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This page contains Winings from the 3rd Quarter of the year 2004. To contact WinoBob, click here September 28, 2004 In what can only be described as a Night Quill high, I
have been without wine for almost a week.
I cannot write about wines I have enjoyed as I have not enjoyed any
wine since last Tuesday. The
dreaded cold bug has flattened me to the point of having few taste buds
available to discern the beautiful flavors of my favorite beverage.
So this entry is nothing more than a Larry King type dot, dot, dot
column. Borrowing from Erica Jung, which I had to read in
college, I have a Fear of Flying. Not
the traditional Fear of Flying, just a fear of flying when my head is
stuffed and my sinuses are dripping like a leaky sink.
Geek trip to Chi town is tainted by the lack of taste buds available
and the clogged head of runaway mucous production.
Nothing worse than the pressure changes of altitude that sends
blinding pains through my cranium. Hopefully
by the middle of the week, I can have wine with one of my meals.
If I go without wine this week, I will be in serious trouble. I
will be clean and sober and feeling good every morning when I wake up.
What fun is that? I don’t know if you have a junk week in your town,
but our town is limited to mass junk only once a quarter. This week is that week and the funny thing I discovered about
myself is the pride I take in throwing out good stuff.
I mean, I put out several things that still have life in them and
then wait to see how long it is before a car slows down or stops to pick it
up. I was in a Night Quill
sweat yesterday as a chair I was sure would go in several hours, was still
curb side late yesterday. What,
you don’t want my garbage? How dare you! But by lights out last night, I looked street side from my
bedroom window and to my delight, the chair was gone. Gone, yes, resting comfortably in someone’s home finding
another life, the chair, the junk chair from my TV room is now in someone
else’s home. I will drive
around town next January and see if the people that picked up the chair,
re-junk it. Friday night I went into the city to see a play written
by my friend, Winette Tia. Yes,
clad in Manhattan black and sweating from the parking experience, I made it
to the Pelican Theater to see Puddin.
The great part of the experience is knowing the play writer and
hearing her voice in each character. It
was an inspiring night as the message of forgiveness, family and tradition
weaved its way through this humorous presentation of Roletta’s bread
pudding recipe being covered by a local newspaper.
It has as much to do with bread pudding as it has to do with the
trials and tribulations of life, love and friendships.
This was the first play of Winette Tia’s I have been to and it was
an enjoyable way to spend a Friday evening.
My wish for her is that the play finds itself to Broadway and runs
for several years. Good Luck
WT. As you can see, the lack of alcohol has my mind twitching, but I didn’t want to let too much time go by without a posting. I hope Chicago has me feeling up to a good drunk and waking with that dull headache, the shakes and a queasy stomach. At least I know by the end of the day, I can get over that, not like this stupid cold that makes me feel that way without the enjoyment of stumbling, slurring and passing out. September 27, 2004 In what can be described as the wino Pythagorean theorem,
such that; I like wine(squared) + I like NJ (squared)= I like NJ wine
(squared). So in a generous,
altruistic move on my part, I have volunteered to help out at the Grand
Harvest Wine Festival this Sunday. I
look forward to seeing as many of you as possible.
So if you are not busy come on out to Alba Winery and enjoy the
bounty of the Garden State.
Matt Drudge has his sources, CBS has theirs. We,
at WinoStuff, usually just make things up.
Yeah, it’s hard to get a scope on wine industry news when no one in
the wine industry speaks to me. But
things are changing. Yes, I think we have finally scoped the Spectator
on this one. Hot from the
inside town hall information loop in Bayonne, NJ (the capital of wine volume
production in the Garden State) is our own embedded reporter.
Dressed in her grape vine hat and cement-colored khakis, Winette
Alice risked life and limb to uncover this beauty.
ittle known fact to the
rest of the wine world, but a pet research project of the WinoStuff staff is
the fact that the Royal Wine Company of Bayonne, NJ bottles the majority of
wine in our state. Though they
cannot cultivate grapes in the terroir of the region, namely asphalt,
cement, crude oil, sulphur fumes and iron; they cart in grapes from wine
regions around the north east and produce tanker-truckloads of kosher wine. Now the Herzog family is bringing chocolate
manufacturing to Bayonne, marrying two of Wino John’s dietary staples. Wine and chocolate go well together and seem to induce a
drowsiness in the aforementioned WJ which has him stashing bottles of WinoStuff
Magical Red Wine Stain Removing Elixir near
every couch and chair in his home. Note to WJ, we should approach Herzog with a holiday bundle
featuring wine, chocolate and the WMRWSRE
for those who fall asleep with a bon-bon in one hand and a glass of cabernet
in the other. Your couch fabric
and carpet will love you long time for treating them so well. Special thanks to WA for uncovering this hot item and
here’s hoping Wino Paul can remove the cement and vine covering before
Saturday night. (you know what I mean…)
September 19, 2004 I spent the morning reorganizing the cellar.
Yes, there were many of those off projects that I have been saving in
the basement, which never got finished.
Our town has this crazy rule that you can only throw out garbage once
a quarter. Not regular trash, I
mean fall cleaning garbage. For
years I have been saving odd shit, in a 'someday' pile.
You know, someday, I’ll make a coffee table out of this broken
shutter and stickball bat. You
know, someday I’ll make a custom wine bottle rack out of this old wheel
barrel, fence post and Tonka truck. You
know someday, I’ll fix this garden hose with some duct tape so I can water
the crab grass. You know
someday, I’ll lay out all the golf clubs in a neat pile and see if any of
them are actually from the same brand.
Then someday, I’ll take the clubs that match and go to the driving
range and see if I can hit the ball in less then an obtuse angle from the
tee. Someday, someday, yes
someday, my basement is clogged with somedays and I have one week to
determine which will survive and which will make the September 27th
junk week.
I never realized that garbage men could only take away certain
garbage at certain times of the year. How
do the landfills know? So today turned into someday, that someday when the
boxes and bags of a fertile imagination during the pre-blackout drunk found
their way to the door, in front of the stairs, that leads to the bilco
doors, that leads to the path, that leads to the curb where all these dreams
will soon be crushed by the 50 ton hydraulic press inside the WM catering
service truck. My someday has
arrived and the 2 cubic yards of wine-induced inventions will head to their
final resting place. The someday ritual did get me to rearrange my wine area
and dust off some things that were hidden away in a fit of
get-it-outa-sight-itis. In
turn, I rearranged the stemware in my wine glass rack and pulled up my
infrequently used Sommelier Series Reidel Syrah glass.
