The Worst Wine I Ever Drank

I was exchanging text messages with a friend recently, and topic of "conversation" hit the intersection of Eastern Europe and wine.  Don't ask how we got there--just know that we did.  It forced me to come to terms and deal with a very dark moment in my personal history.  The year was 1998 and I was on an oat-spreading tour of England.  "Study" Abroad at the University of Westminster, London, aka "The school you go to when you want to drink yourself half to fucking death and occasionally go to a class and bullshit about British loss of power in the post-war era".  They have university-sponsored pubs in the academic building lobby, for fucks sake.  It was a rollicking affair.  A photo exists of me, which assures that I will never be elected to political office (this photo only being line item #23 in a 50,000 item list of photos/quotes/videos damning me to hell and back should I make the mistake of running for anything), taking a short disco nap using Thanksgiving dinner as a pillow.  In all fairness, an esteemed colleague and I signed a non-negotiable contract to "Conduct a Thanksgiving Day bender in honor of our country (or some such wording)".  And what better way to honor the natives our forefathers slaughtered than to get pissed up to our tits in some other country that doesn't even celebrate the holiday?  There is no better way, so just quit thinking. 

Anyway, as Dre said "Back to the lecture at hand...".  It was a week night in the Hackney neighborhood that myself and several other unfortunate friends were buried in by the study abroad people.  Others were housed in lovely areas full of desirables.  Not so much us.  When we stepped off the bus on move-in day we convened looking for food.  We ended up in a kebab shop.  Mind you, this is within 2 hours of moving into our new neighborhood, which also happened to contain one of the biggest housing projects in the entire British Isles.  We ordered, and as we awaited our food, in walked a group of what would be considered white trash in the States, though I'm not sure what you call them in Jolly Old England.  Pikers?  They were fucked up six ways to Sunday and headed for a local football (read "soccer") venue for some hooliganism and bleacher finger-blasting of a similarly minded member of the opposite white trash sex.  One member of this high-society decided he didn't much care for immigrants, such as those owning and operating said kebab shop.  He began a show of taunting them, until they physically threw him out the door as he screamed that he was "Tony Fucking Montana" in a British accented version of Al Pacino's coat-hanger abortion of an attempt at a Cuban accent.  It was gorgeous.  He jumped over his wall of companions to punch one of the Kebabs in the head, and in the parlance of our times, "It's on".  The Kebabs began shouting some sort of shit that sounded like when you watch one of those CNN videos where they are pumping their fists as a group of dudes torches an American flag as other onlookers fire Kalashnikovs into the air (where do those bullets land, I've often wondered?).  They all came running out from behind their counter, some with metal rods that are used to affix the rotating kebab meat to the actual spinning disc, and one guy came storming out with a 9-inch knife, I shit you fucking not.  We were horrified but more or less trapped inside the kebab shop by the battle raging just outside the door.  For reasons which have never been clear to me, despite being 15 years younger on average and having no weapons save their own stupidity and drunkenness, the hooligans gained the upper hand and routed the Kebabs (yes, even the guy with the 9-inch blade).  Savvy as they were the young thugs knew enough to refrain from finishing them off and instead flee from the inevitable arrival of the bobbies.  As the Kebabs staggered back to their shop wailing in their native tongue, the main Kebab began walking towards me yelling something incomprehensible, but entirely menacing.  I was holding a soda I'd procured in the shop.  It seemed he thought I was part of the hooligan crew.  Thinking perhaps he was accusing me in Farsi of stealing the soda, I began to rummage in my pockets for money to throw at him.  It was at this moment that the head Piker, he of Tony Montana fame, came out of nowhere carrying a sewer grate of all things.  He said something to Kebab, who turned around just in time to catch the sewer grate square in the face.  Game, set, match to Piker.  Kebab went down like a Thai whore.  We knew this was the time to say our goodbyes and retreat to the housing complex.  I actually tossed some coins at the possibly dead Kebab on the ground and beat feet home.  This is where we lived.

