Sage Blogging Advice From the HoseMaster After 199 Posts

 

According to Blogger, this is my 200^th HoseMaster post, at least in this incarnation. I stopped being funny about #23. Every single day I wonder why I do this. I think I finally know the answer—the retirement package. It’s so generous. The same pay as I’m making now, and free health care at any emergency room. And I’ll receive a plaque in the Wine Blogger Hall of Fame, currently under construction in Hell, thanks to a generous grant from Robert Parker, who is planning to move there in the near future from his own private Hell. 

For those of you new to blogging, I thought I’d share some of the hard-earned wisdom that has come my way via HoseMaster of Wine. I wish someone had warned me about this stuff before I started typing. It would have saved me a lot of grief, heartache and hate mail.

NEVER READ ABOUT YOURSELF ON OTHER BLOGS

It’s depressing. Especially if you read about yourself here. That’s really depressing. In the beginning, I got very excited if someone mentioned my name in their blog. Now it’s like when they call your name for jury duty—you know you’re in for a long, boring ride. Once in a while, I used to Google my blog’s name. It’s a pretty distinctive name, shared by a band, a plumbing company and a bunch of black guys who gangbang white girls. I’m not making that up. I’d sue them, but I’m basically scared of them. They each have several inches on me. I mean, they have a longer reach. No, wait a minute, it’s because I once belonged to Big Brothers. Oh, I don’t know. But I’ve stopped Googling my blog name. When I read what others say about me on their blogs, I’m stunned. Not by what they say, but with how poorly they say it. I like a nasty remark as much as the next guy, but, for God’s sake, it should have some wit. What’s the difference between the Wine Bloggers Conference and the morgue? Toe tags. Though I think Randall Grahm has one. And, anyway, writers should never read their reviews. I seem to be much loved and much loathed. But I knew that without reading my name elsewhere. Take my advice, do not read about yourself. And while you’re at it, don’t read about me either.

NO ONE CARES ABOUT YOUR JOURNEY

There was a time when I wanted the word “monetize” banned from wine blogs, but the most annoying word now is “journey.” Yes, life is a goddam journey, is that the most original idea you’ve had during your damned journey? No one cares that you’re going to write about wine and that you want us to join you on your journey to discover it. REALLY. No one gives even one little teeny-tiny yeast fart. We might care about your journey into nymphomania, or into gay Scientology, or maybe into soft tacos, but your journey to discover wine is about as thrilling as a Tony Danza film festival. The minute people see the word “journey” in your About Me profile, they leave your site. It’s a dead damn giveaway that the last original thought you had died of starvation. If you currently have that word on your blog, get rid of it. It’s part of your blog journey.

NO ONE KNOWS HOW MANY PEOPLE READ A WINE BLOG

All that crap about “I have 30,000 hits a month” is just that. Crap, and mostly aimed at getting free stuff. There are dozens of ways to measure the number of visits to a blog, and each gives a vastly different number. It’s like the paid attendance at a baseball game—who cares? Eighty per cent of them aren’t paying attention anyway. Those 30,000 hits a month?—picture all those empty seats behind home plate when you watch a game on TV and it’s declared a sellout. Most of the people who visit wine blogs—empty seats. The vast majority of wine blogs—sellouts.

THE COMMENTS ARE NOT ABOUT YOU

If you’re lucky enough to get comments, remember that the comments are not about you, they are about the commenters. This is unlikely to be a problem for you. Recently, I looked at a bunch of the nominated Best New Wine Blogs, and only once or twice did I see a post that had more than 1 comment, and that was usually from WineHarlots, so that doesn’t count. (By the way, DO NOT look at those nominated Best New Wine Blogs, especially if you’re pregnant or will be operating heavy machinery. They’re either written by Aussies on Quaaludes, or perhaps as Quaaludes, or mostly plagiarized from Wikipedia.) Now, don’t get me wrong. I love the regular cast of misfits, evil geniuses and misanthropes who comment here. But I’m just the ringmaster, here to oversee the three rings where they display their polished acts. Just stay out of your commenters’ way and they’ll be happy.

MEMORIZE THE TOPIC THAT WILL GENERATE THE MOST COMMENTS

Wine Bloggers

 

What We're Reading

Compiled by the editors of HoseMaster of Wine™

1WINEDOODY: The Dude offers another wine quiz, this time asking readers to identify the three major causes of wine headaches (Hint: Histamines, drinking too much, and opening Champagne with your teeth). In a video post, the Dude lectures other bloggers about not being douches, which is what a douche would do. And don’t miss his account of his visit to Harlan Estate where he and Paul Roberts hide behind a Salmanazar.

