Notes On a Sellout's Book

Writing HoseMaster of Wine is a lot easier than I make it look. Wine and the business of wine are subjects I've spent my life studying, and the results are clear. I've wasted my life. What I should be writing about, the subject most wine bloggers find endlessly interesting, is myself. And I would, only my life is duller than the finish on a wine from Sterling Vineyards, and my readership is already plummeting off a cliff like a Toyota Camry with its accelerator stuck. (I don't know, why is it that Toyotas suddenly make me nostalgic for kamikazes?) So I won't bore you, all nine of you, with stories of my day, my past, my hopes, my dreams, but I will bore you with a bunch of random thoughts that have been rattling around in my subpar brain.

The recent Gomberg Fredrikson report (isn't a Gomberg made up of frozen gom?) about the California wine industry states that sales of California wine over $15 have nosedived in the past year. Much has been made of this, but, really, isn't the only rational conclusion that people really only drink wine to get drunk? That for all the tortured tasting notes printed in endlessly monotonous wine magazines, for all the "reviews" faithfully posted by the parade of witless wine bloggers (too many to list here, but for the very nadir of witless check out WineHarlots--makes you want to ralph nadir), for all the wine tastings, and food and wine pairings, and pomp and circumstances of the wine trade, all consumers really want is to get drunk. That's the only conclusion that makes sense. They're not drinking less, they're drinking cheaper. So they don't give a crap about numbers or reviews or quality--they need to drink themselves into oblivion. And they don't care where it's from--Argentina, Bulgaria, South Africa, New York, all those places where English is a foreign language--so long as it's cheap and has at least 14% alcohol. All the damn ratings in the world can't sell your $40 Syrah right now--it's a $15 world. 96 point Merlot for $35? Who cares? Trader Joe's has wine for $5.99, and it tastes just fine. Who the hell cares about your wondrous Corvina from a tiny estate in Valpolicella that tastes like sunset at the Algonquin round table (not a pizza restaurant, by the way)? The consumers have loudly and overwhelmingly voted in favor of a cheap drunk. Oh crap, I have to stop reading Tom Wark.


I've always had this theory that wines are more reflective of their winemaker than they are of their terroir. For example, when you meet a typical Australian winemaker you begin to understand why his Shiraz is so loud and forward and high in alcohol. So is he. It's weird how this works. A thoughtful and contemplative winemaker tends to make wines that are subtle and understated and, well, thoughtful, if a wine can be thoughtful. Which it can't. Loud people make loud wines. Fat people make wines that are often overblown. It goes on and on. Just sayin' Oh crap, I have to stop reading Samantha Dugan.


Not that I check it obsessively, like Lady MacBeth washing her hands or Oprah working the panties out of her crack, but I notice my readership is declining. Is that because I'm not compulsive about Twitter or Facebook? Or is it because everyone is tired of my twaddle? Or is it because I suck? Maybe it's because I insult bloggers so often, and the only people who read blogs are other bloggers. Should I start being nice to other bloggers? Hang around other blogs and post fascinating comments? "Gosh, Steve, Wine Enthusiast is so powerful, and your events are so important! Thank you for reminding us." "1WineDude, man, I'll contribute a dollar if you'll just shut up." "Gary V., how does it feel to be the Millennial's Reverend Ike, only way less pretty?" Or should I just quit?


Why is it that wine blogs make me like wine less and not more?

The M.S. Conspiracy

A HoseMaster of Wine Pulp Fiction Classic

Chapter 11 Bullet From Nowhere


Lately I'd been in more cavities than Mike Tyson's dentist. I was holding the three slips of paper in my hand, Veronica gently weeping in the background, and thinking, Well, I always wanted to be a crack detective. Be careful what you wish for. We like to think that the Universe is benevolent but I've always found that it's a vicious practical joker. Turns out God is an old Jewish man named Allen Funt. Lorna had found that out. She'd come to Healdsburg to get a couple of letters behind her name, pursuing her dream of becoming an M.S., and that's what the ol' Practical Joker had given her. A Murder Suppository. Smile, You're on Candid Chimera.


