mondosapore

89 is not 90: a tale of medium woe

What happens when your wine gets an 89?  

It's like the sound of one hand clapping:  here.

Yes, you CAN

Subscribe to Muddy Boots via email.  

It's so easy even I can do it! 

Go here for the simple instructions.

Organic growth

It's up!  The expanded Domenico Selections website!

We've added five producers in three new regions.  The new ones are in Green.

In each instance the process to "interview" and negotiate with a producer takes months (even years), and we spend many a soul-searching hour discussing the pros and cons of each winery and its products.  (Forgive me, Polly Pure, but wines ARE products that must find buyers, plural, in the marketplace, or no one eats dinner.  And you don't get all your freebies at tastings and on winery escapades.)

A few highlights of the new selections:

[Uh oh.  You'll have to navigate here to read the rest.]

Ciao, alla prossima.

Help still wanted: Uncle Jeff wants YOU

Psst!  Wanna sell some wine?  Go here for more.

If I were a tree what kind of tree would I be?

A silver maple with shallow roots that heave sidewalks and clog water lines?

Poison sumac with its Jurassic looks and seed pack that looks like a cock's comb?

A juniper that grows in shallow rocky soil, colonizing overgrazed pastures, producing berries that ferment on the branch?  I ate these when I was little.  They tasted horrible but I could tell when they'd fermented, like pears do but without the yellowjackets threatening your eyes.

A jackpine that grows up around the juniper and sumac, reeking of pitch, giving a dark home to bluejays, so beautiful, so noisy and pushy?

Or a tree that doesn't grow where I come from, an aspirational tree?

Another dreadful podcast

I am a scemo.*

I intended to post another podcast of Dom & the Somm with Susannah Gold.  Somehow I recorded 'cast 2 over 'cast 1.  Really, I don't know what happened.  Forgive me, