Today, I get over my insecurities about what the hell I’m doing with my dopey life and release this blog unto the poor, unsuspecting, exhausted masses. “Ugh, another wine blog, dude?” God, I hope not.
Celebrate with me by popping open a bottle of something special or hitting a local winery this weekend. Just keep your eye out for eccentric pourers behind the counter. They are OUT there. Like this dude I encountered in Los Olivos back in 2003. Cheers to ya!
A lotta people primarily think I’m Jewish because of how neurotic I can be…and/or my last name. They also wonder if I’m related to the late Ed Koch or one of those much-maligned Koch Brothers that stir up so much outrage.
I am not Jewish, I’m sorry to say. I am a mixed salad of German, Irish, and God Knows What Else. A mutt. A whitey. A cracker. A freckled fuss-bag full of fear, fire, and fight.
But not Jewish.
However, in 1983, when I was 13-years-old, my mother, the gentile Carol Ann, married Thomas J. Payson – formally Thomas BAGEL (it’s true) – and the next thing ya know, Mom and I were suddenly immediate members of this big ol’ lovable Jewish family FULL of aunts, uncles, grandmas, nieces, nephews, cousins, and cut-ups. There were Silvermans, Krupnicks, and Taubes all over the place. And I LOVED it. I had no IDEA families got together every Sunday night for supper…replete with singing, joke-hurling, news-tossing, and “60 Minutes” with dessert. It was a real eye-opener. Not only to witnessing whole new levels of expressing love, but also to a culture I was entirely oblivious to. Once I got keen at the family seders as to where the matzoh was hid and who ghostly Elijah was when he came through the door, I was hooked. I felt a part of something. And I adapted many of those early experiences into my belief system today. I’d been through Catholic and Buddhist phases, too. But the Jew thing got IN me, baby! It got IN me! I mean, I even dated MOSTLY Jewish chicks up until I met my wife. I LOVED their big, round tuchises SO much. Oy vey.
But, no, I’m not Jewish. Although I did use to go around declaring myself a “sub-Jew”.
Which brings me to Manischewitz. Now I remember always trying to sneak slugs of this stuff at family events. I knew it tasted like grape juice with something else added in there but I don’t think I was entirely clear that it was actual Kosher wine. And now all I wanna do is go out and pick up a bottle and do a video tasting of it for this blog.
So what about you? If you’re a Jewish person reading this, do you like Manischewitz? Are you even a wine person? And if so, can you simply bring any varietal you enjoy to rabbi and simply have the dude bless it for you? I’m very curious here. Comment below if you can. And what’s the “Concord Grape” thing about? And does the screw top offend you? Tawk to me…
One of the many goals I have for this blog is to post many videos of me acting like an idiot while I explore California wine country. I really enjoy being in front of the camera. Especially if all I have to be is myself. Simply because I can be extremely lazy and being myself doesn’t take a whole lot of work. Unless, of course, I plummet into despair or fall into a major depression or whatever. Then being myself becomes a sincere burden.
I took a hosting class earlier this year taught by Maureen Browne (one of the many encouragers of me starting this blog) and my prime objective there was to reinvent myself as sort of a Huell Howser / Hunter S. Thompson hybrid of hosting. But that seemed like too much effort so I chose to just stay being, y’know, myself. Only take it UP a notch. Especially technically. And so I took three months after I recovered from sinus surgery to completely re-do my office, switch from PC to MAC, invest in a much higher-quality camera… and learn entirely NEW editing software.
I’m not QUITE there yet. But I will be. I also MUST lose more weight because this nowadays HD bullshit can make you want to flee to a darkened den for the rest of your run. If I wanna be ON camera, I can’t look like a 500lb. ruddy Ron Perlman. I am WAY too vain for THAT. That’s one reason why I go get regular facials from my wonderful friend, Ricki. She’s the ONLY chick I know outside of my wife who has ANY interest in the Manson Family saga. So we’ll jibber-jabber away about Charlie, the girls, and other true crime tales while she scrapes the shit out of my face as I weep and shriek.