WALL STREET JOURNAL: Jay McInerney talks about a new trend in wine he’s excited about--drinking it out of the skulls of poor people. Tasted blind against the same 1990 Burgundy out of Riedel crystal stemware, he prefers the beggar’s coconut, saying, “…it was deeply satisfying knowing this was a vessel that had never seen Burgundy, not to mention First Class on Singapore Airlines.” As an added bonus, he reminds us, wine skulls are dishwasher safe. Lettie Teague discovers Wine Away.

WORLD OF FINE WINE: Jancis Robinson, MW tastes the latest crop of orange wines and wishes there’d been a frost in the damned groves. Andrew Jefford says that it’s time we get back to appreciating wine for it’s true purpose, getting pissed and waving our bangers at the Buckingham Palace guards. Hugh Johnson weighs in on something, it’s not clear what, but it seems important. Tom Stevenson conducts a vertical tasting of Veuve Clicquot and suggests it might be useful for cooling off dressage horses at the upcoming London Olympics.

DR. VINO: As usual, more links than Jimmy Dean’s funeral buffet. Also, details about Robert Parker’s asking Jay Miller to return and review wines from Mexican drug cartels. And news that Chateau D’Yquem sells a bottle of Semillon for more than $500!

WINE SPECTATOR: Matt Kramer says that it’s time we get back to appreciating wine for it’s true purpose, getting hammered and waving our kielbasas at airport security. James Laube suggests his favorite reds for kielbasa. Harvey Steiman rates hotel honor bars in his Dora the Explorer pajamas. Tim Fish writes about the joy of cork trivets.

STEVE!: STEVE! debunks Biodynamics, calling it pseudoscience based on mysticism and faith. He goes on to rate 50 new California Cabernets on the 100 point scale, yet another pseudoscience based on mysticism and faith.

PALATE PRESS: Don’t miss the fascinating article on the newest trend in restaurant wine lists—placing the iPad wine list on the chair and having the customer butt-pick his wine, written by one of Palate Press’ regular buttpickers. A sexy look at the reproductive cycle of grapes, glassy-winged sharpshooters, barn cats and Ben Flajnik by Meg Houston Maker. Not sure who wrote it. And reviews of dozens of wines that will make you lose the will to live.

WINE ENTHUSIAST: Publisher Adam Strum answers his most frequently asked question, “What the hell is up with my hair?” A year-long investigation by Virginie Boone reveals that the 100-year-old vines in Lodi are actually only 25 years old but look so ancient because of the fucking heat. And Paul Gregutt introduces us to Oregon’s best-kept secret—most of the Pinot Noir vineyards are actually Zweigelt.

SERMONTATION: Tom Wark weighs in on the minerality debate with his opinion that, “…wines don’t taste like minerals, stupid, those are your fillings.” He also congratulates the winners of the 2012 Wine Blog Awards, somehow knowing who they are already. And don’t miss his rant about how electing a Mormon President will be bad for the wine industry unless he picks a drunk as a running mate, but will Limbaugh accept?

ON AND ON AND ON AND ON AND ON THE WINE TRAIL IN ITALY: Alfonso Cevola is the master of nostalgia, and in his current post he takes us back to how hard it was to sell wine when he first got into the business, before the invention of shoes.

The HoseMaster's Sneak Preview of New Wine Films

I’ve spent the past week viewing new films which have wine as their subject. Ever since the success of that idiotic “Sideways,” a stupidly formulaic buddy film that expects us to believe that those two guys are best friends, that ten-year-old Byron sparkling wine still has fizz, and that Sandra Oh can out-act her last name, filmmakers have seen wine as lucrative subject for a film, like superheroes, vampires and fart jokes. (I’ve always wondered, does blood-sucking cause flatulence? Remind me to ask Jay McInerney.) Several major studios sent me DVD’s of their upcoming theatrical releases. Here are my reviews.

MERCAPTAN AMERICA!!