But somehow the killer had made a mistake and put Lorna's message in my dumpster and mine in hers. That seemed like an honest mistake. I have a nice ass. And that was certainly Lorna's strong suit. So the difference was strong suit and hirsute, but apparently in haste to escape, Lorna's murderer hadn't noticed. It didn't matter. But how many damn sisters did Veronica have?


Avril Cadavril was replacing the morgue sheets over the dead girls. Veronica was still crying a bit, her nose running all over Jessica's uniform. Something seemed to be going on between Jessica and Veronica, a strange chemistry had developed that was making me uncomfortable. But grief can do that to people. I'd had my share of grief, sunk to the sort of depths that only slime and wine bloggers can survive, and it had made me do all kinds of foolish things. Slow dancing with Robert Lawrence Balzer at the Wine Spectator Experience. Proposing marriage to Kevin Zraly (he said Yes, you're my Window on the World!). A menage a trois with Paul Prudhomme. But this felt somehow different. While the three ladies were distracted, I once again slipped out.


My entire investigation seemed to be going around in circles. All Veronica had hired me to do was to get her an interview for an M.S., get her into the exams that were scheduled for a few days from now. I'd been distracted by a midget, Tiny, Allen Funt and a couple of dead girls. I hadn't even been able to contact the thugs that ran the M.S. program. I'd been coldcocked in Les Mars Hotel and busted in a public rest room. So, all in all, the same old routine.


When I opened the door to my office I found I had visitors. Fugly the midget was sitting on my couch. Wait, I don't have a couch. Fugly was sitting on Tiny's lap, his Jimmy Buffett shirt made Tiny look like he'd been upholstered in a Roman vomitorium. And standing next to them was an unfamiliar character, but he smelled like a sommelier. You know, cheap suit that had just come back from the dry cleaner. He probably should have taken it out of the plastic before he put it on. But that's an M.S. for you, more plastic than anything else. But I was more concerned about Fugly. He was pointing a gun at me. Just once I'd like to meet a midget who wasn't sitting on a fat guy and packing a piece.


"I hear you're looking for me," the Man from Glad said.


"I don't even know who you are. But I can guess. You're a Master Sommelier, one of the examiners. Yeah, I'm lookin' for you. I just finished conducting exams on two of your candidates. Turns out they both passed. They both passed notes. Who are you? What's your name? What the hell are you doing in my office with Fat Man and Little Boy? I've seen enough dead bombshells for one day."


"You're right, HoseMaster, I am a Master Sommelier. My name is Larry Anosmia. Our friend Tiny here said that you were looking for me, for the M.S. judges. And it seems you've been busy knocking off all of our leading candidates. Just what is it that you want?"


I lunged for the pompous prick, but I stopped when I heard Fugly cock his gun. "I didn't kill those two women, but I think you know who did. And call off your midget before I pour cocktail sauce on him and throw him in the Cyrus dumpster for Tiny. Tiny loves a shrimp cocktail."


Anosmia turned to the midget and said, "It's OK, Mr. Teebagger, you can put away the gun. We're not here to cause any trouble for the HoseMaster." Fugly, or Mr. Teebagger as it turns out, put his gun away. "Now, HoseMaster, what is it you want from us?"


I strolled past Tiny and Mr. Teebagger and sat down behind my desk. Anosmia hadn't moved, he was just casually standing there in the way that sommeliers do, smirking like I'd just ordered a bottle of Jordan Cabernet Sauvignon from a poor vintage. Any of them.


"I have a client. Her name is Veronica. She knows a lot about wine and she hired me to get her into your exams next week for M.S. That's all I wanted to do, get her an invite."


"Well, HoseMaster, you didn't have to kill a couple of candidates to make an opening for her. This Veronica, I'm sure she didn't hire you for that."


I just stared. "I don't know who murdered those girls, but it wasn't me. And what killed them was their idiotic desire to line your pockets with money so you'd give them two letters after their names, two letters they thought would help them be somebody in the wine business, two letters they thought might validate their passion for wine, make people admire them, come to them for wine advice. Two letters that proved they know about wine. Shit. It's all shit. All it got them was an early trip to the Jim Jones Tasting Room, a permanent position at Copia, a reviewer's job at Wine and Spirits Magazine...Death. But you and the rest of your M.S. poseurs, the fake Gucci bags of wine connoisseurs, the counterfeit Rolexes of the wine world--hell, an M.S. is just fake tits for wine lovers--you'll just keep on taking money for your meaningless letters, your bogus degree, your manufactured status. The whole thing is a scam, and an ugly one, and now it's cost two lovely women their lives and I'm going to find out what's going on and I'm going to take you and all your fucking M.S. midgets down..."


I think I heard the gun go off.

Pollan Count

I get a kick out of aphorisms, those little nuggets of wisdom that sound smart but deconstruct into simplemindedness upon examination. The reigning master of that form is Michael Pollan. "Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants." Very nice, has the comforting ring of a cheesy Hallmark greeting card. "Eat food. With your mouth. Mostly fart." See, it's kind of easy once you get the hang of it. So I was thinking that I could achieve similar fame and notoriety if I assembled a bunch of wine aphorisms. Kind of do a little Pollan collecting of my own. Hey, I'm simpleminded, I'm a natural. Just hope I don't break out in hives. Here's what I came up with. Feel free to throw them around like your own wisdom at the next wine tasting you attend. They also make wonderful Tweets for all you idiotic Twits out there.


You can judge a winery by its dog and, if you're lucky, by its pussy.
There, you see, catchy and true. Rolls off the tongue. The aphorism, I mean.


Wine is proof that God loves us and wants us to be shitfaced all the time and have sex with strangers.
Theology is perfect for aphorisms. Here I quote from the Book of Britney 3:18. Testify!


Read blogs. Not too much. Mostly vegetables.
A pithy and accurate little assessment of wine blogs makes for a perfect catchphrase. The vast majority of wine blogs are written by vegetables for intellectual vegans.


Think of bubbles in Champagne as you would elegant farts in the bathtub--both delight the senses.
OK, it sounds better in French.





Points are like venereal diseases. The people who give them should be shot.
See, terse and clever and implies a connection between critics and folks getting screwed by numbers. This is a keeper.


If you want a hug, give her Silver Oak. If you want a kiss, give her Burgundy. If you want a blowjob, give her a spit bucket.
Alright, this has drifted off into tasteless exploitation. So it's perfect.


There are no atheists in bungholes.
There, six words, deep meaning, ties together the miracle of wine with the mundane tools that create it. Here we have the essence of aphorism writing, haunting and concise word choices. And it sounds dirty. Another winner!


Oak is catnip for humans. Rombauer Chardonnay is catnip for cougars. Vinography is catnip for cretins.
Gratuitous insults are the stuff of aphorisms. Aphorisms give the ring of truth to absurd generalizations and glorify the empty opinion. Just not in this case.


Taste in wine is subjective, except mine, which is objective.
In a nutshell, what every wine person believes. Except me, I'm objective.


You can put an M.S. after your name, but you're still an asshole.
See, simple and true. Feel free to quote me, but, please don't forget to credit the HoseMaster. I don't care what they say about me, as long as they spell my name right. Oh, another jejune nugget. Somebody stop me!

Cleaning Out the HoseMaster's Mental Fridge

In the course of the intensive research I conduct for HoseMaster of Wine I accumulate hundreds and hundreds of little tidbits about wine. The juiciest tidbits end up in my breakfast, my usual morning meal of crow on toast with a side of hat. Other nuggets end up as posts. But there are a lot of leftovers. Here are some leftovers. It's cleaning out the HoseMaster's mental fridge day.