Meanwhile, here was my trip to Bravo Farms we made last year on the way up to Lake Tahoe for my kid sister’s wedding. Ever heard of an ELDERBERRY…?
Made in 2006 and now streaming on Netflix (and evidently a version of it aired on the Lifetime network???), “Alone with Her” is one of the most gripping suspense thrillers I’ve seen in recent memory. I’ve actually endured it THRICE now because I saw it once alone, and two more times on two other occasions with two separate friends (one male, one female). It’s THAT interesting. And nuanced. But I think I’ve seen it enough for now. It’s a rough ride. I mean, it’s essentially about the complete and total violation of an attractive, artistic, single woman named Amy (the delicious and talented Ana Claudia Talancón) by psychopathic, survelliance-equipment-savvy Doug (an unbelievably creepy, pre-“Dexter” Colin Hanks). I suppose you could consider this a “found footage” film… but I think it’s even more than that. I think it’s a pre-emptive strike on the terrible act of stalking.
I REALLY wanna make an independent film. Ideally, a scary one. And this one certainly proved that I could on a low budget. Director Eric Nicholas seriously knows how to dial up the dilemma-drenched dread.
The above-mentioned female friend I shared this film with lives on her own and I thought it imperative that she see this one. Much to my surprise, she was totally open to it, as she isn’t often easily lured to the cinematic dark side. My hope is the film inspired her to up the ante on her street smarts. I think so. I wimp-ly worry about ALL the women in my life, man. Especially here in Los Angeles.
WINE PAIRING: What helped a third viewing of “Alone with Her” go down easier was a most-refreshing French Rosé my friend generously picked up from Pace. I refused to polish the entire bottle but I most certainly could have. I was that unnerved again by the film.
I turned 44 on August 8th. I spent the evening with 4 beautiful women (my wife included) and ate gourmet sandwiches from Mendicino Farms and cupcakes from Sprinkles. We also drank grapefruit-y cocktails and enjoyed some hearty laughs. Then I popped in Depeche Mode’s Touring the Angel: Live in Milan and everyone started to fade. As the ladies left me one by one, I went ahead and took a few minutes to reflect on 44 years of life.
I really thought I would be much more successful and famous by now. Hell, I thought that when I turned 24 and 34. But as my friend Adam aka The Counselor always reminds me, “success” should never be defined by fame or fortune. The fact is, I have a pretty goddamn good life and I’m grateful. Yes, I’ve taken some very severe hits. And, no, I don’t have my own TV show on HBO or whatever. But I DO have the creative freedom to sit here at home on a Monday afternoon typing this stupid sentence. And while we’re not going to get to Ireland AGAIN this year because we are so psychotically worried about leaving our aging, ill pug Mickey behind, we’re still gonna be taking a few road trips with the dogs in the fall (including one big one to Napa Valley). That I even have the FREEDOM to travel and explore and eventually relay what I see and do with you here on this blog. That YOU might even care!
Which brings me to this point: I’m not feeling the urge to give up on my alleged “career” yet. I can’t anyway because I don’t know what the hell else I would do with my life, although I have fantasized about being a US Postal Worker.
44. Older. Fatter. Grayer. And my libido? ForGET it. I may as well still be 14 (with posters of Depeche Mode on my wall). My therapist encouraged me to seriously work on re-programming my brain to not think about sex all the time and re-direct that energy more towards my creative work. While I have mostly failed MISERABLY at this goal, I can say with a weak degree of confidence that I’m trying a little harder to do just that.
It’s so funny. My whole 44 years, I’ve heard how brilliant and talented and amazing I am.
Yeah…..and?
I’ve also always heard how NO ONE ever knows what the hell to do with me.
Y’know what?
That’s quite alright. I’m taking matters into my own hands now.
There’s just something about going back to the past that I tend to avoid. Not in this case. I forgot to mention that the wine I present to my childhood bud at the end of this video is a 2006 Monasterio de Tentudia, a 100% Tempranillo from Spain that will take you out at the knees, if you can find it.