Another outlandishly good Pinot from Davis Family… I got 3 bottles 3 days ago and they’re already all gone.  Not gonna be too creative with this one because I’m already more than half-drunk…

…but, to put things in perspective, let’s use the following anecdote:  I uncorked and then immediately re-corked a bottle of an otherwise good Santa Cruz Mountains Pinot tonight– only because I’d had this Davis Pinot two nights running and the other (much more expensive) wine didn’t hold a candle to the Davis.  So I corked the SCM wine back up and opened a new (and my last) Davis Family bottle.

The mouth feel on this wine is… well… crap… this is going to sound kind of queer for a straight guy to say… the mouth feel is velvety.  In an effort to redeem myself I’ll get juvenile and say it’s velvety like a willing vagina.  Happy now?

The notes say it’s “food friendly”, but I’m going to counter that by saying it’s far too good to waste on food.  This one is a sipper– last night I held it on my tongue for a solid 30 seconds and it just kept on letting loose with damn near obscene goodness.  At 5 seconds it said “how ’bout some ripe cherries?”.  At 10 seconds it said “How ’bout some strawberries and cream?”.  At 20 seconds it said “Did I mention there was a pound of butter in the strawberries and cream?”.  At 30 seconds I was thinking about aged Guatemalan rum and a moist cuban cigar.  Not once did I taste astringency, harsh tannins or get a pucker in my sphincter (or palate).

I can’t believe that something this good is supposedly good for your heart.  God bless resveratrol and the winemakers that allow us to enjoy it in such a magnificent form.  While I’m at it, I think I’ll praise some other shit I love that’s good for you:  God bless blow jobs and surfing.

I’m giving this wine 120 points on my 100 point scale.  I’ve been drinking far too much Pinot lately, and this is the best of the recent lot.

A friend of mine gave me this bottle of 76% Syrah, 21% Grenache and 3% Carignane a few months back, and I’ve been trying very hard not to drink it.  I figured, with 5 years of bottle age already, I’d give it another 2 or 3 and have myself one nice bottle of aged syrah.

Well, as typically happens when confronted with wine, my willpower gave out and now I’ve got my big sniffer buried balls-deep inside an incredibly rich glass of Santa Cruz grape juice.

I’ve always been a fan of Paul Draper’s wines.  I like his style.  Before native yeast fermentation was cool in California, Paul was doing it.  Ridge has also long adhered to sustainable farming practices, believing that the right thing for the environment is also the best thing for the wine.  Paul figured out, as the French did long ago, that if you care for your fruit in the vineyard, you don’t need to mess with it much in the winery. And, unlike me, Paul is eloquent and thoughtful about his passion, often speaking in terms not often heard in the corporate wine world.  If you haven’t seen it yet, check out From Ground to Glass, in which Paul is set in almost stark contrast to some of the more commercial wineries in the area.

From the label:

Forty inches of winter rain and a warm spring produced a good crop, despite further rain in May during set… Natural yeasts carried the wine to drynes; we pressed at seven days.  An uninoculated malolactic and twelve months in small cooperage followed… The dominant fruit is syrah, which provides structure.  Granache brings an exotic dimension to the fruit, and old vine carignane adds bright acidity and a touch of elegance.  A total of twenty-two months in air-dried American oak has brought the tannins and full body into balance, and five years of bottle age will bring further complexity to this fine wine.

It was that last part, written in July of 2004, that got me tonight:

five years of bottle age will bring further complexity to this fine wine

Some quick math on the world’s oldest calculator (my fingers) and I was ready to pull the trigger.

It pours a nice, deep, inky ruby, with just the slightest hint of amber around the edges.  The nose is of ripe dark fruit with just a breath of cedar and tobacco.  It smells well-aged and integrated, with not a singular component screaming out of the glass at you.

As a woman once said to me after head, it’s “a damn big mouthful” (sounded more like, “uth uh doom bug mufful”); and it comes with a similar viscosity too, coating the entire palate  with its goodness.  I’m getting plums and a touch of currant after smoking the first 2 pulls off of a moist robusto cigar.  At 13.8% ABV, it’s not a monster of a syrah; instead it’s a balanced, nuanced, perfectly ripe wine that would go well with food, despite the fact that I’m drinking it without.  The acid is there but mellowed, letting the true fruit flavors shine.  This is quite possibly the most complex and rewarding syrah I have ever tasted, and has me wishing I could speed up the clock and age the rest of my cellar to this perfection.