Merging the Superhero genre with wine, director Francis Ford Crapolla tells the tale of Larry Mephitis, who volunteers to undergo a top secret assignment to sell overpriced Napa Valley Cabernets made by NBA players (Bartles and LeBron James, Kobe Bryant Family Vintage CryBaby Red, Alley Oopus One…) in China. Mad scientists (a memorable cameo by Randall Grahm as Rudolph Steiner—that other fraudulent Rudy) transform Mephitis into Mercaptan America!! Through some rather labored plot devices that involve the French Laundry changing its name to Chinese Laundry and serving monkey brains to James Laube, which raises his I.Q., as well as an amazing fight scene between Mercaptan America!! and Yao Ming that is remarkable for Yao’s nutsack being used for speed boxing, Mercaptan America is smuggled into China. Once there, our hero convinces the gullible Chinese that “those aren’t mercaptans, my friends, that’s the very smell of roadside America itself!” Apparently, there wasn’t much of a budget for the special effects (created by Industrial Light and Magic Johnson), so you’ll have a hard time believing those expensive Napa Cabernets are in such lightweight bottles. I also had a hard time swallowing Eric Asimov (as one would) as Mercaptan America!!’s love interest, though he positively glows.

TOP 100

"97!"

You knew it was only a matter of time before Aaron Sorkin wrote a film about the wine business. In his signature Paddy Chayefsky Lite style (all the indignation, half the wit), Sorkin’s script is a vicious and predictably pedantic look at how Wine Spectator chooses its Top 100 Wines of the Year. Director Alan Smithee coaxes a brilliant performance from Billy Gardell (“Mike and Molly”) as Marvin Shanken, and the entire ensemble cast, who portray the reviewers for Wine Spectator, does a remarkable job making you feel like you’re right there making the Top 100 list with them. That is, you’re certain they don’t give a crap about you. Sorkin’s dialogue crackles. There’s a wonderful scene between James Laube (great casting of Marcel Marceau, nearly life-like) and Tim Fish (Don Knotts) which concludes with Fish speaking the memorable Sorkin lines, “California wine isn’t the greatest wine in the world, that’s just what we’re paid to sell the suckers. We’re shills, patsies, bought and paid for noses who assign crooked numbers in crooked fashion. And I, for one, couldn’t be prouder.” Ooh, that Sorkin is a genius.

THE STORY OF COCO VIN

From France comes this lovely little film about a young boy who decides at an early age he wants to become a sommelier.  Recognizing his gifts, the Académie du Sneer in Paris grants the young CoCo a full scholarship. Graduating Summa Cum Elvis, CoCo then begins his studies for an M.W. In his tasting group is the alluring Chloe Vougeot, but CoCo is unsuccessful at getting past her walls and, downcast, he begins his slow descent into alcoholism, fortuitously a requirement for the M.W. Secretly, he begins to worship Chloe Vougeot, even going so far as to have her name tattooed on his meat thief. Well, up to the “l”-- he’s a sommelier after all. Chloe will have nothing to do with him until he is a working sommelier. CoCo finally passes his M.W. exam; in a suspenseful scene he successfully identifies an old Sancerre by meowing. CoCo then manages to regain his sobriety by dedicating his wine cellar to Grüner Veltliner, Prosecco and Tannat in a Can. He is hired by a Three Michelin Star restaurant in Lyon at the tender age of 22 and proceeds to overhaul the wine list and sell only natural wines. He is given a medal by the Sommelier Society for “Arrogance in the Face of Customer Service.” Chloe finally throws herself at CoCo Vin, and after a passionate and erotic lovemaking scene where Chloe traces his tattoo and wants to know, “Where did the Vou  geot?,” the two are seen honeymooning in South Africa, CoCo’s trademark lip curled. The moral of the story? Sneer, and yet safari.

DIAL M.W. FOR MURDER

A HOSEMASTER OF WINE™ PULP FICTION CLASSIC

Chapter 5: God Gives Your Life a 78

Every day in this miserable world people disappear and no one cares. The lost, the lonely, the unloved. They board alien spacecraft, or they empty their bank accounts, leave their belongings behind and just get on a bus to nowhere, say Suisun Valley. If you believe you might end up one of them, take the spacecraft. They can be gone weeks before anyone notices, if anyone notices. People you might see on a regular basis in your daily life—at the grocery store buying one pork chop and Boner in a Can, sitting in the park feeding lit cigarettes to squirrels, in the bookstore tearing the pages out of every Jay McInerney book as a public service—and then one day you remember you haven’t seen them for months. And you don’t give it a second thought. You believe their family and friends are looking after them. But they are not. The world has swallowed them up--the heartbreak and loneliness, the sorrow and the weariness, the failure and the futility, the miserable and relentless part of our existence slowly eats away at them and they surrender. They disappear, just so many 78 point scores in a world that demands a minimum of 95. Life is arbitrary, just like wine scores. You do the best you can with the materials you’re given, you hope and pray that all of your hard work leads you to be “Highly Recommended,” but God gives your life a 78, writes “Nothing to like here, off aromas and very little taste, best to avoid,” and no one ever cares again about what happens to you. My advice? Ask God to retaste.

I was pretty shaken up by Tiny’s news that Avril had disappeared. First of all, it didn’t make any sense. I’d just slept with Avril the night before, slipping my big Bob Parker into her bearded Jay Miller while she gently tickled my Pancho Campo, so where could she have gone, and why was she already considered a missing person? How did Tiny know about it before I did? That was easy. Tiny knew everything that happened in Healdsburg before anyone else. But why was he rummaging around in Avril’s office? What was he looking for? Her lunch scraps?

“Hey, Tiny, what the hell are you doing here?” He seemed to be trying to hide something behind his back. Actually, most of the room was behind his back.

“Oh, nothing, HoseMaster,” Tiny wheezed, “I just came here looking for Avril, some clue about where she might have gone, or who might have taken her.”

It’s easy to tell when Tiny is lying. His lips are moving. “What’s that in your mitt?” I asked him. That’s when he decided to make his move. Of course, only Harris Ranch can move that amount of meat in a short amount of time. Tiny moves about as quickly as a floor stack of $25 Syrah. You can time him with a sundial. I let him go. Tiny’s pants were drooping pretty low, and I could see something stuck in the crack of his ass. Could have been a dachshund. But, really, it looked like a bunch of Avril’s files, and a Baby Ruth. But I had better things to worry about than Tiny’s shenanigans. I had Avril to find.

I thought as long as I was in Avril’s office I’d grab the report on Larry Anosmia’s suspicious death. I quickly rifled through her file drawers, but couldn’t find it. There were reports about lots of other wine country deaths, Copia (suicide) and “Crazyboy” Ascentia (mob hit) and Crushpad (liver failure), but no Anosmia. Had to be Tiny’s doing. Or else Avril had it with her when she disappeared. A little voice in my head kept telling me that Anosmia’s death and Avril’s disappearance were connected, and that Crystal knew a lot more about this than she was telling me. And that Tiny had had Italian for lunch that day. Avril’s office smelled like garlic burps.

I was still searching Avril’s office when I heard footsteps approaching. Sounded like two people, a man and a woman, both wearing heels. I ducked into Avril’s dark room, she didn’t develop photographs there, it was just a dark room, and left the door open a crack.

Crystal entered the room first. She looked nervous, even scared, like a wine judge facing fifteen Proseccos. Behind her was a man I didn’t recognize, wearing heels and a dress, pointing a nasty looking pistol at Crystal’s back. From his outfit, I guessed he was an M.W. candidate, and probably a British one at that. I remembered that this is how they dress when they’re taking their final exam. It’s never publicly disclosed, but it’s very well-known in the industry. Candidates have to pass three tests to qualify for an M.W., a written exam, a blind tasting, and the evening gown competition. It’s why there are so few women M.W.’s. The guys show more leg.

“I don’t know where she put it,” Crystal said, her voice cracking like a hot and sexy Stelvin. “I told you, it’s not here.”

“You’d better hope it’s here, Geyser,” the mystery man said, pulling his dress down a bit with his free hand—really, buddy, wear a thong—and poking Crystal with his gun. “It’s going to get really ugly if we don’t find it and destroy it.”

“But I don’t know where it is! Avril must know where it is. Ask her!”

“Miss Cadavril is, well, indisposed right now, and I have an exam in a few hours. I didn’t put on these pantyhose to impress you. I’m trying to pass. And that fucking Oz Clarke always makes me bend over and whistle ‘God Save the Queen.’ Now start looking.”

And that’s when I felt something crawling up my leg, I crashed through the dark room door, and the gun went off.

Wine Blogging: An Obituary

“I am a blogger. But I am not a blogger. Blogging is well and truly alive. But blogging is dead.”--Jamie Goode, wineanorak.com

“She’s my sister. (slap) She’s my daughter.”—“Chinatown”

Seems like you’re screwed either way.