I have not used it in a long time, so I bathed it; hand toweled it
and decided it needed some wine. Fortunately,
the Giants and Panthers both put a win on the board and it strengthened my
desire to fill that expensive glass with a wine befitting a celebration. During the game, I swilled a chard just to wet my whistle,
but with dinner, I splashed a hearty red in that fine crystal goblet.
So I sit here, with the last light of day tucking itself behind the
aged oak tree in Wino Bruce’s yard, my glass enveloping a seductive
Aussie, and my mood pleasantly altered by the outcome of a game.
It’s fall and it’s Sunday and football season makes any wine
taste better. 1998 Punters Corner Spartacus Reserve Shiraz
$$$ (65.00) 2003 Mirassou Chardonnay Central Coast
$ (8.99) September 18, 2004 No matter how many times I tell myself that living in the burbs is great, there is just something about New York City that is electrifying. I have never lived in a big city, always had that small patch of green grass, or some semblance of grass around a stand-alone dwelling. Yesterday, the Geek World had me calling on one of a handful of accounts that still reside in NYC. The customer is the construction shop at CBS studios on 57th. Yes, all the clarity of transmission on your television set is a result of the superior connections they make on all their cabling with one of the products we sell them. Now if we can only find a way to rewire Dan Rather’s circuitry, he might not be the center of attention right now. It’s interesting to see news organizations hunting
news from competing news organizations as camera crews took B footage of the
building. Walking east on 57th from
the parking garage to the main CBS building, with the pulse of the street at
a 160 over 110 blood pressure, just juices me.
It has been awhile since I last supplied them with new equipment,
their budgets have been tight and their personnel has been trimmed.
Since I didn’t remember my way through the halls, I waited in the
lobby for my contact to escort me to the model shop in the basement.
Sitting in the leather chairs in the lobby I marveled at watching
remote crews sign out equipment on their way to a breaking story, seeing
segment producers walking to the coffee kiosk in their jeans and golf
shirts, and seeing what must be the behind the scenes power brokers in their
Armani suites and hand tailored dress shirts.
One guy standing several feet to my left, chatting with a visitor,
wore a pin striped navy blue suite, form fitted and the four buttons on his
suite jacket sleeve were unbuttoned in a purposefully unkempt manner.
Now I have had the luck of acquiring several expensive suites over
the good old days, and the four buttons on the suite jacket cuff have
stitching to simulate active buttonholes, but this dude actually had working
buttonholes on the jacket. I
believe his suite costs more than the 1997 Ford Explorer I just bought.
I looked down pathetically at my K & G special sport jacket with
three plastic buttons sewn relatively close to the cuff that was put
together by some 9-year-old Guatemalan girl for a glass of orange juice and
a dollar. Holy Crap Marie, this
is a different world. I just don’t fit into the city scene, though it has a
sex appeal that is enticing. When
I walk through the street, through it’s glass and cement, it reminds me of
the base of Bright Angel Trail in the Grand Canyon.
The same smallness overcomes you though the material and structure
are millenniums apart. The
thing that I don’t do well in the city, is the parking garage ritual.
I usually pull in and pause at the first sign, then realize it says
proceed to the stop sign and the attendant is waving me to a different
stopping point and the guy behind me has a monthly pass and is looking to
get to his spot. Then I hop out
of the car and unconsciously take the keys from the ignition and head
towards the guy writing what I think is my license plate on the stub, only
to find out it’s the guy three cars before me.
My turn comes and I stumble in my mind over how long my meeting will
last, sometimes underestimating it and they get pissed cause I have my car
tying up a close spot. Sometimes
I over-estimate and they have to hike up four floors and dig my car out from
the back of three cars bumper-to-bumper in front of mine.
I often get this elevated heartbeat as I zero in on the garage
driveway, looking around for someone that looks like a city dweller and
ready to ask him or her to drive my car correctly to the attendant. Hey lady, want to make twenty bucks? That usually gets me a loud response and weird looks from
people on the street. They then
know I’m a 973er (that’s city code for Jersey assholes- they demean you
with your area code). Don’t
you know, all the hookers hang out by the Lincoln tunnel after 11PM, by the
parking deck after 11AM, stupid Jersey guy. Frapped by the blending of parking panic and city
seduction, I have only one way to unwind at the end of the trip. My friend, my comfort zone, my plumb line, a bottle of red
wine will do the trick. So I
took to the wine store and grabbed a bottle of Aussie shiraz and sat
enjoying the magnificence of the Big City and the cocooned comfort of the
small stand alone dwelling in the burbs some 15 miles west of the heart of
America and some light years away from its soul. 2000 Fighting Flat Shiraz
$ (15.00) September 16, 2004 If any of you winos have nothing to do on October 3,
come on down to the last bash for the NJ wine industry. Your favorite wino will not be there, but I will.
Here are the details. CELEBRATE
THE HARVEST AT
THE GRAND
HARVEST FESTIVAL at
Alba Vineyards, Finesville, NJ Nonn
to 5:00 pm Celebrating the harvest season is a centuries old tradition. But the Garden State Wine Growers Association has come up with a new way to celebrate -- a Harvest Festival of Wine. For the eighth year this celebration will be held at Alba Vineyards in Finesville, New Jersey; this year on October 2nd and 3rd from noon to 5:00 p.m. This is the last festival of the year and the last time until May 2005 festival attendees can sample and purchase wines from fifteen wineries all in one location. Don’t miss this festival or you will have to wait eight months to attend the next one. September 12, 2004 Well I got to the bottom of my confusion with this
Roche thing. The weight control
product they manufacture, Orlistat, is what I confused with Olestra
-the P&G product. The part
that still fits are the side effects they have. Nothing
better than passing undigested food through your system quickly.
Need I say more? My apologies go out to Wino Lou for my misidentifying the
chemical that will cause my bowels to erupt like Mount Vesuvius.
But I do leave the door open for Wino Lou to correct me yet again
after this post. On a lighter note, has anyone seen the show on Bravo
called Miami Slice? It’s a
reality series tracing several plastic surgeons in South Beach as they go
through their daily routines. Unlike
the many other plastic surgery shows, this one comes without blue dots or
cubing out or black bars to hide the intimate areas.
What struck me funny is that they go to great lengths in cubing out
advertisements. There was a
scene in a show the other day where one of the doctors was giving a young
woman her post breast augmentation exam but seconds later he was on the
tennis court and they blurred the logo on his shirt.
Nudity good, cheap advertising bad.
Think about it, Bravo has pushed the envelope by showing unblurred
asses and breasts but drew the line at a Gatorade logo.
