrect thought at a time, to your final destination in wine knowledge. Nowhere. It is only once you have reached Nowhere that wine enlightenment will be yours. For wine is everywhere and yet Nowhere, like the Jonas Brothers, those douchebags."


"Every opinion, everything anyone tells you about wine, even a Shaman, is subjective. Except your own opinions, which are always objective. The Wine Warrior does not suffer disagreement from others. That is not the path to Wine Enlightenment. The Wine Warrior has one foot in the world of fools and sommeliers, though they are equivalent, and one foot in the alternate world which is true Wine Enlightenment. He is the bridge to Enlightenment, though many are more like dark chocolate tunnels. The Wine Warrior has seen Nowhere, and it is being a Las Vegas sommelier. The Wine Warrior states his opinions about wine, about winemaking, about the culture of wine, and he is always correct. Others do not matter, they are but pustules on a Taqui butt, irritating and full of pus. This is the Road to Wine Enlightenment, the denial of others thoughts and opinions. Your opinions are sacred, your credentials impeccable, those who disagree are hopelessly lost in a reality they cannot see is mistaken and their comments should be ignored. This is the Taqui way. You are an M.S., others are simply stupid. And stop Bogarting the peyote."


"All wine is natural wine. Unless it is Meritage; then it's decidedly perverted. The Wine Warrior does not fall for the notion of natural wine, a notion promoted by women who want their wines untouched but their makeup and hair dye tested on the Lepus tribe. Wine is for man and should be controlled by man. Man is wiser than yeast, though he doesn't smell as good after a long hot day eating. The Road to Wine Enlightenment does not go through the land of Wine Superstition. These are beliefs meant for knaves and boneheads who believe Nature is always best. I ask you, if Nature were always best would we need personal vibrators? The belief that you can tell a natural wine from another wine is simple hubris, foolish self-deceit, a kind of willing idiocy. Natural wines do not have a different 'energy,' a higher quality, more 'complexity,' this is ancient human self-loathing in a New Age package. The Wine Warriors, the Enlightened Ones, do not believe this for a minute. Great wines are like great men, they are a product of thought and work, not left to grow by their own whims. Natural wines are not better than other wines, they just come with more solemn and holier-than-thou baggage. The Road to Wine Enlightenment does not have a natural wine offramp. Hey, was that you? Sheesh, get some Beano."


There is more, so much more, on the Road to Wine Enlightenment, the Road to Nowhere. Perhaps the Master Shaman will return...

