by Dave Barry
I’ll explain the mud in a moment, but first I should explain that the wine country is an area near San Francisco that is abundantly blessed with the crucial natural ingredient that you need to have a successful wine country: tourists. There are thousands and thousands of them, forming a dense continuous stream of rental cars creeping up and down the Napa Valley, where you apparently cannot be a legal resident unless you own a winery named after yourself. Roughly every 45 feet you pass a sign that says something like “The Earl A. Frebblemunster And His Sons Earl Jr. And Bud, But Not Fred, Who Went Into The Insurance Business, Winery.”
When you see a winery that you like, you go inside for wine-related activities, which are mainly (1) tasting wine, and (2) trying to adopt thoughtful facial expressions so as to appear as though you have some clue as to what you are tasting. Some wineries also give guided tours wherein they show you how wine is made. The process starts with the grapes, which ripen on vines under the watchful eyes of the head wine person (or “poisson de la tête”) until exactly the right moment, at which point they form a huge swarm and follow the queen to the new hive location.
No, wait, I’m thinking of bees. When the grapes are ripe, they’re harvested and stomped on barefoot by skilled stompers until they (the grapes) form a pulpy mass (called the “fromage”) which is then discarded. Then the head wine person drives to the supermarket and buys some nice hygienic bunches of unstomped grapes, which are placed in containers with yeast—a small but sexually active fungus—and together they form wine.
The wine is then bottled and transported to the Pretentious Phrase Room, where professional wine snots perform the most critical part of the whole operation: thinking of ways to make fermented grape juice sound more complex than nuclear physics. For example, at one winery I sampled a Pinot Noir (from the French words “pinot,” meaning “type of,” and “noir,” meaning “wine”) and they handed me a sheet of paper giving many facts about the wine, including something called the “Average Brix at Harvest”; the pH of the grapes; a detailed discussion of the fermentation (among other things, it was “malolactic”); the type of barrels used for aging (“100 percent French tight-grained oak from the Vosges and Allier forests”); the type of filtration (it was “a light egg-white fining”); and of course the actual nature of the wine itself, which is described—and this is only part of the description—as having “classical Burgundian aromas of earth, bark, and mushrooms; dried leaves, cherries; subtle hints of spice and French oak”; and of course the flavor of “blackberry, allspice, cloves, vanilla with nuances of plums and toast.”
Yes! Nuances of toast! I bet they exchanged high fives in the Pretentious Phrase Room when they came up with that one!
At another winery, I stood next to some young men—they couldn’t have been older than 22—who were tasting wine and making serious facial expressions and asking a winery employee questions such as: “Was ’93 a good year for the Cabernets?” I wanted to shake them and shout, “What’s WRONG with you!? When I was your age, I was drinking Sunshine Premium brand beer (motto: ‘Made From Ingredients’) at $2.39 a CASE!”
Needless to say, these young men also had cigars. You have to worry about where this nation is headed.
Anyway, the other major tourist thing to do in wine country is to go to a town called Calistoga and take a mud bath, which is an activity that I believe would be popular only in an area where people have been drinking wine. My wife and I took one at a combination spa and motel, where we were met by a woman who said, I swear, “Hi, I’m Marcie, and I’ll be your mud attendant.”
Marcie led us into a room containing two large tubs filled to the brim with what smelled like cow poop heated to 104 degrees. We paid good money to be allowed to climb into these things and lie there sweating like professional wrestlers for 15 minutes. Marcie—who later admitted that she had done this only once herself—said it was supposed to get rid of our bodily toxins, but my feeling is that from now on, if I have to choose between toxins and hot cow poop, I’m going with the toxins.
But I have to say that once I got out of the mud, I felt a great deal better than when I was in the mud, and I am confident that one day, if I take enough showers, people will stop edging away from me on the elevator. So let me just close by saying that, although I have made some fun of the wine-country experience here, I really do feel, in all sincerity, that “Pinot Noir and His Nuances of Toast” would be a good name for a band.
Eye of the Beholder
Like many members of the uncultured, Cheez-It-consuming public, I am not good at grasping modern art. I’m the type of person who will stand in front of a certified modern masterpiece painting that looks, to the layperson, like a big black square, and quietly think: “Maybe the actual painting is on the other side.”
I especially have a problem with modernistic sculptures, the kind where you, the layperson, cannot be sure whether you’re looking at a work of art or a crashed alien spacecraft. My definition of a good sculpture is “a sculpture that looks at least vaguely like something.” I’m talking about a sculpture like Michelangelo’s David. You look at that, and there is no doubt about what the artist’s message is. It is: “Here’s a naked man the size of an oil derrick.”
I bring this topic up because of an interesting incident that occurred recently in Miami. When people ask me, “Dave, why do you choose voluntarily to live in Miami?” I answer, “Because interesting incidents are always occurring here.” For example, just recently (DIGRESSION ALERT) federal agents here arrested two men on charges of attempting to illegally sell weapons.
“Big deal!” you are saying. “Federal agents in many cities regularly arrest people for illegally selling weapons!”
Right. But these were nuclear weapons. I swear I am not making this up. The two suspects are Lithuanian nationals; they were allegedly working on a deal to sell undercover agents some Russian-made tactical nuclear weapons.
Call me a Nervous Nellie, but I am concerned about the sale of nuclear arms in my general neighborhood. I say this because of the popular Miami tradition, which I am also not making up, of celebrating festive occasions by discharging weapons into the air. I am picturing a scenario wherein some Miami guy chugs one too many bottles of Cold Duck at his New Year’s party, and when the clock strikes midnight, he staggers over to the closet where he keeps his tactical nuclear weapon—which he told his wife he was buying strictly for personal protection—and he says to himself, “I wonder how THAT baby would sound!”
But my point (END OF DIGRESSION ALERT) is that Miami tends to have these interesting incidents, and one of them occurred a little while ago when Dade County purchased an office building from the city of Miami. The problem was that, squatting in an area that the county wanted to convert into office space, there was a large ugly wad of metal, set into the concrete. So the county sent construction workers with heavy equipment to rip out the wad, which was then going to be destroyed.
But guess what? Correct! It turns out that this was NOT an ugly wad. It was art! Specifically, it was Public Art, defined as “art that is purchased by experts who are not spending their own personal money.” The money of course comes from the taxpayers, who are not allowed to spend this money themselves because (1) they probably wouldn’t buy art, and (2) if they did, there is no way they would buy the crashed-spaceship style of art that the experts usually select for them.
The Miami wad is in fact a sculpture by the famous Italian sculptor Pomodoro (like most famous artists, he is not referred to by his first name, although I like to think it’s “Bud”). This sculpture cost the taxpayers $80,000, which makes it an important work of art. In dollar terms, it is 3,200 times as important as a painting of dogs playing poker, and more than 5,000 times as important as a velveteen Elvis.
Fortunately, before the sculpture was destroyed, the error was discovered, and the Pomodoro was moved to another city office building, where it sits next to the parking garage, providing great pleasure to the many taxpayers who come to admir
e it.
I am kidding, of course. On the day I went to see it, the sculpture was, like so many pieces of modern taxpayer-purchased public art, being totally ignored by the actual taxpaying public, possibly because it looks—and I say this with all due artistic respect for Bud—like an abandoned air compressor.
So here’s what I think: I think there should be a law requiring that all public art be marked with a large sign stating something like: “NOTICE! THIS IS A PIECE OF ART! THE PUBLIC SHOULD ENJOY IT TO THE TUNE OF 80,000 CLAMS!”
Also, if there happens to be an abandoned air compressor nearby, it should have a sign that says: “NOTICE! THIS IS NOT ART!” so the public does not waste time enjoying the wrong thing. The public should enjoy what the experts have decided the public should enjoy. That’s the system we use in this country, and we’re going to stick with it. At least until the public acquires missiles.
Fore!
You’ve surely noticed that a big golf craze is sweeping the nation, as aging Baby Boomers discover the benefits of participating in a sport where the most physically demanding activity is ordering putters by mail.
It has reached the point where, if you don’t play golf, your career can suffer. I know mine has. In my newspaper office, the two senior editors—let’s call them “Tom Shroder” and “Bill Rose”—regularly go off together during business hours to play golf. I’m sure that while they’re out on the “links” whacking their “bogeys,” they discuss important business matters and formulate newspaper policies in conversations like this:
TOM: Bill, before I attempt to “shank” this “birdie,” I’d like to know your “gut feeling” on the use of quotation marks in the newspaper.
BILL: Tom, I feel they are overused.
TOM: I agree. Let’s formulate a policy on that.
BILL: And then let’s try on evening gowns.
TOM: Yes! We’ll accessorize with brooches!
I’m not saying “Tom” and “Bill” discuss exactly these topics. I’m merely saying that, because I don’t play golf, I don’t know WHAT they discuss, and so I’m “out of the loop.” Perhaps you’re “in the same boat.” Perhaps you’d like to learn about golf, so that when your colleagues talk about it, you can join in and be “one of the persons.” That’s why today’s topic is Basic Questions About Golf, starting with the question that beginners ask most often:
Q.
Has anybody ever used a 9-iron to kill emus?
A.
Alert reader Marjorie Dishron sent me a fascinating column written last February by Ron Henry Strait, outdoor writer for The San Antonio Express-News; the column concerns a man named Wes Linthicum, who heads an informal group called the Texas Christian Hunters Association, which each year feeds the homeless using donated meat. An area emu farmer offered to give the group a bunch of emus, which are very large, ostrich-like birds. The problem was that the birds were alive, and, as the old folk saying goes, “You can’t feed large ostrich-like birds to the homeless if they [the birds] are walking around.” The members of the Texas Christian Hunters Association didn’t have guns with them, and nobody wanted to strangle the emus manually. According to the column, the problem was solved when:
“. . . someone recalled that emus have a tendency to closely examine an object that is dropped on the ground. That’s when Linthicum got out his 9-iron . . .”
I called Linthicum, and he told me, after some hemming and hawing, that although the story he’d related to columnist Strait was essentially correct, the golf-club part was not 100 percent accurate in the sense of being true. Linthicum also made these points: (1) If you are ever offered a gift of live emus, you would be wise to turn it down, because “those things have feet like something out of Jurassic Park”; (2) If it gets printed in the newspaper that you dispatched emus with a 9-iron, even for a good cause, you’re going to hear from some extremely angry animal-rights people; and (3) If a person, for whatever reason, did have to dispatch an emu with a golfing implement, it would make more sense to use a wood than an iron.
Speaking of Jurassic Park, another question often asked by beginning golfers is:
Q.
What happens if a snake eats my balls?
A.
Don’t worry! The snake will be fine, provided that it gets proper medical care. I base this statement on an article from the July 5, 1996, Harrisburg (Pennsylvania) Patriot-News, written by Danielle Hollister and alertly sent in by Dave Barrows, headlined SURGERY GETS SNAKE UP TO PAR. The story states that Sandy and Jeff Paul, who raise chickens, sometimes “put golf balls in their hens’ nests to encourage the hens to stay put and lay eggs.” One day they noticed a five-foot rat snake near their home with three distinct lumps in its middle, and they realized that the snake had swallowed their golf balls. So they grabbed their 9-iron and . . .
No, seriously, according to the Patriot-News article, the Pauls contacted a veterinarian, who successfully removed the golf balls. The snake, which the Pauls named “Spalding,” came through the operation OK and has been accepted to law school.
No, I’m kidding about that last part. But I’m not kidding about our final common golf question, which is:
Q.