God Bless you, cable TV, isn’t this why we pay $59.99 per
month? Cable was going to be so
loose and free as you had to make a choice in obtaining it, but to date,
even the Howard Stern show on E! blurs and cubes and censors words.
Spike TV, the channel for men, has lost their edge to Bravo,
the network that brought us Queer Eye and old 1970’s reruns.
Forget Nip/Tuck, forget Discovery Channel,
forget E! Dr. 90210, Miami Slice is the show for desperately
lonely, over sexed, drunken stick figures.
I say Bravo, to Bravo… Do you get spam faxes?
I have been bothered over the past few months with mortgage rates and
stock tips everyday on my home fax machine.
So far no penis enlarging faxes, but could they be next?
Give me a break, isn’t there a national, “Do not fax me shit”
list? My ink cartridges are
being consumed by some random mortgage broker and I’m getting really
pissed. But if you want to
approve me without salary verification for a $400,000 note at prime less
1.5, I’m your buddy. So what the hell is all this random crap doing clogging
the page? Good question, these
things have been floating upstairs for some time and they were clogging
space in the gray matter attic. Every
now and then, I need to purge. This
wine I am drinking today opened up that closet door and the shit just flowed
out. So I place blame for this
randomness squarely on the shoulders of Big Bob and Baron Philippe de
Rothschild. Having been
watching all the coverage yesterday on the World Trade Center Massacre, I
needed to be light and drunk today just to unfunk myself.
Blindly, I headed to the rack and did the rock, paper, scissors game
with myself to select a bottle. The
lucky winner was a Chilean from Maipo. 2002 Baron Philippe de Rothschild Carmenere Reserva
Maipo ? (gift
from BB) September 11, 2004 It’s 2 AM and I couldn’t sleep so I came up to the
dark room on the third floor. There
is a comforting late summer breeze that breathes through the screen window
next to me as I stare out over the neighborhood.
It is calm, and dark with the occasional cricket chirping in the
distance. After work last
night, the political junkie in me couldn’t take it any longer and I
flipped around the tube to get away from the talking heads.
Memogate, Rathergate, Swiftboatgate, he said, she said. I had my
fill. By chance I clicked over to HBO.
The program had started a half hour earlier, but I immediately put
down the remote and sat for the remaining hour.
The show was called In Memoriam, New York City 9-11-2001. A
documentary of moving proportions, I was moved to tears.
Listening and watching the process that took place in the days that
followed, hearing Rudy from the news footage, from the funerals, from the
city command center. A
documentary in its truest sense. It
really overshadows this argument about issues from 35 years ago.
The city healed, but the scars still remain in the faces of lower
Manhattan and on the skyline from every angle.
The image that had left me until tonight was that of families or
friends who just didn’t know if their loved ones survived.
Days after, people were still showing pictures to the media asking if
anyone has seen a husband or wife or father or mother or son or daughter.
The rubble was so mountainous that hope remained for three to four
days afterwards that a survivor could still be pulled out alive. What brought me to the edge were the sights of people
lining the streets around ground zero, waving American flags, yelling
“Thank You” to the construction workers and firemen as they came and
went. The people standing
shoulder to shoulder had no color or religion or political affiliation, they
only had appreciation and unity and American flags.
Today the bitterness and partisanship has given rise to what has been
the nastiest of divisions during this election season.
Part fueled by the short-term memory Americans have, part fueled by
the insulating blanket of Washington DC, draped over those in and/or seeking
power. I hope the
campaigning and the rhetoric can have a moment of silence today out of
respect, and human decency. I think back to the months after 9-11-2001 and everyone
in my neighborhood displayed the American flag.
The cars on the highways had signs and decals and sayings that made
us remember why we grew to be a great country.
But look around today and the signs of those feelings have been
pushed aside by the rigors of parent’s demands at work and kid’s
schedules for soccer, or piano, or ballet.
When was the last time you heard the Lee Greenwood song, “Proud to
be an American”, on the radio? Tomorrow,
after the services and memorials, I hope the tone and direction of the last
remaining days before this election would change.
Let’s get out of the past, let’s get out of the politics of
personal destruction and let’s focus on where we are going as a nation.
I honestly want to hear the details of how we move forward.
2002
Robertson Winery Prospect Hill Cabernet Sauvignon
$ (14.99) September 10, 2004 I enjoy hearing from Winos around the world and today
was one of those exciting days. Unfortunately,
this time, the fan was contacting me to correct one of my wine-soaked
misstatements. Yes, Sven Roche,
the great, great grandson of Papa Roche, emailed me to correct the fact that
his company did not develop the bowel-convulsing olestra. That was
Proctor and Gamble. He did
reiterate that Valium is theirs and there are 14 million housewives across
America that send him thank you cards every year.
By the way Sven, how is that ED drug coming? Now I can start this wine-soaked, drunken entry with a
clear (or less cloudy) brain. Last
night we headed to a new restaurant in the area, Colors. The first thing we discovered is that it’s like the old
restaurant called Mezzanote.
The owners and chefs are the same team that ran Mezzanote before it
was sold and became Luce’s.
Wow, is this confusing. The
breakdown is as follows: the food is well priced and the portions are
generous. I had the farfalle
with porcini mushrooms in a dark sauce that was delicious.
The down side is that they do have a liquor license but a very
limited wine list. This would
be a better BYOB. Primary color
lamps speckle the dining room, a different color over each table.
They had a private party upstairs so we were unable to see the
layout. The valet parking is a
bit over the top for a place serving fourteen dollar pasta dishes, but the
number of Mercedes in the lot most likely appreciates the touch. 2002 Ferrari-Carano Siena
$$ (38.00 rest) September 6, 2004 Happy Labor Day, this day makers the official last
party day of the summer. So
tomorrow, when I get drunk, it will be the first official party of the
non-summer. Yes, the commerce
portion of summer officially shuts off and we enter into the, Drive Slow -
School is Back in Session, the Yellow School Bus Stop at Every Corner and
the Double Park Drop and Kiss Zone. But
something else struck me this morning as I sat at the kitchen table dosing
my headache in coffee. The
church two blocks from here does not have an official music selection to
signify this day. On Memorial
Day, on the hour, the military hymns ring loud and proud denoting the memory
of those who have served this country.
On Independence Day (that’s the 4th of July for those in
Rio Linda), patriotic tunes like God Bless America and the Battle Hymn of
the Republic fill the air in Caldwell.