Waiting for Gallo

Hello
Hey
What are you doing?
I'm sleeping, what does it look like I'm doing?
Playing with yourself
Oh, that. I was just thinking about somebody
Yeah? Who?
My wife
You're married to Oprah?
Who are you?
Who do I look like?
Well, honestly, you kind of look like Ernest Gallo
No, I look exactly like Ernest Gallo. Funny, huh?!
So you're Ernest Gallo, in my bedroom, in the middle of the night
Yeah, funny, right?
Aren't you dead?
I'm not dead. Ernest Gallo is dead. I just look like him, I'm not him
Will you just leave me alone?
Until you're finished with Oprah?
I was just about to slip her one of Her Favorite Things
The short version
Hey
OK, look, I just came here to tell you that they're all just fine
Who?
Who? Who? Fuck, you're stupid. John, your Mom, Josephine, Lucy
Lucy was my dog
Yes, I know. They're all fine
They're all dead
OK, I read your blog, I know you say nothing but stupid things, mostly for the attention, attention your favorite tiny thing doesn't get you, but, really, now you're getting into a whole other level of stupid, a far deeper stupid, Gary V. stupid, Gruner Veltliner stupid--hey, ever notice I gave them the same initials? after all, they're both tasteless and a waste of time--even
Sarah Palin stupid. Yes, they're all dead and I'm here to tell you that you don't need to worry about them, they're all fine
Couldn't you have come as Sasha Grey or Sasheen Littlefeather or Little Richard?
Ernest Gallo is funnier
OK, thanks, I'm glad to hear John is OK. He just died last Thursday. It's good to hear he's fine, and Mom and Josie. And Lucy
Lucy always dig holes everywhere?
She got it from me
Figures
OK, can I go back to sleep now?
I'm here, talking directly to you, you can ask me anything you want to know, and you just want to go back to bangin' Oprah?
She's the queen of daytime television
Fine. I'm outta here
No, wait, maybe I do have some questions for you
Shoot
What do you think about wine blogging?
Oy. OK, between you and me, I'm thinking of putting a stop to it
Really? Why?
Listen, wine is one of my favorite things--fucking Oprah--I mean wine is something I truly love, one of my most inspired creations. It's ingenious! And I give it to you bozos and you ruin it with all your talk, all your endless and uninspired chatter. You all think you discovered the truth about wine! Wine has been around for thousands of years, hell, I taught my stupid Son to make it, though he added too much water, a lot like those extracted Pinot Noirs they're making in California now that Robert Parker loves--by the way, have you seen him? I know he's dead, but I haven't seen him. I think he may have gone to Hell, which is basically right around Yountville--anyway, your stupid wine blogs preach about wine, "educate" people about wine, follow you on your idiotic "journeys" to discover wine and basically ruin the whole Gallodam thing for everyone. I'm so sick of it lately I just might get rid of wine altogether, you know, do my usual plague thing. Do you think locusts are too, well, Biblical?
I'd say jejune
Yeah. That's why the moths and the sharpshooters and the root lice--Man, I love a good pestilence
But we love wine. We really love wine
Then shut up about it
But half the fun is talking about it, showing how much we know, bragging about which wines we've tasted, blowing it up into something critically important in order to make ourselves feel better about having wasted our lives learning about it
Yeah, I know, my bad. I never should have let it go this far. But you kids were having so much fun, I just couldn't find it in my heart to stop it. But this blogging thing, it's annoying. I mean, have you read them? I'm talking about the most popular ones. Have you read them? They're garbage
Hell is right near Yountville?
Well, there's Hell and then there's Hell. Yountville is right near Wine Hell. Where I send fools to spend their eternal lives in nightmarish tasting rooms, and other fools to spend eternity building shrines to themselves. It's a hobby, but I enjoy it. But we were talking about blogs
Why pick on blogs? What about all the other wine publications?
Oh, they're doomed, trust me. I didn't stock 'em with halfwits for nothing. Does anyone actually read that crap? No, they just scan the numbers. Numbers! I didn't give you numbers to use them to score wine! No, I gave numbers to you so you can calculate batting averages, compare penis sizes, write 'em on bathroom walls. Not attach them to wines. Unbelievable
But I like some wine blogs
But you're an idiot
Hey, I didn't ask you to come here
Yeah, you're right. Never mind. Anything else you want to know?
I don't know. I've always wanted to know if there's baseball in the afterlife
Well, OK, I can answer that. I've got some good news and some bad news
OK
The good news is, Yes, there absolutely is baseball in the afterlife
The bad news?
You're pitching on Thursday



For Dr. John Peters (1935-2010), a great and interesting man.

Mis(s) Feiring

What am I looking for in wine?

I'm looking for the Gertrude Steins, the k.d. langs, the Dizzy Deans. Wines that have a nasty screwball. Which I can relate to. I want my wines natural. Think pubic hair. Think armpits. Makeup is OK, only a little, but no animals tortured. Unless they're my critics who don't get it. I write only for me, about wines for me. But I'm driving a bandwagon. Under the influence, but a bandwagon nonetheless, and I want everyone to be on it. Except Parker. He'd have to sit on the left side and everyone else would have to sit on the right. Balance. Like wines. I seek balance. Think tightrope walker. No balance, they're dead. Naturally. So I'm a wine cop. With no authority. Except my own. I'll write you a nasty ticket if you make wines that aren't natural. I'll throw the book at you. My book. I wrote a book. You have it. It changed you. It changed everyone. I'm a wine messiah. Follow me. I know people. I'll mention all of them. Most are famous. Others should be. Who cares? I'm famous, I'm a wine cop, I'm a messiah. I'm so lonely.


Posts


I was asked to speak at a seminar. I'm the leading authority on Natural Wines. No. Make that I'm the Only Authority on Natural Wines. I'm asked to speak often. I changed the world. Like Gandhi. Like Martin Luther King. Like the Exxon Valdez. The only disasters I like are natural too. Earthquakes. Tsunami. Gamay.

I don't like giving speeches. I like giving commandments. Thou shalt not sulfur. I remember Jesus said, "Sulfur little children..." That was wrong too. Where was I?

In a room, issuing commandments, signing books. Michel Bettane was there, he's a wine critic also. He's French. I like the French, they're so natural. He had nose hair like a wire brush. I wrapped my fingers in it. He asked me to sign my book for him. My book. You have it, I know, it changed everything. I was happy to sign Bettane's book but the pen was filled with synthetic ink. Not ink from an octopus or a squid or pasta. I could not sully the book. I pricked my finger and signed in blood. It felt good. Natural. I thought of Carole King. Maybe it was Bettane's nose hair that reminded me of her hair. Jewish hair. Natural hair. "You Make Me Feel Like a Natural Woman!"

I probably shouldn't have sung it out loud.

I signed the book, With Love, Alice. Bettane smiled. I'm so lonely.

Others were there too. Mostly famous people to hear me. Maybe not famous to you. Not yet. But famous to me, and I assign fame only for myself. To myself. I'm a fame cop. Always copping the famous. Many great winemakers were there. Did I mention this speech was in France? I love France. I surrender to the French. No one's ever done that before. Usually the other way around.

I hope that doesn't offend my French friends. But I speak the truth. Someone has to. The wine world is filled with liars and cheats, and, well, then your wine is filled with lies and cheats. Is that what you want in your stool? Shit, I said stool.

Yet another lie. Another commandment. Thou shalt only use wild yeast. I almost typed wild Yeats. He was a poet. And a good one. He was at my speech. But he's dead. Ironic. He often wrote of the dead. I signed a book for him too. "To Bill" I wrote "you were far too cultured for my taste."

No wine can be natural if it wasn't fermented by wild yeast. Though yeast all over the world has been infiltrated by cultured strains and there is no more wild yeast. I don't care. I have my standards, my commandments. Pick out the cultured strains like they pick out illegal aliens in Arizona. It can be done. I can tell when I taste. I know when a wine was done with cultured yeast. It speaks to me. In an English accent. I hate the English. The accent is fake, like my writing style. The wines taste fake. You just know. You do. Ask anybody who agrees with me.

Francois Ghitaine was there at my speech from Domaine Hornswaggle. His wines are natural. When I visited Francois he proudly showed me his cement vats for fermenting. Cement vats are making a comeback. Why? They are better for the wine. There is concrete evidence. Get it? Concrete evidence! Funnier in French. Francois even goes so far as to ferment the wine in the vats before the cement has even set. The flavors of the ground, the rocks, are in his wines. His Petit Manseng is wet cement in a glass. It's perfect. I took a finger and wrote my name in it. "Alice" I'm so lonely.

I was last at Hornswaggle when only Francois' wife was there, Brigitte. She cooked for me while I spoke to her in short sentences. Very short. I asked her about their biodynamic lifestyle. She was blunt. Francois is a pig. She told him to bury his damned man horns in the vineyard stuffed with the manure he'd brought into their lives. I spoke more short sentences to her. She cooked. Eggs, from a virgin chicken. Over easy. Just how I wanted them. And her. She left weeping. The eggs were runny, like her nose. But the wines are brilliant. I'm brilliant.

I'm so lonely.