So on the fall evening in question we wandered into a local bodega for libations.  They sold wine along with canned beans, Windex, 6 day old tubular meat, and the like.  Mind you this was wine in the purely academic sense.  It once had been grapes, it sat in a container somewhere, and it contained alcohol.  Given my status as both student and person who was fucking atrocious at managing his personal finances, I had with me approximately 7 pounds sterling as bartering chips.  My eyes alighted on the perfect junction of lack of funding and dire need to get fucked up: A bottle of Bulgarian Merlot at the very fair price of 2 pounds and 99 pence.  Beautiful, I'll take two my good man!  Why only one bottle of Bulgarian bliss when you have currency enough for two, I say?  We headed back to the aforementioned dorm flats to the common area kitchen that each shared.  By this time all the other international transfers knew that when the English-speaking students were in the common area, it was best to retreat to your own room and double-lock the door.  One amongst us, whose name I no longer recall, was the son of an Investment Banker from NYC.  Most of the rest of us were your average, run-of-the-mill 19 year olds looking to get fucked up for 4 months with no one to answer to.  So was he, but given his upbringing he knew enough that Bulgarian Merlot was not to be trusted and warned me as best he could.  I chose to ignore his advice and proceeded to pour myself a very tall wine glass full of the sweet elixir.  I recall the name of the wine translating loosely to "The blood of the bull".  Alas, if only it had been actual bull's blood I could have avoided much suffering.  When the corkscrew penetrated the cork it disintegrated as though it had been in a desert for 5,000 years.  This is a sure sign that you are about to drink wine of the finest quality.  At first sip I was acutely aware that it contained not only some sort of scrub-brush grape-like fruit from the hills of Bulgaria, but also motor fuel, ether, and the petrified screams of children.  In this epoch of my youth I did not let trifling matters like burning nostrils and stabbing pains in my abdomen stop me in my pursuit of a buzz.  So continue to drink this Eastern Bloc failure tonic, did I.  Needless to say the evening is not long on memories. 

I awoke the following morning, which is to say my short, labored breaths, heart palpitations, and blue-skinned cold sweating was interrupted by a period of painful wakefulness.  At this moment I knew what a recovering heroine addict felt like.  I realized at that very moment that failure was one possible outcome in life.  The room swayed like a boat in rough seas.  Though I have no proof and have never been certain if in fact this happened, I could have sworn there was an old Asian woman squatting in the corner, wafting incense in the direction of my soon-to-be corpse, reading chicken bones and chanting benedictions in an extinct language.  I am confident that during the remainder of that morning, as the skies blackened and the rain fell, Crom and Satan himself fought a pitched battle for my soul.  I like to think Crom won, but that is a matter for historians to decide.  The bards and minstrels still sing of the "The Night Of the Bull's Blood" at royal court banquets to this day, or so I've been told.

And that, my friends, is the worst wine I ever drank.   

Tis the Season for Bubble Talk Nerds

The NCAA Tournament is fun.  The upsets, the fantastic finishes.  One-and-done at its best.  In my opinion it does no better job of pairing the two appropriate teams for the national title game than does the BCS system in college football.  I actually think it does a worse job.  But that isn't the point, nor does it mean I think it is any less exciting because of that fact.  What is the point today is that the lead-up to the actual tip-off of the first game of the NCAA Tournament is one of my very least favorite times of year.  It is when every hyper college hoops fan with way too much time on their hands starts screaming to anyone who will listen that a 19-11 Virginia Tech team that was left out of the field is getting totally fucked in the ass with a sandpaper reach-around, while a 21-13 Washington State team doesn't deserve to be there.  It is by far one of the most frivolous, pointless, meaningless and utter wastes of fucking time that exists in the world.  Who gives a flying fuck?  Unless you are in charge of the yearly sports budget for the university who didn't make it, then why do you care?  Neither the team left out, nor the team who took their place, has a snowball's chance in hell of winning the whole thing.  Instead of crybabying around like a bunch of pussies, the "left outs" should just look in the mirror and say, "You know what Larry, we shoulda won another game or two and we wouldn't be in this predicament".  "Yep Chuck, you nailed it.  If we hadn't stayed out late getting lap dances from Belorussian whores back in December and lost the next day to Shitbag Tech at the Holiday Tournament, we are in the field of 68.  Lesson learned.".  But no, asshats are going to be shouting through the idiot box at hot heads watching from their living rooms about how the committee needs to be audited because Georgia Tech's win over Drexel back in December should be weighted more heavily than Alabama's win over UNLV in November.  The time would be better spent masturbating to grainy 1970's big bush porn.  At least something happens at the end.  Nobody "on the bubble", whether in or out, could ever win anyway.  Go argue the existence of dinosaurs with the Creationist wingnut who hangs out on the corner next to 7-11.  You'll get more satisfaction. 

Say it Ain't So, Joe

You know when you hear someone reference "Riding off into the sunset?".  Well, this is the exact opposite of that.  In a matter of days Penn State's reputation in the college sports world has gone from bastion of integrity and shining example of doing things the right way, to a place where young boys get their shit raped, in the fucking sickest, most vile manner you can imagine.  The Penn State football locker rooms and showers were just a Gimp shy of the "Zed's Dead" scene in Pulp Fiction.  And who knows, for all the covering up the assholes in charge have done, there may have been a special locker in the facility where the gimp slept.  Joe Paterno had the most golden of opportunities to leave on a high note when in 2005 he won the Orange Bowl against Florida State and their own past his expiration date coach Bobby Bowden.  But he didn't.  And now this.  His long time defensive coordinator, the man once in line to replace him at PSU, Jerry Sandusky is charged with various deviant sexual attacks on--at minimum--8 different boys.  And we're not talking about PSU football players here.  We're talking about young boys.  That couldn't much defend themselves.  Who were attending a boys camp.  Run by Jerry Sandusky.  Fucking YUCKY.  I can't even put enough :( 's in this post to express how vile this is.  On the one hand you want to feel sorry for JoePa.  He's coached the Nittany Lions for 40+ years and is an institution in college sports, a god in State College, PA.  Although we cannot be sure of anything here, presumably he's never raped any little boys.  He is now staring down being remembered as the guy who let boys get diddled in his locker room.  Whether fair or not, that is what will be left in everyone's collective memory: JoePa let some dude bang kids in the locker room.  When Joe was told by a graduate assistant that he saw Sandusky in the shower with a 10 year old boy, Joe met his minimum requirement by reporting this to his employer.  With emphasis on "minimum requirement".  Joe now says that he didn't take it further because the graduate assistant didn't give him details as to what he saw.  Fuck off Joe.  Even if this GA said, "JoePa, I just saw Sandusky in the shower with a 10 year old boy, doing what I believe was a Shakespeare in the Shower production of "The Rape of Persephone"", you coulda, absofuckinglutely shoulda done more.  I come from a family flush with law-talkers, and I know enough to realize that going to the police with only this information isn't much, but...."Hey, this GA saw something that sounds real bad in our locker rooms.  I didn't see it myself, and I know this is a fishing expedition at this point, but given the nature of what he says he saw, I want professionals to at least be aware."  Boom, done.  JoePa wants to skate on this chicken-shit "He wasn't real clear about what he saw in there".  Well guess what Joe, ain't gonna happen.  Just these three words should have resulted in a trip to the detective's station: "Sandusky......Boy......Shower".  Yeah Joe, you told your boss.  Good fucking job.  If I walked into the bathroom right now and saw one of our longest tenured employees in a shitter stall with a young boy, and somebody's dick was out--anybody's--I would walk into my boss's office, say "Hey, apparently Touchy McKidrape is a diddler.  You might want to report this to upper management.  The next thing I am doing is walking out of this office and calling 911, FYI".  And if it turns out this was a Thai hooker with a baby-face and a boy's haircut, and this guy is authorized by the entity we work for to fuck people in common areas, well I can live with that mistake knowing that I erred on the side of not only caution, but human fucking decency.  Sure, probably an embarrassing moment when management takes me aside to tell me hey, Touchy is permitted to fuck people who are of the age of consent in our bathrooms.  Mind your own fucking business next time, shitheel.  Egg on my face for sure, but my conscience is crystal clear.  And I'm an absolute nobody.  Literally like 7 people know who I am.  I am in charge of nothing.  Nobody expects a goddamn thing from me.  None of this applies to you JoePa.  You see, when you hang on into your 80's and become bigger than the program itself, and absorb all the love and adulation for being JoePa, the leader of men, the "every man", the "doing it the right way guy", well, you can't fucking hide from the bad things.  You are Penn State.  As a result, when an underling tells you he saw your right-hand man of 3 decades of coaching and winning titles anal-raping a child on school property--football showers to be precise--you react in a manner befitting JoePa the Institution.  That does not mean you report "something" to your boss (and who is really your fucking boss Joe?  No one, that is who.  You run shit in State College.  Act like it.) and then forget about it for 9 years while a known pederast is cruising around campus any time he feels like it.  You think Woody Hayes would have reported something like this to the Ohio State AD and then went about his business and never asked why the police weren't involved?  Hell no.  Woody probably would have gone to the deviant's house unannounced one night with 6 lineman carrying pipes and blow-torches, locked the door behind himself, and asked the piece of shit if he'd made his peace with God.  If you had come up to me out of the clear blue sky one day 2 weeks ago, and said "Who in this world absolutely does not stand for banging young boys?", there is a decent chance my first answer would have been, "Well, Joe Paterno sure as shit doesn't stand for that sort of tomfoolery".  But not this day Kemosabe.  It appears Joe Paterno does stand for that shit, so long as it doesn't interrupt his pursuit of all-time Division I football wins leader Eddie Robinson.  Good for you JoePa, this shit didn't hit the fan until a week after you eclipsed that all-important record.  Raped boys or no raped boys, you are Numero Uno my friend. 