However, for those 94.6% of us laborers who are honored today for our
laboring, there is no special church bell montage. It got me thinking back to grade school and the last
day of first grade, when a girl I will call Renee (actually I call her that
since her parents named her that) quoted to me the lyric from the song Will
I See You in September. Now
a macking first grade twig boy was not about to find a friend with benefits
just for 10 weeks, when I knew this person I will call Renee would be in my
second grade class. I was not
about to blow a good deal. The
sad part about it is she only lived several blocks away, but I never rode
the tricked- out Schwinn in that direction.
What the hell was I thinking? I
would ride three blocks the opposite way to the local candy store, but
heading towards the Junior High School was like crossing the Austrian Alps. As I sit here, wine in hand, bar-b-q ablaze and the
London broil charring, I started thinking about the songs I can suggest for
Labor Day’s church bell medley.
This is what I have come up with so far. Please feel free to
email me more to add to the list. I will hold off until I get a wide enough
selection before I ring the doorbell at the rectory.
So the night is dark and tomorrow is just another day
for us working stiffs. Maybe
next year I will wake to a chorus of songs from the church bells at St.
Aloysius crafted from the input from my fellow winos and winettes. 2003 Lindemans Bin 50 Shiraz
$ (7.99) September 4, 2004 Homemade wine, I now have a growing supply.
One of the benefits of community living, people share the wealth so
to speak. OK, its not really
communal living, its old people residence.
Doing something totally out of character, I headed south last night
for the one and only layover at the Jersey shore.
Call it nostalgia for a Springsteenesque vision of youth with sand
and summer surf, call it reliving nights on the boardwalk at the arcade, or
call it the truth, family obligation. The
trek on the southbound parkway was amazingly simple at 8PM, and our wheels
came to rest on the freshly paved driveway in south Jersey at 9:45.
Time travels quickly as you sing at the top of your lungs through the
tollbooths on the GSP. Exit
numbers fall away like dead skin and the mile markers blur into a solid line
along the guardrail. Home base
is the adult community that would have sounded sexual if not for the fact
that my age-worn parents reside there.
Having a safety net of people in the same boat allows some to have a
ride to the pharmacy and some to have companionship at lunch.
As alcohol runs through my family DNA, my father was lucky enough to
locate a life line, a pearl in the oyster, a ruby in a mountain of rocks and
yes, Meatloaf, a Coup de Ville hiding at the bottom of a cracker jack box.
Just four houses from base camp is a serious wine maker, a seven-year
veteran of the Bacchus Wine School. Now
he bottles over 22 cases for his personal cellar, blending and experimenting
each year. Tonight, to knock
the trail dust from my chaps, I poured a glass of the already opened, home
made bottle of cabernet franc sitting on the kitchen counter top next to the
stainless steel sink, just below the kitchen crank out window.
I have enjoyed a bottle of an unlabeled wine made by this fondler of
fruit, this gripper of grapes, this baron of barrel aging.
The cabernet franc was slap your face fresh and astringent.
There was not an abundance of joy for me in this goblet, but
tomorrow, I am looking forward to the cabernet sauvignon-cabernet franc
blend. Bacchus wine school has locations throughout the state,
the original is located in Tom’s River.
Entrepreneurial foresight prevailed and the business became a
franchise. Currently there are
four additional locations, Livingston, Jersey City, Galloway and Manalapan.
I looked into the program on several occasions as a great many people
tell you they would love to make wine and go in on it.
Then the cold metal brace cuffs their wallet when you tell them the
barrel price runs $1,500 to 2,000 dollars depending on the grapes you want.
I have had a share of bathtub wines that have given me everything
from an upset stomach to a week long case of the trotts, but this gentleman
has a hand for the craft. I
spoke with him one night several months back and he is a passionate wine
maker. He told me it
averages out to 9.00 per bottle when all is said and done, including his own
label design. My apprehension
is ending up with 22 cases of trott juice.
Then what do I do, I can give several bottles away to friends and
family and claim ignorance when they tell me it created a Picasso in their
porcelain. Then I could donate a few bottles to the church bazaar,
leading to a reduction in the line at the confessional. Unfortunately, I would cry each time I walked down into the
cellar, seeing racks full of undrinkable wine and envisioning each bottle as
a nine dollar bill being burned in front of my eyes. Wino John and I have toyed with the idea of developing the
Uber Cab for the much sought after WinoStuff label, but we are finally
making great strides in building equity in the name and do not want to
jeapordize that. Unlike Roche,
we prefer not to put the warning label they had on the foods using their
olestra. “Injecting this product may cause, headaches, blurry vision, dry
mouth, stomach cramps, explosive diarrhea, impotence, and lumpy tumors.” Yes, but look how thin I am getting. Olestra in potato chips was going to be Roche’s second
major impact on the world market, their first was Mother’s little helper-
Valium. Save the warning label,
I would much prefer to work with a winery to produce for us rather than
trying to tackle that on my own. Tonight, after the day on the beach and the night at the boardwalk in Seaside, I opened the cab/cab franc with my father and tried winemaker Al’s blend. Keeping the 9.00 price range in the back of my mind, this one was a more enjoyable wine. I am not a huge fan of cabernet franc. I did find this a nice way to end the evening, catching up with my old man and sharing a glass of red from his new best friend. The summer will officially end this weekend. Be safe, enjoy the last bit of sun and surf and open a bottle of wine with a family member, the number of glasses to share may be less than you think. And to the little old wine makers of the world, I salute you. September 3, 2004 I needed a break yesterday from the over-the-top
partisanship of Chris Matthews and the ineptitude of the Giants.
Not to be demonized with the "right wing" nut moniker, I
watched as much of the convention as I could on MSNBC.
But the TV ratings indicate that I am in the minority.
Fox kicked cables’ ass and outpaced the networks.
However, I am not here to discuss politics. I’m here to whine about
the suckie season the Giants look destined for.
(Editor's note: Woo hoo!!) How can
I think of sitting in front of my Panasonic HDTV all season to have a line
that cannot open a hole, a power runner who wants to go outside the tackles
and a quarterback situation that has one too young and one too old?
I loved Coughlin as a coordinator for Parcells and as a head at BC.
I looked forward to the structure he would bring to the locker room
and a respect to the team. But
pre season showed little gains and a lot of third and longs.