All in all, I’m giving this 02 Syrah a perfect score.  If you can still find any of this anywhere, buy it.  You’ll be glad you did.

Being of Italian ancestry, I have what some women have politely referred to as a Roman Nose.  Also known as a big fucking bump-in-the-middle dog-style power sniffer.  And like my canine counterparts, I’m led to and fro not by my genitals (usually), but by that monolithic – nay , phallic -  “old factory” olfactory factory stuck to my face.

This could be why I like titty bars.  More than the dancing, naked girls,  I think it’s that “stripper smell” that’s so oft referenced on the internet that gets me — baby lotion + cigarettes + something tropical from Bath and Beauty Works.  Maybe a little sweat, maybe not.  It’s a heady smell, for sure, and distinctive, and it usually means you’re in the middle of a fun night out and not at work or cleaning toilets.  I can be standing at the garlic bin in a grocery store and I’ll catch a whiff of that smell and say out loud “stripper”, and sure enough, a quick perusal of my vicinity will reveal a woman who’s just too done up in heels, fake boobs and studs to be anything but.  This has happened dozens of times.

Smell, as reference point to all sorts happy or hilarious memories.

Problem is, usually when strippers talk to you, it ruins everything.  So it’s a very, very delicate balance.

Needless to say, when it comes to my wine, it’s usually all about the smell.  If that first whiff knocks my socks off, all the wine has to do from there forward is not talk too much while it disrobes.

To further stretch this relatively useless build-up to my review of the wine, I need to give another anecdote:

I came in today after a long day of shoveling horse shit in my garden.  I was hot and tired and wanted something crisp and refreshing.  It just so happened that I had a new bottle of this Davis Chardonnay in my fridge, so I cracked it open, poured 4 fingers into my favorite stemless Riedel and immediately jammed my nose into the glass and left it there for several minutes, just bathing in the crisp, ripe Fuji apple, vanilla and touch of cinnamon aromas.  I basically went into an immediate flashback (I have them often, and sometimes at very unfortunate times) of my mom making apple pie from the tree in our yard.  There’s pie crust getting rolled out on the cutting board, some of which is baking in strips coated in sugar and cinnamon so I can have a pre-pie kid-snack, and there’s a big bowl of freshly-sliced Fuji apples coated in cinnamon and sugar in front of me.

The funny thing about my flashbacks is how they segue.  This one was so vivid that I opened my eyes in surprise, at which point one of those sci-fi vortexes ensued where the world blurs and rushes past with a big whhhooooooosh of white noise made of nanosecond memories, only to come to a screeching halt in a titty bar.  Standing in the frame where Mom was only seconds before is a 200 lb stripper with studs through both nipples on DDDD tits hanging down to her belly button.  She looks at me and says “hey baby, wanna see my cookie?” and then farts loudly.

And then “poof”, hallucination gone. So I pull my nose out of my glass, more than somewhat shaken but nevertheless ready and eager for sip #1, and….

…what the fuck is that horrible smell??!

Oh fuck, there’s a skunk on the patio.  That must be why the flashback ended with a stripper who weighed more than me.

My sense of smell has never gone from two such extremes.  From the glorious, crisp, flashback-inducing smell of this glass of Davis Chardonnay to a skunk not 20 feet from my door.  This is not a metaphor.  There was a real, living, breathing, stinking skunk in my garden trying to fuck up my wine time.

I was so pissed off at the skunk for tainting this damn-near perfect glass of wine that I immediately shot the fucker right there in my yard.  I know, bad idea.  Now THAT is a truly awful smell.  Fuckin’ skunk.

I’m going to have to come back around sometime in the future and do a proper review of the flavors peeling off this glass.  Remarkably, I can still smell Mom’s apple pie over the skunk, and I’m whole-heartedly enjoying this bottle despite the skunk’s efforts.  Guy Davis has gone to great lengths with this wine to preserve the character of the fruit– fermenting 30% of it in stainless steel in an effort to keep the fruit notes nice and bright by preventing malolactic fermentation; with the other 70% going into ultra tight-grain French oak (1/3 new, 1/3 1-year old, 1/3 2 years old).  The end result is a Chardonnay that has that vanilla-laced richness Chardonnay-lovers expect along with a bright, refreshing blast of fresh, clear fruit.  This is truly a summery Chardonnay, and is without question one of the best I’ve tasted, despite the now-dead skunk rotting out by my tomatoes.

100 points, plus 10 for helping me through the whole skunk thing.

I’ve heard the term “chasing the dragon” used to describe a heroin addiction before, referencing the fact that a junky is forever chasing the unattainable perfect high that comes from the first-ever hit.  Despite the fact that my experience with opiates consists of a couple of recent bouts with a nasty cough and the subsequent codeine-laced prescription syrup (I should probably review that stuff here– wow!), I am more than passingly familiar with the concept of chasing the dragon.  I’ve been doing it ever since I drank my first sip of MacPhail’s 2002 Toulouse Vineyard release.

That wine is singularly responsible for my Pinot Noir addicion.  I’ve been chasing the bouquet of that glass of wine — and the following 03, 04 & 05 vintages — ever since.  It’s responsible for thousands of dollars (actually it’s now in the tens-of-thousands) spent in pursuit of other wines that might — just might– have that oh so raucous smell.  I’ve flown to mainland Mexico 3 times on sky miles accumulated buying Pinot Noir in the last 2 years.  That’s a lot of wine.  The entire Russian River/Sonoma Coast wine industry should thank James MacPhail for sticking that first needle into my mainline.

In fact, at this point, I’m thinking that I should just say fuck it and pick up a heroin habit.  It’d be cheaper.

(Instead, I’m learning to make my own Pinot, which will definitely turn the tens-of-thousands I’ve spent on wine into hundreds-of thousands soon-to-be spent.  How do you make a small fortune?  Start making wine with a huge fortune).  So, in fact again, James’ wine from Toulouse vineyard has effectively ruined my life and doomed me to retire in destitute poverty, only to die face down with my nose jammed into a Riedel Pinot Noir glass.

And I don’t fucking care.  This 2007 vintage is that good.  I took one sniff right after I corked the bottle and it was like fireworks going off.  I actually said out loud (I was alone) “That’s it!”.  Then I ran into the house, grabbed my wife and jammed my glass under her nose and said “that’s it!” again.

The funny thing is, her response was “damn, it sure is”.

If I were told by a doctor that I could have one more glass of wine before dying and could pick from any wine on the planet, this is the wine I’d pick.  DRC be damned.

The first pour today showed toasty notes on the nose, maybe in the toasted walnut or toasted almond realm, with a light redwood bark backnote and a nice core of cherry cola.  There are some forest floor undertones too, but there’s a solid layer of ripe berry in there– think about the offspring from a strawberry that humped a blackberry– along with a hint of stone fruit (plums).  Really layered up.  In fact, it was so layered that I didn’t actually drink any wine for a good 5 minutes.  I just kept stuffing my nose in the glass.

When I actually did finally drink it, I was happy sit back and soil myself while those same layers peeled off one-after-the-other on my tongue.  Lots of sediment in the glass.  There’s a slight heat from the alcohol (14.8) but overall a really nice, soft and balanced mouthfeel.  This is a wine where one small sip can last you five minutes or more, despite being really new.  I can’t wait to see what it’s like a year from now and 5 years after that.  Assuming I can save any for that long.

MacPhail really is bringing out the best qualities in the Pinot Noir that’s being grown in the Anderson Valley and Sonoma Coast appellations.  Seems to me like he stays out of the way – native yeast fermentation, native malolactic fermentation and usually no fining or filtration, plus it seems like he keeps a watchful eye on harvest time and methods.  I don’t get a sense that he’s heavy-handed with the acid most-times, or that he waters his wine back.  Still not sure how he gets all those layers, though he does load up on clones and coopers in most vintages– this one has 4 clones (115,667, 777 and 2A) aged in 5 different kinds of new cooperage (not to mention the mature).

I realize I’m gushing here, but DAMN, I had one hell of a rotten week this week, capped off by one SERIOUSLY rotten day today, and one sniff of this wine brought a smile to my face.  This wine is why I drink Pinot Noir.  Try it.  No score needed.

I think it’s possible that I’ve been unduly ambivalent about Kosta Browne wines in the past couple of years.  In fact, I’ve called some of their past releases pretty awful things.  I think the words “overripe”, “flabby”, overrated”, and “grossly overpriced” have entered into my Kosta Browne discourse of late; and I think I’ve been unfair.

