O Vino, How I Love Thee? Let Me Count the Ways...

Next to getting laid (if I were a man) and winning the lottery (if I were a money whore), wine is the greatest thing that man has ever invented. A delicate tease, the golden acidic aroma of promised debauchery is enough to drive the most abstemious ascetic wild with passion. It is, in so many words, the liquid of love. I often marvel at how progressive the Europeans are in this respect. They embrace the lowly grape as a valued member of society. Most assuredly, wine is welcomed like a long-lost uncle whose unannounced return promises abundant self-expression and unbridled personal liberty. It is reason to celebrate in the Bacchanalian style--with no rules, just right.

Therefore, I'm sure that everyone can relate to my sudden urge to get tipsy in the middle of the week. Like a thirsty sailor, I fell easy prey to the siren call of EtOH, longing to rid myself of balance sheets and ridiculously convoluted state income tax returns (I understand now why there are so many alcoholics). Unwilling to pollute such a precious experience with dive-bar douche bags and cretins, I chose to imbibe with none other than Anthony Bourdain's Kitchen Confidential.

Kitchen Confidential is a rags-to-riches tale about an inebriated, coke-sniffing, weed junkie who doesn't deserve fame but is so ridiculously bad-ass that one cannot help but fork over millions to watch him eat raw meat in Cambodia on the Travel Channel. However, to each his own, and since I did not pay for the book or even check it out from my local library (that would be public support, you understand), I have no moral qualms about indulging in such shameless self-aggrandizement (all things considered, I need to take lessons).

It is a novel mildly amusing at times but really just exhausting as every other chapter is about humping on flour sacks, illegal drugs, ass molesting, and extortion. If you thought your toilet was dirty, you sure as hell don't want to eat at any restaurant in the USA after reading his book.

But ultimately, this post is not about Bourdain's book. It is about wine, and what wine does to people. In a sad attempt to be creative, I brought along a notebook to record my thoughts with Tony and Chardonnay. This is just a little excerpt, in sober retrospect:

"Oh, alcohol, that lovely nectar of the gods. You are exactly what I need to get through a particularly difficult week! You are the solution to my unlimited boredom, beset as I am with debt that I will never be able to pay off in 10 lifetimes! Overly dramatic, you say? Hardly. I cannot be responsible for any actions under this pixie liquid that courses through every fiber of my being. Isn't that amazing? To relinquish all personal responsibility in favor of some absolution is my ultimate goal! @#%$ my job. Accounting is as boring as a pig trying to gain admission into a pony show! (I have no idea where the hell that came from) It simply cannot happen! Hopefully someone will see through the shit that is living a life horrendously boring. I stand corrected. There is nothing to salvage. I am lost. I am broken."

That excerpt would be poetic were it not for the fact that all of my English professors would have epileptic fits over my nonsensical turns of phrase and general incompetence in the thought department. I'm not even going to try to understand that garbage.

It's the wine, my friends. Live it, love it, drink it.