Wine Blogging (2004-2012)

I first met Wine Blogging in 2008. My mother had died the year before. Or was it my sister? Or was it my mother? Though she was well and truly alive. Until she died. She would have hated Wine Blogging, and it’s a blessing that she didn’t live to see us become involved. She loved the English language with a passion most people reserve for involuntary manslaughter. Wine Blogging had little regard for language, and even less for grammar and punctuation. Wine Blogging overflowed with ridiculously ornate descriptions of wine, so ornate they were bigger than your fucking head, so ornate they made the Sistine Chapel look like a crummy tasting room with especially powerful crackers. At the same time, Wine Blogging could be mindlessly dull, emptier than a Food and Wine feature, more meaningless than a Double Gold Medal from the Temecula Wine Competition and Bachelorette Party. For years, Wine Blogging held the English language in its soundproof basement, bound and gagged and subjected to every imaginable torture, including waterboarding and reading Vornography out loud. It’s still there, screaming hopelessly in vain to be rescued. But Wine Blogging won’t let language die. That would be too easy. Yet now Wine Blogging is dead. And Wine Blogging is well and truly alive. Alive enough to really fuck up language, anyway.

At first, I had a soft spot for Wine Blogging, sort of like a bruise on a fresh peach, or that spot on the back of a newborn’s skull you sort of want to see how far your finger will go in before something bad happens. I took to Wine Blogging. But, you know, when you start a new relationship, you inherit their friends as well. I was fine with Wine Blogging, but Wine Blogging’s friends were insufferable. God, the endless yammering. Together, just the two of us, Wine Blogging and I had a lot of laughs. And we didn’t laugh at all. But we laughed a lot. Primarily, at the expense of Wine Blogging’s other buddies. Those humorless and self-absorbed knob jobs. Get them all together in a room and they’d yap endlessly about the 100 Point Scale, like so many Sean Hannitys wishing that just talking about something without actually knowing what you’re talking about will just make it go away. Or they’d talk about natural wines in reverent tones usually reserved for their favorite episodes of “Star Trek,” or the day they met Alice Feiring on Match.com. But you start a conversation in a roomful of humans and nearly every one will eventually talk about his favorite subject at length and in great detail—himself. His wine journey—convinced he’s goddam Odysseus when he’s really Gilligan and wants to take you on a three-hour tour, a three-hour tour. His opinions about wines that were sent to him gratis by marketing people, thus reinforcing his sense of self-importance, and how surprisingly good they are compared to the crap he usually drinks—fascinating and useful talk. Makes you want to rush out and buy everything recommended from a sudden desire to drink yourself to death. Which may be the motive for wineries to send wines to those crap peddlers in the first place—to see their livers shut down. And yet to live forever. Live forever talking about themselves. Some in the third person, because the first two were so stupid.

Wine Blogging and I had a tempestuous relationship. We loved each other. And then we hated each other. Maybe it was just for the makeup sex, though, finally, I was told I wasn’t supposed to wear makeup. When we loved each other, there was nothing about Wine Blogging I didn’t like. Sure, Wine Blogging could be demanding, and there were always dozens of snide comments. Wine Blogging was always inseparable from snide comments. They went together like Wine Blog Awards and mediocrity, like, like Phillipe Melka and overpriced Cabs. And for a while I could stand all of that, because the rewards of embracing Wine Blogging seemed so great. And then they didn’t. And I hated Wine Blogging. But now Wine Blogging is dead. But I am well and truly alive. At least I was when I wrote this. Can you be sure I’m still alive now, when you’re reading it? And what if there are no readers, I used to ask Wine Blogging, how do you know you’re alive? Do you care? Not if you’re dead you don’t care. Ask Robert Parker.

When I got the Tweet that Wine Blogging was dead, I felt numb, like your tongue after judging Petite Sirahs, like your brain after listening to an M.S. speak, like your left arm after Marvin Shanken falls asleep cuddled up next to you after a dreamy night of playing “Hide the Havana.” Did this mean I was finally through with that bastard Wine Blogging? Or would it mean that I’d never be through with Wine Blogging? I feared both outcomes. A death so young can have ripple effects that last forever. Eight years old. Wine

Blogging was only eight years old, and now Wine Blogging was dead. And it was well and truly alive. But eight years is not a bad life span for a Poodle, a bitch. Or was it my sister? Or my mother?

Rest in Peace, Wine Blogging. I’m not surprised by your death, old friend. You were always in poor health, and had neither the skills nor the money to get healthy. You died a Goode death.

I’ll meet you where you went to die. In Portland. In August. But I won't be there.