The glass of wine I’m drinking right now has me reconsidering everything negative I’ve ever said about KB wine.  Except the “overpriced” bit.  I’ll remove the “grossly” part though.  Fact is, I think I’ve had unwieldy expectations when it came to KB wine.  They’re so hyped up, so hard to get, that I was pretty much expecting every bottle to reach down and service me while I was pouring it.  Feeling cheated out of a oenological happy ending has seemingly ‘tainted (apostrophe intentional as a reference to the ‘taint that ‘taint your balls and ‘taint your ass either) my KB drinking experience in the past.

When I think back to the many bottles of KB wine I’ve enjoyed over the years, one thing comes to the forefront:  I’ve judged all others against KB (along with MacPhail and sometimes Kanzler).  They’re they bar, and they have been the bar for me since their first vintage.  So why have I been so negative about them over the past year or so?  Answer:  I’m a jackass.  I had a couple of minor KB bummers:  the 04 Cohn comes to mind right off the top, as does meeting their Director of Marketing at Pinot on the River; and these bummers colored my experience.

I know: I sound like a little bitch.  What kind of wine drinker am I?  Every wine maker from here to hell and gone has had one go south on him/her, or has tried something that the “fan base” didn’t much like.  Shit happens.  And hey, there’s a damn long wait for an allocation of KB wine, and they didn’t even have to be at Pinot on the River, so who cares whether I liked the guy pouring?  They were there, the arrogant fucker poured me a nice tall taste and I drank it and liked it.  So fuck it.

Anyway, I’m off-topic.  My wife made an orgasm face after her first sip of this ‘06 Russian River Valley blend, and I agreed completely.  Watch this video.  That’s the way we looked.

The nose is pure ripe fruit and Russian River spice, heavy on black fruit in the ripe plumb realm with undertones of clove.  One the palate there’s some toast– I get some cigar/tobacco in just the right amounts.  The mouth feel is soft enough to let you hold it on your tongue long enough for the thick layers of plumb, blackberry and black cherry to daisy chain into a gustatory orgy, the end result of which is a seminal explosion out the back of your fully-gratified skull.

Now that’s fucking good.

Do I have to give it points?  Ok.  150 points for the load I shot in my pants.  Subtract 25 for the price tag.

The following tasting notes were missing from my recent shipment of 07 Ketcham Estate Russian River Valley Pinot Noir, so I thought I’d do the winery a favor and post them here:

Greetings dedicated allocation buyers!  It never ceases to boggle my mind how infinitely wise and amazingly handsome you are, especially you Juanote.  I hear you’re well-hung too.

Well, 2007 was a banner year for most of us making Russian River and Sonoma Coast Pinot Noir.  Unfortunately, you won’t recognize that immediately in our 2007 Russian River blend.  In fact, you probably shouldn’t open it yet.  In fact, on second thought, you definitely shouldn’t open it yet, unless you have an affinity for the tightness of nun’s assholes.  We added so much tartaric acid to this shit that you could substitute it for the cran part of a vodka cran, and the tannins will definitely need some time to get tired of kicking the shit out of those cranberries.

So please, do yourself a favor and just savor the anticipation of opening one of these bottles.  Stare at them in your cellar.  Talk about them with friends.  Let the dust settle in on them.  But whatever you do, don’t actually drink one for at least another year.  One day each and every one of these bottles is probably going to be phenomenal enough to jizz thy jeans.  Or at least, we like to think so.

But hey, it sure does smell good though!

So there you go.  If you must drink one now, decant it and have some stanky cheese handy.  Otherwise, I’m pretty sure these will be worth the wait if you sit on them for awhile.  Their last vintage was the same way:  I really didn’t like it when it was new, but I absolutely loved it a year later.

It’s a Pinot Noir under $20 ($14.99 where I got it) that tastes like… well… Pinot Noir.  This is a good thing.  In fact, I tasted this stuff alongside a $30 bottle of Boxcar 06 Russian River Pinot and a $68 bottle of 05 Cumbre Hicks Vineyard Pinot (Santa Cruz Mountains, Vine Hill) and preferred the Adelaida, without question.  It’s well-balanced, crisp and full of fresh red fruit. And it tastes like a Pinot, not like a watered down cab, or a runny ass, or a sour, underripe Syrah, which is what a lot of cheap Pinots can end up tasting like.