Wine was shown to help alleviate the symptoms of Tourette's Syndrome in mice. Fucking rodents.


Two of the thirteen allowed varieties in Chateauneuf-du-Pape are Creamy Ranch and Spicy Chipotle.


Botrytis cinerea originated in Robert Lawrence Balzer's sock drawer.
Right, from my sock drawer


Saumur-Champigny is named for the sounds Voltaire made sneezing.


The only wine dogs will drink is Gruner Veltliner because it reminds them of licking their own butt. Cats like Cloudy Bay Sauvignon Blanc for the same reason.


James Suckling. James Suckling. James Suckling.


Scientists now believe life may once have existed in Lodi.


In a startling coincidence, Rachel Alexandra was named Horse of the Year in the same year her owner was named Horse's Ass of the Year! You can take that to the Banke.


French oak can result in tongue slivers. Or bung slivers.


Jesus converted water into wine. Santa Margherita Pinot Grigio does the opposite. And don't forget to attend ZAP on January 30th--Jesus died for our Zins.

There is a special Hell just for people who make Zin puns. Dante's Zinferno.


Before he was a world-renowned winemaking consultant, Michel Rolland was a leg model. Now he only occasionally has one to stand on.


All of the wines tasted for the California State Fair Wine Competition in 2009 were Yellow Tail Shiraz. It was awarded 15 Double Golds, 123 Gold Medals, 157 Silver Medals, 567 Bronze Medals, and Miss Congeniality. It did best in the "Chardonnay $14.99 and Under" category.


In the altar wine winemaking process, yeast converts sugar to Roman Catholicism.


In a patented and highly secret process, the alcohol levels of Napa Valley Cabernets are routinely lowered through the use of spinning cones and human bladders. Avoid using tasting room toilets.


In order to help the notoriously late-ripening Mourvedre, BioDynamic winemakers in California venture out into the vineyards in October and sing, "The sun'll come out, Mataro, so you better hang on till tomorrow, come what may! Mataro, Mataro, I love you, Mataro, you're always a day away!"

What's the HoseMaster Drinking?

KENNETH-CRAWFORD 2004 SYRAH LAFOND VINEYARD SANTA RITA HILLS


I haven't the vaguest idea how this bottle got into my wine cellar. I broke an opener a few days ago and left it for the Screw Fairy, maybe this was my reward. If you don't have a Screw Fairy I suggest you get one. I did a search and it turns out they're easy to find on Craigslist. Actually, I do remember at one time I was on the Kenneth-Crawford mailing list, back in the day when I was on mailing lists like Amy Winehouse is on mind-altering substances, that is, way too many, none of which seem to have conferred any talent. What's odd is that I normally avoid hyphenated wine--though I do like Dashe. But here was this bottle of 2004 Syrah from the hyphenated boys at Kenneth-Crawford made from grapes grown at LaFond Vineyard in the Santa Rita Hills which had magically appeared in my cellar. I recalled that 2004 was a vintage notable for a nasty heat spike at harvest and I was a bit concerned that the wine would be a victim of that, taste raisiny and unbalanced, like Pat Robertson. But, hallelujah, it bore not a trace of the sulfurous stench of the evangelist. In fact, it was heavenly. I fancy myself something of a Syrah fetishist, and this Kenneth-Crawford definitely had me on a leash. I surrendered to its blackberry and blueberry domination, crawled on my belly for its fine tannins, and let its acidity arouse me. And then I drank it. I had no memory of this wine, but, somehow, I was smart enough to have bought some and cellared it. It still has years ahead of it. I suspect I paid about $30 for it, and that turns out to have been a huge bargain. I loved it so much I went immediately to their website. These hyphenated boys know their way around Syrah.


The HoseMaster Score: 889,065 Points


Disclaimer: For all I know this wine was a plant. For all you know, I'm a plant. Like Alder Yarrow.