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Location: Toronto, Ontario, Canada

World's Lurchest Wine Writer - The Gangsta of the Grape - The Sultan of Shiraz - The Buccaneer of Burgundy - The Prince of Pinot Noir - Yellow Tail's Bane - Locus of the Ladies' Focus - Wielder of the trousered Hammer of Thor - I have arrived to rescue the wine world from overly-serious, rigid, deconstructionist, rooster juice peckerwoods who'd never dream of gettin' a tattoo or crackin' a smile. I am without a doubt, the smartest, funniest and toughest sumbitch in the entire wine industry. And I aint goin' away. All disputes will be settled bare-knuckled in the Octagon. You heard me. Oh, and by the way...Bite me crank!

Sunday, January 22, 2006

Roving Reporter Rozeen Spooked at the Glendale Hilton Wine Expo!

Yo Again, Boyz and Hos!

Roving Reporter Rozeen Diego here...

I'm back from Glendale and man do I have a weird story to tell. If you mofos read my last report, you know I was plannin' on attendin' a New World Wine Expo at the Hilton, and attend I did!
I did my camp-out on the 3rd floor where I found a draped table with a jug of water and about 3 dozen sandwiches from earlier in the evening. Thus fortified, I slipped under the table and crashed out early, listenin' to my I-Pod and awoke at about 3:30 in the afternoon. I didn't bother on the shower, 'cause I already had one a few days ago. I grabbed the leather briefcase that I snagged from a BMW last night and found the convention level.
The event was in full-swing and the frickin' room was full of muh-fuhs and dix! The silverware and carpets said class, but the attendees were pure peckerwood. They were rappin' 'bout "tannins" and "malolactic fermentation" and a whole lot of other jive-pecker jank stuff. I thought I was gonna do the big Exorcist projectile vomit thing, but stayed for the "seminar speakers". The first one was this big muh-fuh with an oily smile who kept goin' on about "micro-oxygenation" and "chlorination versus ozone disinfection of the Portugese cork" and whether or not we were going to see "asset reduction vines" or would have to live with "market bi-saturation through protectionist loopholes" and other crap like that. I hated his guts immediately and wished I had a lawn-dart to fling into his chest and puncture the mofo's lung. Then this woman who's the president of some ancient cracker wine organization that nobody cares about, gets up and sings a song she's written. She's about 200 years old and has had about 50,000 face lifts, and everyone pretends it's as funny as hell because she's so frickin' old, and everyone keeps joining in for the chorus "Drink wine it's so's so drink wine..." The song went on for about 6 hours and I got really antsy and was wishin' I had a box of frag grenades with me to lob into the crowd. Then to make it even worse, this walking California skin cancer advertisement gets up and makes this really sincere speech about "The Marriage of Merlot and Golf" and "Saving the Gorillas" and "buying eco-time for the Pacific seaboard". My Rolex showed it was only just after 5 o'clock but I couldn't take anymore. I grabbed a free glass of chardonnay off of a tray and downed it, but it was so loaded with oak and tar, it tasted like a railroad tie. Turns out some dix there were selling these stupid drops called "Oakey Dokes" that you add to any wine to save the cost and trouble of actually letting the wine sit in some barrels for a while. The whole event was like that; just commercial and fake and jank. There was an instant wine powder by Koolade that you just add to water and make "Wine for Kidz", and right next to that booth, there was this other mofo slicing the necks off Burgundy bottles with a Ginsu and turning them into "beautiful wine-themed candle holder gifts". I hate to admit it, but I split before dinner. It just made me wanna puke to be in the same industry as those mofos.
I went down to the lobby bar to drown my rage and pulled up a bar-stool. This enormous black dude bartender who looked like Barry White asked me what I wanted. I said "Bring me a double shot of bourbon with a draft Budweiser on the side". He stopped and looked me in the eye and said he wouldn't do that. I told him I was 22 and he said it weren't nothin' to do with my age. He said that bourbon wrecks your liver and beer is just bread in a bottle. I said that might be true, but the mofo peckercrackers upstairs had put me off wine and oak and frickin' Koolade for life. The bartender glanced around the nearly empty bar for a moment and grinning said
"I'm gonna hook you up with the mojo, Son". He reached under the edge of the bar and pulled a plain bottle from a small refrigerator. He jacked the cork expertly with his regulation Screw Pull and poured about 4 ounces into a goblet. I know I'm gonna sound like a peckercracker deconstructionist here, but right away I caught the clean aroma of fruit and hints of honey and toast. "This is the real deal, my man" he said, pressin' the cork into my palm. I took a swig of the nectar and looked up into those deep black eyes that glinted with red in the neon light above the bar. A swish of rain began to blow against the windows, and I felt a bit of a chill that made me shiver.
"Who are you?" I asked cautiously.
"Just another homey like you, holdin' the vineyard against the crackers and mofos" he answered, refilling my now empty glass. I stared into the goblet and swirled this near-perfect mystery white, and felt like I was falling into a spiral. My eyes started to close and I started and looked up with a jolt. The bartender was standin' at the exit to the lobby, his huge bulk framin' the doorway. "Don't be discouraged" he said. "The Deacon's Underground extends to some unlikely places..." A wave of shock went through me as he paused for effect, grinning in the subdued light, his eyes glinting red sparks again. "By the way...Taco sends his regards... Stay lurch, Rozeen!" And he was gone. I gulped down the rest of my wine in a state of frickin' shock. He must have got my name from the dogtags I always wear, but that bit about my dead homey Taco, was too weird... I sat there for what must have been a few silent minutes. The lights flickered over the bar and after a couple of seconds, I heard a rumble of thunder in the distance.
"Can I get you anything...Sir?" asked a thin blond dude with a British accent from behind the bar.
"No, nothin'. The other bartender already gave me the mojo wine" I answered the cracker.
"Mojo wine? I'm sorry, but I don't understand what you mean...and I'm the only bartender sir..." he answered, lookin' concerned. I dropped a twenty on the bar and sprinted out to the lobby, totally forgetting my briefcase, which was gone when I eventually went back for it.
"Where'd that Barry White dude go?" I shouted at the car-jockey, who looked like he thought I was gonna shoot him or something. He pointed to the circular driveway, where an ancient, black hearse fitted with a boom-box and red running lights was pulling away from the curb, glistening in the evening rain. There was a sudden flash of lightning and the blast of the music from the car stereo hit me like a living thing as I pushed through the revolving door. It was AC/DC's Highway to Hell. I stood in the downpour, and as the black death-wagon gained speed and roared toward the Glen Oaks Boulevard Crossroads, I noticed I was gripping somethin' tightly in my fist.
It was a cork.
I turned it around in my hand in the wet gleam under the streetlight and I could just make out the markings...
Ontario VQA
Rozeen Diego
Totally freaked-out but still alive
Special Correspondent for Deacon Dr. Fresh


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