Sunday, August 19, 2018

Saturday, August 18, 2018

Wednesday, August 15, 2018

wine a little or get off my flow chart

I found this flow chart on winefolly.com.

In my humble opinion, if it's not fruit of the vine, it aint wine.

I've been pondering the proper name for wines that are made from substances other than grapes.  In Mongolia you can get fermented mares milk with a blood garnish called Kumis.  A drink made from fermented honey is called mead.  Hard cider comes from apple cider.  I wouldn't call any of these wines.  They all have their own distinctive name that separates them from other alcoholic beverages.  Why would something made from watermelon and walnuts share the same general name as Malbec, Chardonnay, or even Concord?  Truth is, they don't.  That other-than-grape fruity stuff is called country wine, to separate it from the real thing.  I tend to think it needs a few more degrees of separation, like maybe calling it country whine.  But I digress...
    
This flow chart not only gives me an idea what to make next but it sheds a little light on why some of my friends get box wines and others prefer the lollipop, tooty-fruity, "country wines" that fill the shelves of every winery around here.

Or should I say whinery?

 

Thursday, August 09, 2018

themask of undoogoo

Before Undoogoo would begin to venture into the jungle on his daily hunt, he would don a mask to confuse his prey.  Not a mask to frighten.  No.  Undoogoo's mask was pleasant to look at, designed to trick his quarry that he was harmless.  In this way, Undoogoo was able to get close and strike a lethal Blow.  Which is exactly what he had in mind the day he spied a beautiful creature drinking at a watering hole.  Hiding behind his benign facade, he positioned himself alongside his intended victim and prepared to attack.  But what Undoocoo didn't know about this "beautiful creature" was she was also wearing a mask.  A mask that successfully camouflaged a fierce and merciless predator.  And so it was that Undoogoo suddenly found himself devoured, torn apart, eviscerated.  His screams echoed through the jungle.  But the jungle was accustomed to the sounds of agony, and no one came to his aid.  Bloodied and barely alive, he managed to escape and crawled back to his village where, to his horror, he discovered his tormentor had taken possession of his hut.  Now, helpless and homeless he was forced to live the rest of his days in the wild, feeding on what dung beetles feed on.

The moral of the story:

Mask or not, if you hunt without a prenup, pack some ketchup for the dung. 

Wednesday, August 08, 2018

a morning thought

Mornings are the worst.  The mind seems undefended, easy prey for both memories and imagination.  What happened.  What should've happened.  What might happen someday.  Your fault, my fault, no ones fault.  The only way is to get up, empty the bladder, drink the coffee, read the paper, run the treadmill, perform the animal sacrifice, paint the chicken blood on the groin and call upon the demonic spirits to bring you back.

Nights are bad too.  Once again, exhaustion makes the mind vulnerable to abscessing over woulda, coulda, shoulda.  The only thing to do is sit alone and eat the chicken which was senselessly murdered in the morning.   

Tuesday, August 07, 2018

Sunday, July 29, 2018

q wraps it up



The left is toast.  If You're not a Trump supporter, I suggest you employ some critical thought and re-evaluate your position.

#walkaway