Early one morning about a week prior to Christmas, I pulled up to Metrovino with a van full wine that had just been liberated from our warehouse. With All Kindsa Girls by the Real Kids blasting from the van speakers, I began hoisting the cases up onto the loading dock - one of December’s delightfully Sisyphean acts.
The desire for revenge can be obsessive. I wonder if this has been important for survival over the course of our evolution; after all, our insatiable thirst for vengeance is still acute after millions of years of human development. Perhaps those with the capacity to avenge transgressions against them have proven to be better survivors.
Shadows flit over crimson damask like spectral ravens forlornly seeking purchase in limpid pools of blood. Despite its effulgence, my candelabra is a feeble agent against the illimitable dominion of gloom in my chamber. I say chamber, but rightfully it’s a tomb - and one whose oppressiveness acquiesces not to the influence of cheery iridescence, hyacinthine aromatics nor dulcet tones from the phonograph.
“Beaujolais is for drinking, more so than any other wine. The classic swirl, sniff, sip, swish and spit approach us pretentious wine "professionals" flaunt so regularly doesn't properly encapsulate the soul of the best Beaujolais. One must invoke the "gulp" or the "chug" technique to unveil the full beauty embedded within these captivating wines. And with price tags a fraction of their big brothers in northern Burgundy, this proper testing technique can be enjoyed while still making your mortgage payments.”