It looks like my wine consumption will be increasing two fold on
Sunday afternoons this fall. My
only hope is that the Eagles make it to the first round of the post season,
and then choke as always. Hey
T.O. sign this! On a serious note, it looks like all those late night trips to McDonald’s, all those pizza and thong Friday evenings in the oval office and all those Mexican lunch specials have finally caught up with Bill Clinton. Hillary is so torn up that she actually took time out of her campaigning to visit a microphone and say, “We all wish President Clinton well and hope he has a speedy recovery.” Wow, there’s some genuine love flowing between those two! She will be visiting him at his home in NY once she figures out where in NY it is. 2002 MOUTON
CADET ROUGE Appellation Bordeaux
Contrôlée
?
Update
to the white wine we started with on Saturday evening: Sula Vineyards Chenin Blanc - India's first Chenin Blanc is perfect for a summer evening. This delightful cold fermented wine in stainless steel vats is finished in a semi-dry New World style. Its light, fresh and fruity character makes it an excellent aperitif. Learn all about the first wines from India at www.sulawines.com August 29, 2004 Don’t get nervous, I haven’t come down with Wino
John lack-o-update-itis yet. Actually,
we had a great, secret WinoStuff staff meeting last Tuesday.
The topic and guest speaker was so top secret that I cannot reveal it
as of yet. OK, the secret guest
speaker was Big Bob and at the conclusion of the dinner, we made a WinoStuff
pinky swear to have a rolling wino dinner at each of our homes.
The first rule of the rolling wino dinner was “Don’t talk about
the rolling Wino dinner”. Seeing
how I have a difficult time keeping club rules, it is now appearing in this
entry. The club is simple,
select a date and the host for that evening is responsible for everything,
meaning, you own the food and wine served for the night.
Big Bob obviously out distances WJ and I, as we do not have the
pleasure of a portfolio of wines to select from.
I have several bottles purchased prior to Geekdom collapse that will
be on my menu and Wino John has a cellar full of Big Ass California Cabs to
sway BB with. Taking a stab at hosting the first dinner, and basically
having very little on the social calendar, I sent out a call for Saturday
night. The Bigs found a sitter,
but the reclusive WJ was tied up for the weekend. So the four of us headed to a BYOB in Madison, NJ to
take advantage of a great end of summer Saturday evening and enjoy some
food, wine and conversation. I
volunteered the red and Mr. Big brought the whites.
The restaurant, Il Mondo Vecchio seems more like it should be located
on Mulberry Street in Manhattan instead of Main Street in Madison, brick
walls and fourteen-foot tin ceilings and dark wood panels. The place is so popular; we had to take a 5:45 reservation.
The white linen table clothes and attentive staff made this an
impressive eatery. When Big Bob and I started pulling wine bottles out of our
sacks, the wait staff scurried to find white and red wine glasses.
The table was small and the 12 glasses left little room for the
appetizers. (white, red and
water glasses for four people) Opening
a test wine, Big Bob poured us a glass of a recent acquisition for his
portfolio, wines from India. Yes,
red dot and all, we were treated to a bottle of Chenin Blanc from the home
of the Dell computer service center, India. Since I was neglect in paper and pencil, I will rely on BB to
sign the guest book with the details of the whites. As for the wine itself, it would have made Hodji from Johnny
Quest, proud (OK TV junkies, who among us didn’t watch Johnny Quest on
Saturday mornings) The main white was a Premier Cru from Drouhin, but I do
not have the details of the bottle. Be
that as it may, it was a nice compliment to my radicchio salad.
Knowing that the reds were California biggies, red meat was a perfect
complement. I picked the filet
mignon with gorgonzola drizzle, Big Bob grabbed my second choice, the
grilled lamb chops. We started
the main course with a 1994 Cain Five and enjoyed it through dinner. As
always, the four of us had so much to talk about that the second bottle was
uncorked before the dessert menus were dealt out. Post coffee, dessert, laughs and the second bottle of
red, we were encouraged to vacate our table.
Walking to the front door, we understood why, the crowd waiting for
tables at 9PM was out the door. I
did my best to make the table turn over a bit longer as I spilled a
Rorschach test pattern of California Cabernet on the crisp white linen table
clothe. Mrs. Big told me I
should dine with a WinoStuff Magical Red Wine Stain Remover holstered to my
chest as a follow up to my large motor skills being altered.
I can be a walking infomercial.
Like the Breakfast Club, the pact has been set for three home wine
dinners before the first snow fall, and like the Breakfast Club, we have the
jock (BB’s college athletics experience), the intelligent (WJ engineering
prowess), and the Geeky stick figure who wound up spending a night in a
junior high school locker. At
least I was not depicted as Molly Ringwald.
As the Psychedelic Furs sang at the end of that movie, “Don’t you
forget about me, next time we go to a BYOB…. Don’t you forget about me,
I’ll bring the red and pay your corkage fee….. 1994 Cain Five $$$
(55.00) 1995 Joseph Phelps Insignia
$$$ (75.00) August 23, 2004 Last night was a quiet time in front of the TV,
cheering on the US women volleyballers.
While watching the boob tube, I enjoyed a little Jersey tomato, no,
not Governor McGreevey, a real vegetable.
Earlier in the day, we ran to Kings, the overpriced gourmet
supermarket that carries all your culinary needs.
It was super saver day and the filet mignon was on special with your
Kings’ card. So I grilled up
some steaks and sliced up some Jersey tomatoes from a friend’s garden.
Simple sliced tomatoes with a touch of oil, some balsamic vinegar,
rosemary and fresh basil. Wow,
tomato salad and filet mignon, US women volleyballers and a California
Meritage. Actually, I would
have dragged out anything red, but I used up my everyday drinkers at the
last BYOB dinner. Painfully, I
grabbed and replaced and picked and put back from the bottles I purchased
four to five years back, when the economy was swimming and the cash was
awash. Picking the least of the
best, in my mind, it turned out to be the perfect wine for the night. I had a bit of a scare during the uncorking, as the tree bark flaked and crumbled with my first attempt to extract it. Oh no, a soft cork, the wine must have turned. So I continued the process, slow and steady to remove segments of this stopper. Then the moment of truth, would the drain be enjoying the contents of this bottle, or would I be the one wallowing in the nectar from the sunshine state? Alas, I poured, swirled, sniffed and stopped to enjoy the delights of this wine. It was fine and quickly I poured myself a glass to keep me company on the deck. The Weber sizzled as I flipped my meat one last time to a medium rare perfection and sipped a bit of the good life. I cannot afford drinking this too often, but did enjoy the splurge. Jersey tomatoes, medium rare filet mignon, scantily clad well tanned athletic women volleyballers and a well crafted red wine from California, a small glimpse into life after death. 1995 BV Tapestry $$
(45.00) August 21, 2004 What started innocent enough as meeting friends at a
new BYOB in town, quickly turned into cult abduction. OK, I overstated it. I
am proud to announce that as of 10:30 PM yesterday, there are two new
members to the worldwide WinoStuffers.