And what, you might ask, would be an "appropriate response" for JoePa?  Here is the answer: Any fucking thing JoePa damn well pleased, as long as it resulted in NO MORE BOYS GETTING RAPED.  He could have literally done ANYTHING in that town, and no one would say bully about it.  When your graduate assistant tells you Sandusky is giving little 'uns the 'ol in-out in facilities you built with your national championships, you walk into a diner where Sandusky is enjoying his coffee, stroll over to his table, pull out a gun, and shoot him right in the goddamned face.  As the crowd looks at you in shocked silence, say "Eight year olds Dude" and walk right out.  Police would probably give you a medal.  "Thanks for saving the taxpayers the burden of prosecuting that piece of shit, Joe!" they'd say.  "Beat Michigan next week Joe" the crowd roars as you receive yet another key to the city. 

I really hope this finally puts into perspective Ohio State players trading their signature for skin art.  I truly hope it does.  I'm no psychologist, but I think most alumni polled would prefer that football players sign a poster and receive ink of Biggie and Tupac in Heaven on their back over disadvantaged young boys getting ass-slammed at summer camp in their football locker room, any day of the week and twice on Sunday.  I may be wrong on this, but I'd be willing to wager a hefty sum to back my answer on this one. 

I do not apologize for the length of this tome.  I do not.  We all lost this week.  Every last one of us.  If I cannot expect--no, actually if I cannot fully count on with no reservations--JoeFuckingPaterno going absolutely batshit Michael Douglas in "Falling Down" + Sly Stallone in First Blood x The Aliens in "Aliens", all cubed, berzerker and having to be pulled off Sandusky's jugular by police after he hears about kids getting raped in his locker rooms, then tell me this: What the fuck can I count on?

End of rant.  Really I'd like to say more, but I've got shit to do.  However, if someone tells me they saw someone bangin' kids in the shower at my house, I will gladly stop what I'm doing and handle it like a grown ass man. 

Are they Fucking Kidding Me with this College Tuition Shit?

I started some research this week into savings options for my 6 week old kid's college education, which will commence (of course barring some armpit hair hippy leftist rebellion of "I'm not going to college") in 2029. I did some projections of what tuition might cost 18 years into the future. Here is what I found: Go Fuck Yourself. You can talk to the hand, because the face ain't talkin' no more. All projections point to mid-range 4 year university tuition (unless of course my gal takes a Victory Lap 5th year like Da-Da) in the neighborhood of $50Billion. Well guess what? I'll show them by not even saving for it. Not one fucking dime. Instead I'm buying her a sweet soccer ball, a violin made from rare teak and strung with endangered Siberian tiger ligaments, and an abacus. Best to level-set her early and explain that she'd better kick, bow those strings, or mathlete her way into a full-ride....or be prepared to cook french fries. Because I don't see the point in even trying to pay for that bonkers bullshit. Besides what do you need college for anyway? I went there, and I want to jerk the car into a goddamn bridge abutment every morning on the way to work. If one of these scholarship-winning activities doesn't take it isn't a big deal. Like Judge Smails said, "The world needs ditch-diggers too".