With the economy in the US sucking a dried up and curdled hind tit, bargain wines are going to be coming back to the forefront in this industry, which could come perilously close to killing California’s fragile Pinot Noir industry.  California Pinot is, if I may say so, the best quality Pinot in the world (we’ll have to pretend that the rest of what I write here is now being shouted over an angry French mob).  But that quality comes at a price.  Growing and making top-notch Pinot in California requires  a whole lot of care, a nutload of time and vigilance, and a fair measure of luck.  Because the Pinot grape is such a fickle little wench, winemakers who are crazy enough and/or passionate enough to work with her have done so comfortable in the knowledge that if he/she has success with the grape, he/she can turn it over and sell it for top dollar to dumb winos like me.

No more.  At least, not now.  Despite not really feeling the sting (yet, knock on wood) of the downturn, I’ve scaled back my allocations from Cali’s boutique Pinot wineries because the over-hyped news media, in search of ratings, keeps scaring me into thinking that the world is coming to an end.  For the record:  I don’t belive them.  But… just in case….  I stored up 25 cases of my own homegrown Pinot so I’ll have some in the cellar if the shit hits the fan.  While my labor of love is sleeping for the winter in some nice French oak barrels, I’m out in the field in a maniacal search for drinkable “drinkers”.

Hence the Adelaida.

I have no idea how Adelaida was able to produce this wine for $14.99 retail.  At that price, I don’t want to know how beat up the fruit must have been when it came in, or what they had to do to it to bring it home as palatable as it is.  I don’t even want to know where the fruit came from, though I could likely find out by reading the bottle if it weren’t so far away (the kitchen).  I know nothing about the winery, and might just prefer to keep it so.  Then again, maybe they own the vineyard and because of the volume of red blends they produce, could throw this very nice Pinot into the mix without a whole lot of extra overhead.  I dunno.  I don’t care either.

I do know, however, that I’ve always liked Adelaida wines.  They’ve had a few in the past that I found to be very drinkable and food friendly– a certain vintage of Zin comes to mind, I think, though I can’t remember details because I drank the whole bottle to my head without a notebook handy.  But, when I saw they had a Pinot on the shelf at my favorite liquor store, I was excited because they’ve always produced fair dinkum drinkers.  That means solid, reliable drinkers, for the one guy out there who never watched the Croc Hunter.

So I’m gonna give the Adelaida a straight up 90 out of 100 points.  I bought 3 bottles of it today and will drink them happily and ponder which of my remaining allocations to cancel unless the makers drop the price a bit.

I just had a religious experience.  This wine left me completely prostrate, surrendering myself –  prosate and all — to the wine Gods.  It was so good that I almost cried when the bottle was empty.  Actually, I’m lying.  I did cry.  Like a baby.  To tell you the God’s honest truth, it was so good that the last sip left me wanting more so much so that my wife had to beat me with a stick to keep me from opening the other bottle (our last) in my cellar. She won, so… thankfully, I’ll get to enjoy this stuff again.

But I think there’s something to be said for timing.

Now, I absolutely love Kanzler wine, and I had this wine a year or so ago and liked it.  But it didn’t jump out at me.  In fact, I remember thinking it was a little bit big, maybe a little tight.  Suffice to say, the last year was very kind to this wine.  I honestly can’t imagine any wine being better tasting, richer or more balanced than the bottle I just drank at 7:00pm on January 19th, 2009.  If this wine isn’t peaking right now, then the next time around I won’t be surprised if it induces an hallucination featuring me, 4 naked bisexual women and a hot tub.

Being in Northern California is pretty much a Pinot lover’s dream.  There are simply so many small wineries like Kanzler that you’ve never heard of but produce outlandishly good wine.  Kanzler is a small, family-owned-and-opererated operation.  I have no idea how much wine they produce, but it can’t be much.  They sell some fruit to Kosta Browne, which is how I discovered them back in 2004, and they make their own wine with the rest.  But, I have to say, winemaker Greg Stach’s expression of Kanzler’s fruit is truer and tastier than the much-hyped Kosta Browne variety, in my sometimes humble opinion.