We have dined with these folks once before, and had a great time.
A spontaneous phone call set up a casual supper at a new BYOB,
Italian restaurant in WC. That officially brings the Italian restaurant-to-population
ratio in West Essex, two to one. Russillo’s
is the renovated dream of the old Cohen’s Stationary Store and is
pleasantly decorated. We
arrived a bit late and our friends had already uncorked their KJ Cab for us
to sip while dissecting the menu and catching up on the month and a half
since our last dinner. The menu
is reasonably priced and offers a nice variety of pastas, chicken, seafood
and veal. I judge Italian restaurants by their fried calamari and
lobster ravioli. The calamari
was great and we drained the KJ through appetizers.
I dug into my satchel and dragged out a 2002 Goats Do Roam - the SA
poke in the eye to the Rhone region of France.
We enjoyed the generous
portioned main courses and talked about everything except politics and sex.
Might sound boring, but it kept everyone at ease since the two are so
intertwined these days in the state of NJ.
As far as my lobster ravioli, I rate the sauce a B+ but the actual
ravioli seemed like supermarket frozen, less than my expectations. Then the moment that it all went wrong.
We were hip deep in a conversation and the dinner plates were being
cleared, the waiter asked if we were interested in coffee and dessert.
That usually denotes the beginning of the end and we were not quite
there yet, so I polled the crowd and asked, “Are you interested in one
more glass of wine?” I had a
second in my satchel. Without
hesitation, a unanimous positive response came in and we opened the third,
and sat for another hour talking about wine.
Things went so well that we agreed to setting up a wine sampling
night. Our two newest Winos,
Wino Jim and Winette Maggie enjoy wine and usually stay with the one or two
they are most familiar. After being taught the
secret WinoStuff handshake, and they quietly sang the WinoStuff theme song,
they swore to open their palates and minds to tasting different styles of
chardonnays and cabernet sauvignons. I
predict that one year from now, they will be enjoying a plethora of grape
varietals, I see dedicated winos in the making. With the power vested in me by the state of intoxication, I
welcome our newest Winos and look forward to many late night benders with
Wino Jim and Winette Maggie. The
tipping scale will be their first invite to an evening with Wino Rocker;
right now, I need to protect them from that scene. One last comment on the restaurant, the food was good
and the pricing very reasonable. The dining room can get a bit noisy
and the air conditioning seemed missing in action.
Last night was a dog day of summer, hot and humid.
We sat next to the thermostat which blinked 65, but the waiter’s
face sweat nearly landed in my dinner plate as he leaned over to place it in
front of me. August 19, 2004 With all the rain we have had in NJ for the past week,
and the fact that my computer is acting hinky again, I decided to clear out
my, “save it for a rainy day folder.”
From time to time I see or read something I want to comment on and
place it in the save it for a rainy day section of my WinoStuff documents
sector on my C: drive. Well it
has been rainy all month and last night I found this article that I don’t
remember writing about. Though
I am not sure what I write about when I am writing.
I wasn’t sure if we should place this in the entry section or add
this to the cork debate under 'what to do with all those Damn corks'
section. I myself have made the
much heralded cork board, Christmas ornaments, paved my driveway, fishing
bobbers for my Dad, but the ex-speech writer for Mr. Clinton had the best
idea yet. It seems that John
Pollack claims to have been collecting wine corks since childhood and at age
36 found himself with over 70,000 of the little bastards.
This is the first thing that bristled the hair on the back of my
neck. What kid collects wine
corks? And if you do start
collecting them, are they so important that you take them with you to the
college dorm or to your first apartment in Washington, DC? Do you
invite chicks back to your place to see your cork collection? You know where I’m going, obviously, Mr. Pollack was
responsible for Clinton speech writing and disposing of the evidence of
Bill’s wild partying before Hillary returned from her pants suit shopping. In the Clinton Whitehouse, 70,000 corks popped per year. Nevertheless, Mr. Pollack burned out from speech writing and turned his talent to his true passion, designing a boat out of those closures. With the help of a friend, John drew up the plans for a seaworthy vessel and in a tribute, sailed down the Douro River to the seaport city of Oporto.
Coming
soon: the cork hybrid car, and the cork International Space Station. August 16, 2004 Well, I just recovered from Saturday night’s
Bacchanalian orgy. Well, it
really wasn’t much of an orgy, no clothing came off, and as far as Bacchus
was concerned, the wine intake was three bottles less than expected.
Yes, in what can only be described as a lucky turn of events for my
cellar, Wino Rocker spent the night with martinis, Bond martinis.
If one can take at face value the words from a TV wine show, it was
described in a recent episode of Andrea Dimmer’s visit to the Billet
vineyards, that Bond had a special martini blend.
The recipe was described as 3 parts gin, 1 part vodka and 1 part
Billet, shaken not stirred. Though the vodka, gin and Billet bottles did not survive Wino
Rocker’s assault, four of us only consumed 3 bottles. I almost term this a disaster. We usually run one for
one. Wino Paul spent most of
the evening regaling the crowd with stories of our trips for Geekdom. The wine flowed, though in moderation, and softened the
natural uneasiness. I must tell
you, Wino Paul has an ability to embellish a story.
I think he enjoys poking a proverbial finger in my eye. But with enough wine in me, I can take a good poking. The highlight of the night had to be the Wino Rocker impromptu concert at 11:45PM, when flashbacks of high school jam sessions ran rampant in his James Bond soaked gray matter. And who can’t resist singing, slurred and off key to an acoustic rendition of Free Bird. My personal favorite, the House of the Rising Sun, ended the night, actually drove the others away as I did my best Eric Burden imitation. 2001 Austin Vale Shiraz $
(8.99) 2001 Mills Reef Sauvignon Blanc Reserve
$ (11.99) August 14, 2004 Since this has been a week of unexpected heartfelt
confessions, I want to jump on the bandwagon and admit that I am a Wino
American. There I said it,
and if anyone starts to call me the same foul names like: Stew Bum, Drunk
Bastard, Alkie, Purple Teeth, Swirl and Spit, Mr. Fancy Glass, Cork Head,
Swollen Liver Boy, Stupid Drunk Bastard, Kid Toucher; I can not tell them
they are questioning my patriotism. Being
not just a Wino but a Wino American has elevated me to a new sub
category on all the forms I need to fill out.
