I think quite often about wine. I ponder on it. Wine, the world of wine, the culture of wine, the history of wine. Sittin’ and ponderin’. About wine.
Sometimes I am very happy. Things in wine are good.
Other times, I get concerned. Right now, I am concerned. I am concerned about the cerebralization of wine. Not the so-called “stuffiness” of wine, not the “putting on airs-ness” of wine. Not the “pinky-in-the-air-ish-ness” of wine, the “uptowness” of wine, nor the “art-gallery-ish-ness” of wine. I am concerned about the cerebralization of wine.
Meaning; I am concerned that we might be over-thinking too much about wine, that wine is all in our head anymore, that we’re losing wine from our bodies, our hearts, our guts, our soul.
Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE the rituals of wine; the perfectly buffed glasses, the exactly cut foils, the spotless labels, the decanting, the aerating, the swishing and swirling, I love it all. I love winespeak; the hyperbole of the tasting note, the rhetorical excesses of sensory analysis, the ageability debates. I love it all.
But I worry that we’re losing some of the visceral side of wine, the raw mojo funk passion of wine, the slinky, sweaty, groovy scratch-the-itch of wine. The drinking wine and reading poetry of wine. The syrah and jazz of wine. The boat and the moon and the wine of wine. The long slow sex of wine. The Howl of wine. The Dharma Bums of wine. The haiku of wine. The fonky fonky of wine.
I am worried about the cerebralization of wine.
So, I wish, right now, to get as far away from my head as possible. So naturally, I am thinking about my feet. Specifically, my shoes. Wine below the belt.
What sort of shoes do I wear, and why? And what does that have to do with my drinking of wine? Or perhaps more appropriately, what does it say about my drinking of wine? What is the metaphor of the ankle boot?
I believe all great art emerges from the intersection of technique and instinct; craft and mojo; high-brow and low-brow. For example, I like to wear suits. With these:
My viticultural Three Musketeers. My PF Flyers. Fonky Fonky.
I am also obsessed with ankle boots. There are certain times, like when one is either awake or asleep, when one should not be without a bottle of wine, and a pair of ankle boots. These days, Chelsea Boots are my kicks du jour.
Of course, one does have to occasionally posh it up a bit for a special wine event. In which case, Brogues are the only way to go. Without question.
But one must get dirty too. Wine is dirty. It’s farming. It’s made in tanks and barrels. It’s country. I may work the Hospitality side of the tracks, but I do it on top of a mountain, mister and sister, so don’t think I don’t get dirty …
I don’t often sit around and think about my co-workers feet.
Usually, I think about wine. Or books about wine. Or movies about wine. Much of the time I am tasting wine. Or writing about wine. Or writing about writing about wine.
But lately, I’ve been thinking about my co-workers feet.
Have you ever asked yourself, what kind of footwear do wine people wear? I am asking this question of myself. What do my co-workers wear on their feet, and what does it all mean? It’s like a spiritually maddening koan. What is the sound of one hand clapping? What is the metaphor of the ankle boot?
Much to the grinningly bewildered chagrin of my colleagues, I have been taking pics of their kicks. Here is what I found:
Ridge Vineyards clearly has the fonky fonky. Dip trip, flip fantasia.
“These boots are made for walkin’, and that’s just what they’ll do. One of these days these boots are gonna walk all over you.”
“You can do anything, but lay off of my blue suede shoes.”
“She wore red shoes by the newstand, as the rain splashed the nickle, spilled like chablis along the midway.”
“I want to put on my my my my my my boogie shoes. And boogie with you.”
I am no longer worried about the cerebralization of wine. Things in wine are good.