I’m not going to get into the traditional “ripe black cherry and spice” aroma and flavor wheel breakdown here.  The wine is simply this:  Amazingly tasty.  A phrase that’s such a no-no in the wine-descriptor rulebook that you’ll never hear Robert Parker say it, but dammit, that’s just the way it is.  To use an over-used phrase that is allowed in the rulebook, it explodes in your mouth.  I’ll even skip the obvious porno segue here, out of respect for the glorious flavor explosion that is this wine.  The mouth feel is super velvety, which allows you to just hold it there endlessly, letting it fire off round after round of glorious… flavor.  The finish lasts forever.  I mean, 10 minutes later I could still taste my last sip as clear as a bell.  I just followed up my last glass with 4 cookies and a sausage and I can still clearly envision the flavor of my last sip of 2005 Kanzler.  Really.

I’m going to give this bottle the highest review I’ve ever given:  200 points, no deductions.  It’s perfect.

I’m going to take a break from my usual crude, juvenile alter-ego and post something straight up here:  if you like wine and want to do a wine club, the Davis Family Vineyards “Friends of the Family” wineclub is hands-down the best one I’ve ever found.  Most wineclubs I’ve found will sometimes ship some oddball or mediocre stuff just to make sure they can fill out the shipment.  A winemaker may not have 3 different vintages of good wine that’s ready to send, so he/she will send you some filler wine.  The worst wineclub I’ve ever joined was Bonny Doon Vineyards DEWN wineclub– Randall Graham shipped me some outright rank wine as part of that endeavor, while giddily charging me way too much for it.

Now, I’ve been in the Davis Family wineclub for 4 shipments now, and not a single shipment has been average.  Every single bottle of wine they’ve sent me has been absolutely outstanding.  Every single one has been a bottle that one would normally save for a special occasion.

The first shipment I received included 6 bottles of their ‘06 Old Vine Zin.  This stuff comes from 106 year-old vines on their property near Healdburg, CA.  It’s without question the best zin I’ve ever had.

The next shipment consisted of 6 bottles of their ‘06 Pinot Noir, also an estate wine.  I found Davis in the first place because of their outstanding Pinot, so this one was no surprise to me.  I will write a separate review of their Pinot when I’m in the mood… but it should suffice to say that it’s consistently, year after year, one of my favorite wines on the planet.

The next shipment included 6 bottles of their Gusto Sauv Blanc.  Guy Davis goes down to Australia in our springtime and crushes Sauv Blanc at his vineyard in the Marlborough region, then brings it back for his lucky wineclub members.  Once again, unquestionably the best Sauv Blanc I’ve ever encountered.  Really crisp citrus, really bright, really balanced.  This is a wine that you almost feel bad not cellaring…. but it’s s sauv blanc, so you’ve got to drink it up…. and so I did.

The next shipment incuded 3 bottles of their estate Syrah and 3 bottles of cab.  I’m not a big Cab guy these days, but this cab is wonderful and will age out and become something super special.  But the Syrah blew my mind.  It’s the most food-friendly Syrah I’ve ever seen.  Basically all-around friendly:  he blended some Viognier with it believe it or not, and the result is this spicy backbone with a velvety smooth front-end.  I’ve never tasted a Syrah like this.  Just unreal.

Thinking the Syrah was unreal, I did a little research, and found this from Robert Parker:

A sensational discovery, this 2006 Syrah from a two and one-half acre block was co-fermented with 3% Viognier. Its dense ruby/purple color is followed by an exquisite nose of blackberries, spring flowers, earth, and subtle wood. In the mouth, the wine exhibits beautiful concentration, peppery, creme de cassis flavors, good acidity, and ripe tannin. Its seamlessness, purity, complexity, and length are all impressive. It can be drunk now and over the next 5-7 years. Four hundred and twenty cases were produced. 94pts.

Now, I’ve always thought that Parker was a bit too powerful for his own good… but…  he’s right, in this case.

Point being:  all these wines came to me as part of a wineclub.  With the Davis wineclub, the UPS guy shows up and consistently brings me wine that is WAY better than I expect it to be.  It’s the way a wine club ought to me.  ‘Nuff said.

Picture yourself for a moment in the grotto at the Playboy Mansion, that legendary subterranean semen-laced hot tub wherein generations of women have allowed themselves to be ravished by innumerable lucky bastards. You’re the only dude, and you’ve just polished off a bottle of Dom with a tub full of Bunnies. On your left is Kendra. Not only is she butt naked and drunk, but she also has laryngitis and can’t talk — a huge bonus. On your right is Holly, no longer with Hef so you don’t feel bad about what you’re about to do with her. She’s also butt naked and looking at your meat like a starving dog. Bridgette’s on your lap, wearing the same imaginary swimsuit as the others. Across the tub is a ring of Playmates. Let’s say the Playmate of the Year for every year since 2000.