What better a minority status to have then a minority of one? You cannot get any more minor than that. Now that I think about it, the Kid Toucher thing doesn’t
qualify under this protection of my patriot roots, but it does get my
protection under freedom of religion. I
would like to say it Proud and say it Loud, I am coming out of the cellar
and wearing my “label” front and center.
I feel that the tag of 'American' places me in a special flag-waver
category and if you attack my prefix (Wino), you attack my love for this
country. However, I want to be
treated like everyone else, I just want advantages when I feel I am being
discriminated against because I am a Wino.
Don’t paint me with the broad brush of other Winos, I’m still an
individual, who has a unique position either through genetics or the fact
that my grandmother owned a tavern and I grew up in an environment of
alcohol. I want the right to
marry another wino and have her leave me and take half my wealth and my
house. Just because my
alcoholic intake makes me 50% more likely to die from cirrhosis or 75% more
likely to die in a fatal car crash, I want the same access to the medical
treatments, new drugs, dry-out clinics and Medicare from the government and
the hard working people of this country can pay for my hospital stays.
I am a Wino American! Love me for who I am. Wow, did that go wrong! Anyway, we are enjoying the latest days of summer by having a small gathering around the bar-b-q today. The guest list includes a hard-core biker, a wannabe biker (wino rocker) and Wino Paul, a Schwinn biker. I don’t know if they even make Schwinn bicycles any longer, but it was the brand to own when I was a kid. Going through the head count, I knew I didn’t have enough red wine in my cellar to handle Wino Rocker, never mind the spouses et al. I drove down to Costa’s and loaded up. Walking out of the store, I felt this weirdness about spending a fair amount of money without John being in the store to know I was there buying from him. It’s a new ailment I have. I could have gone a bit farther up the Avenue and paid a bit less for the same stuff, but I want to see this small proprietor make it. But there was someone else, a worker bee, behind the counter today. I wouldn’t have thought twice about walking out of Shop Rite Discount with the same purchase, being rung up by a total stranger. But I do feel differently coming out of Costa’s. I guess I have too much blood in my alcohol system again. August 13, 2004 God Damn it, Cartman! Why are those closest to
the situation always the last to know?
I need to make this clear, right up front, everyone is speaking about
the situation with the Governor of New Jersey, so please do not misconstrue
any comments I make as gay bashing. Discussing
the matter is a tight rope walk across a bottomless pit with subject matter
this sensitive. However, of all the topics that could have toppled the
McGreevey governorship, it was a sex scandal.
As much as I am not a fan or supporter of the Governor, I would have
rather he be caught in the pay for play problems, or better yet, be voted
out because of his inabilities to lead this state out of its ethical
political problems. Last night, to steady my shaken foundation after this
bombshell announcement, I stopped into Bacchus to throw down a glass or two
of the Clos du Bois Reserve Cabernet Sauvignon that they are featuring by
the glass. The bar was buzzing
with the same statements, “Oh yeah, everybody knew he was gay.” Everybody? I
think not, but I was hard pressed to find one person in Essex County last
night who said they were surprised. I
was really rooting for the much more clandestine Machiavellian secret tip
off and plot of shadowy figures lurking in doorways and brown bags of
unmarked bills being left on park benches in rural parks.
I am sure the next few days will disclose many of the seedy details
of the lawsuit-in-waiting that is the reason behind the announcement
yesterday. Democrats in NJ are
very tolerant and the simple fact that the Governor is gay would have driven
his pole numbers (cheap shot) through the roof and insure a landslide re-erection
(cheap shot). But there must be
the equivalent of the Clinton Blue Dress or worse.
It is the suggestion of WinoWally that we start a Governor McGreevey
joke page and if that low brow, insensitive style of journalism is what is
being demanded, who am I to rain on the parade of the citizens of NJ. You know we at WinoStuff.com have informants throughout
the news world and we have heard from people close to the Governor.
As I am a journalist / drunken guy who rambles incoherently on the
web, we keep our sources protected. We
do know the Governor was uncomfortable with our twist on the legislation he
signed to name the Blueberry the official fruit of the State. He is
worried we would be so crass as to replace the blueberry picture with his
picture under the caption “Official Fruit of NJ”.
But we will not stoop to that level. Last
night, while I was enjoying the eaves-dropping on barroom ideology, I got a
call from a source that was at the press conference.
This person told me he was speaking off the record with a McGreevey
assistant and the name WinoJohn came up in the conversation. It seems the Governor was so moved by WinoJohn’s review of
Inniskillin, it gave the Governor the courage to come out. (Editor's
note: While Inniskillin is the Official Chick Wine of WinoStuff.com, I have
no idea how this wine is perceived by the Coalition of Corrupt Gay
Governors) In an unrelated story, the Archbishop of the Newark Diocese called for tolerance in this difficult time in the Governor’s personal life. He praised the Governor for his deep religious belief and welcomed him to an opening in the priesthood….. August 12, 2004 Winostuff Magical Red Wine Stain Removing Elixir We have given it a prominent position by the register
so come in, browse our wine selection and see the exciting changes we are
making to the store. Next time you are driving on Bloomfield Avenue in
Caldwell, visit Costa’s for all your wine needs. August 8, 2004 Where can I collect my
$17.65? We were invited
to a friend’s house for dinner last night and as polite guests, we offered
the usual rhetorical question, “Can we bring something?”
Uncharacteristically, the hostess said, “Yes, why don’t you bring
a bottle of wine.” OK, I can
do that; I have some knowledge in this area.
Then came the caveat, “Dry Creek Chenin Blanc.”
What, you not only want me to bring wine, but a specific white wine
that I have little interest in drinking? “Sure, no problem”.
This would be a perfect excuse to head back over to my friends at
Costa’s. It was such a cool,
enjoyable day that I decided to walk, as the shop is only a few blocks into
town. Burning 15 minutes and
finally inquiring to John where he kept the Dry Creek, he informed me he did
not carry it. OK, I can walk
home, hop in the truck and head to Shop Rite Discount, they have a much
bigger selection. Better yet,
this may be my exercise for the month, so I’ll walk the extra seven blocks
and really get my heart doing the thing it was designed to do.
Scouring the shelves, and cutting up twenty more minutes, I turned up
zero for two. Now the mile walk
back to the house seemed laborious, but for the hell of it I could dash into
the small wine section at Jack’s Supermarket to see if I could be so
lucky. Zero for three. Now I am hell bent for finding this wine the hostess
wants us to bring and the walking part is not going to cut it.
Saddling up the truck, I head east to the old reliable Home Liquors.