If I do not wish to stand around on a golf course listening to a bunch of business clients drone on about their “mulligans,” can I hire somebody to play golf with them for me?
A.
Yes! Alert dentist Steve Carstensen sent me a flyer for a new Seattle outfit called Golf In Action (“We’ll Play for You When You Can’t”). The idea is, you pay a golfer to take your clients out and play with them, thereby (to quote the flyer) “giving you the freedom to continue your important daily business needs.”
I called Golf In Action and spoke with the founder, Sheila Locke, who told me that her idea has gotten a good public response, although a lot of the calls are from people who want to join her staff and get paid to play golf.
Me, I love the idea of paying somebody to play golf with your clients, and I’m thinking: Why not take it further? Why not pay somebody to have meetings with your clients, and take your clients to dinner, and smoke cigars and drink brandy with your clients, and then throw up on your clients’ shoes because you hate brandy and cigars? This company could be called: Businesspersons In Action.
So those are your golf basics. Good luck out on the “links,” and be sure to say “hi” to my editors, “Tom” and “Bill,” who will be easy to spot because they get stuck in the sand traps with those high heels.
Fore! II
I imagine you sports fans are dying to learn the results of my golf tournament.
That is correct: I have a golf tournament. It used to be that you had to be a major star such as a Bob Hope or a Moammar Gadhafi to have one, but now anybody can. It has reached the point where, if you apply for a credit card, the first two blanks on the application are “Your Name” and “Name of Your Golf Tournament.”
Mine is “The Dave Barry Classic,” and it attempts to raise money for the American Red Cross. I’m a fan of the Red Cross, because after Hurricane Andrew devastated South Florida, the Red Cross provided us with the one thing we most desperately needed: showers. This was a godsend, because after a few days without plumbing, we all smelled like Eau de Athletic Supporter.
And so when the local Red Cross chapter asked me if I’d host a golf tournament, my answer, without one instant of hesitation, was: “I don’t play golf.” This is true. I don’t have anything against golf; it’s just that, if I’m going to play a sport, I want one that provides more aerobic benefits, such as “Rock, Paper, Scissors.”
But I told the Red Cross people I’d host the tournament anyway, because I sincerely believe in “giving something back” to the community. Plus they said there would be beer.
The Dave Barry Classic was held at Doral Park, which is a residential golfing community catering to people who enjoy combining the pleasure of living in attractive homes with the pleasure of never knowing exactly when a small, hard, white sphere will pen
etrate your recreation room traveling upward of 140 miles per hour. This happens routinely because golfers, despite the fact that they are using expensive, modern golf clubs made from space-age materials and engineered to tolerances of thousandths of an inch, have absolutely no idea what the golf ball is going to do once they hit it.
I say this after spending a day observing the golfers in my tournament. These were mostly middle-aged business guys who had come out because they truly believe in the ideals of the Red Cross, especially the ideal of holding a golf tournament on a Friday afternoon.
“I would love to stay in the office wearing a tie and talking on the phone with boring people I dislike,” they probably told their business associates, “but I have an obligation to the Red Cross.”
In addition to the business guys, we had some big celebrities on hand. I do not mean “big” in the sense of “famous”; I mean “big” as in “larger than your junior high school.” For example, one celebrity was Charles “Gator” Bennett, a former defensive lineperson with the Miami Dolphins. At one point “Gator” playfully put his arm, which is the size of Keanu Reeves, around my neck, thereby playfully shutting down my trachea for what at the time seemed like an eternity, but which in fact, as I look back on it, was probably only about 45 minutes. This is exactly why I hated gym class. I was afraid that “Gator” would decide to snap me with a towel, and I would never walk again.
Not that I felt much safer on the golf course. For one thing, there were the killer ducks. The Doral Park course has a large colony of ducks that, after years of eating food dropped by golfers, have become large and aggressive. If you stop your golf cart, they surround you, dozens of them, pretty much demanding that you give them something to eat.