Picturing?

Now let’s just say that they’ve all demanded you have at ‘em, in sequence, starting with the 3 closest to you.

You lift Bridgette up, bend her over, stand up to take aim and…. nothing. Your favorite brain is shriveled up — in fact crawling back up into your nuts — which are shrinking up like you’ve been sitting butt naked in the snow for an hour watching Ron Jeremy sing oldies while wanking himself. A case of good old fashioned Whiskey Dick.

I would think that I would first experience a brief moment of utter panic, which would exacerbate (I tried really hard to rhyme that with masturbate in a meaningful manner) the shrinkage, followed by a frantic tugging on my mangled member (maybe could have pulled off the rhyme here), followed by embarrassment with a primal rage backer; rage at the unfairness of catching a whiff of such a bevvy of buxom naked beauties, yet being completely unable to do anything meaningful with (or to) them.

This is what happened to us last weekend, when our tastebuds went dumb for 2 whole days. Well, the wine drinking equivalent of this happened, at least. I’ll now do my best to recount the evening, and I’ll hope that J David and BJR will chime in too, until you get the picture.

Juanote’s Experience:

I’d been working my way up to this for awhile. Meaning, I’d been drinking excessively — I call it training — each night (see afternoon), gradually extending both intensity and duration of my workouts. And I was training on ridiculous… equipment. What I’m trying to say is that a shitload of allocations all came in at once, preceded by the aforementioned (in another review) Pinot on the River festival, and that I’d been drinking wine I can’t afford to drink like the fish that I am.

In short, by not drinking any shitty or even average wine for a good 2 months, I had lost perspective. Not only that, I had pretty much shunned my favorite breakfast cereal (aka beer), and my favorite nutritional supplement (aka tequila).

Meaning this: I’d bet even Hef, while living with 3 young bombshells, every now and then had to look at some granny porn in order to fully appreciate what he had in the sack with him.

Then I got stage fright. Seeing all those wines – all those insanely tasty wines – all lined up waiting for me, I just flat out got over-stimulated and panicked. A sort of oenological premature ejaculation.

The wines all tasted the same. I kept saying to myself, Self, how can this be? These wines can’t possibly smell and taste totally identical, can they? And self said back to me, Shut the fuck up, you’re drunk.

Then came the acid.

Even though this event was beginning to take on hallucinatory characteristics, I’m talking about tartaric acid here, not the good kind. See, a few months back while testing the pH on my wine (the wine I’m making), we determined that I needed to add some acid in order to keep it in balance. I made the mistake of tasting the concentrate we’d made from a couple of gallons of grapes and the acid powder. Like sticking your finger in a light socket while you’re Johnson is submerged in a glass of ice water.

If you’re asking how I know what sticking my finger in a light socket while my Johnson is in a glass of ice water feels like, Good For You: you’re paying attention.

Anyway, you never forget the taste of pure tartaric acid concentrate. It’s just fortunate for me that up until this particular fiesta I’d not connected that taste to a good bottle of wine. But for this particular 2-day period, it’s all I could taste. All I could taste was tartaric acid. Now, I’m relatively sure most of these wines were not acid bombs. I’m fairly certain every one of these wines was outstanding. But all I could taste was acid. My taste buds went dumb.

So on the BoozeReviews sliding scale, I’d have to rate myself a -1, then deduct 5 more points for the actual whiskey dick that followed after drinking all that wine.

J David’s Experience:

Dropped the ball on this post, should have chimed in during the creative process. The lineup was an embarrassment of riches as explained through the Hef analogy. Can’t help but wonder if it was us (dirty rottten little ‘buds, you guys let me down) or the wine. I have noticed a strange phenomenon among winos when great wines don’t drink well: blame the effin wine! Rather than acknowledge any shortcomings (interesting pun, I too underperformed that night) winos begin espousing conspiracy theories. “These bottles are clearly suffering from travel shock,” or “proper aeration is necessary for this wine to show well,” or “the asparagus in the dinner entree skewed our palates.” The list goes on and on.