With almost an hour invested already and now the consumption of gas
from the old truck, the cost per glass is escalating, but more than that my
wine ego is on the line. Cutting
to the quick, I find shelf stock boy and hurriedly inquire of their Dry
Creek selection. He darts to
the computer and waves me to s bin in the second isle.
Dry Creek is right here, and he lifts a bottle of zinfandel, zero for
four. Back in the truck and
thinking out load, I backtrack the three miles, pass the house and head
another three miles west to King’s wine department.
In a stroke of luck, perched on the third shelf down in the white
wine display is the main guest for the dinner party.
I toss out the nine dollars and change and head back the three miles
home. One gallon of gas and one
and a half hours later, I am sitting at my kitchen table staring at this
bottle, tempted to uncork it right then and there to see what the deal is
with this requested bottle. I wait and arrive at the host’s home, bottle
chilled and tongue wagging. As
we are greeted, we are handed a frozen margarita.
What the f*%*? I drove around like Shakes the Clown needing a
fix and we are having party drinks? At
this point, I needed alcohol so I licked the rim salt and chugged down the
drink to the sudden flash of brain freeze.
God damn it, Cartman, you know you’re supposed to drink those
things slowly. By time we sat
down for dinner, I had embellished the story about how many wine shops and
how much time I invested in finding that bottle. They were guilty
enough to open it. As the
hostess poured me a glass, she informed me that she is a huge fan of the
wine writer for the Star Ledger and this was a wine he touted.
Holy crap Marie, do I take that as an insult? I am being made
the pack mule for a Wednesday wine columnist in the Newark Star Ledger. She told us how she enjoys the wines he recommends and she
finds that he offers well-priced suggestions.
Now why didn’t I think of that?
Be that as it may, I did drink the wine with our bacon-wrapped
grilled shrimp appetizer and the grilled salmon and veggie medley.
Next time, one and done, and I will find a suitable replacement for
the much sought after recommendations from the Newark Star Ledger. 2002 Dry Creek Chenin Blanc
$ (8.99) August 7, 2004 I don’t drink a lot of Porto, though I do have a
bottle or two that I keep for those late night occasions when friends come
back to the house or family is over for a celebratory meal. Last night when I was offered a taste of one, I almost
refused. Yes, schnorer-boy
himself almost turned down a, dare I say, a free drink.
Fortunately, I came to my alcoholic senses and had the bartender
place the glass, next to my other glass, stacked up like the landing pattern
at Newark Liberty Airport at rush hour.
It was Mike the bartender’s birthday last night and he found
himself on the customer’s side of the psychedelic color-changing glass
bar. That left one of the other
staff members at Bacchus to actually attend to the paying customers.
In a move likened to a pinch hitter that Joe Torre would call on in
the bottom of the ninth, bases loaded with two out, John stepped up big. John is the newly elevated general manager now that Ryan has
selected life at a private country club, location undisclosed to me as I do
not have the money nor the foppishness necessary to be voted into an elite
club. John loves to keep his bartending roots fresh from time
to time as he spins and slings bottles of spirits like Tom Cruise in Cocktail.
The only thing missing is the over the back toss up and the flaming
toppings. As I was only stopping in for a quick one and challenging
myself to keep my evening at twenty bucks, tip included, I grabbed the
Excelsior Cabernet. Their wine
by the glass menu has stagnated and I no longer have the ear of the decision
makers to tell them so. The
$7.50 per glass was in my wheelhouse, and I could space out two in a time
frame that would be socially comfortable.
Though if the economy were better, I would have pulled an all nighter.
The place was tilted on the single women side of a 4 to 1 ratio.
Still, somehow, I found myself half way through my first glass of
wine, with seven empty seats to my left and two empty seats to my right.
It was like a Vulcan force field had repelled the human species from
my zumlock. (I think that’s Vulcan for personal space, but I never was a
Trekkie). Mike, now feeling celebratory from his birthday
elixirs, felt sorrow enough to call me to their end of the bar and at least
give the appearance that I was not a lonely, alcoholic watching the Yankee
game by myself in the midst of a pride of single horny women. I guess my WinoStuff cologne doesn’t contain the correct
amount of pheromones. Hell, I
sweated into two Gatorade bottles before mixing up my next WinoStuff magical
elixir. Be that as it may, the
Tom Cruise mentor offered up a tasting of a Port and it delighted me to no
end, well actually to at least the end of the glass. Which now brings me into the battlefield of Wino John
and Big Bob. If a wine is
produced in California, from traditional Portuguese grapes, should it still
be called Port? If Pinot Noir
from Burgundy is Burgundy, and from the rest of the world is Pinot Noir, as
is Champagne to Sparkling Wine, Cote Rotie to syrah and terrior to dirt,
then should what I had last night be called something like fortified
Portuguese style wine? By
Portuguese law, port is a fortified wine made from wineries along the Duoro
River and shipped out of the city of Oporto where the Atlantic and Duoro
meet. Are we back to the
California Burgundy bastardization of a designate?
Should I even be concerning myself with this?
Do I even sound like I know what the hell I’m talking about?
Do I take up the cause to be a purist?
Do I drink more free Port, Oporto and anything else offered at
Bacchus and keep my mouth shout? Should
I call the Oporto police? How
do you make a Cockburn? (sorry, seventh grade creeping back in) Heitz Wine Cellars Ink Grade Vineyard Port
? August 5, 2004 I guess I lived Springsteen lyrics before I listened to
them. Hell, growing up in NJ,
we all did. The blue collar
town of Bloomfield offered the same challenges for my parents that Freehold
offered for Mr. Springsteen’s parents.
I hung out with friends that had no more or no less than we did. Our town had one family that lived in “The Mansion on the
Hill.” My dad worked as
a night foreman for Stanley Tool in Newark, NJ.
He drove a 1965 Chevy Impala, white with black trim and red interior.
God, if I could have that car now, but back then, it was basic
transportation. The factory closed for the last two weeks in July and we went, lock stock and pets, to the Jersey Shore. I remember the year of my seventh grade summer; my best friend’s grandmother had a house in Point Pleasant. He stayed there all season, and it was not in my parent’s nature to let me go there for a week, so they did the next best thing. They booked us into a hotel several blocks from his house so we could hang out together. We thought we were hot shit in seventh grade, cool teenagers. We’d spend the days on the beach, swimming, playing football and boogie boarding. Then, after the mandatory dinner with my folks, my buddy and I would walk the ten blocks to the Point Pleasant boardwalk where we would hang out and Mac on chicks. |
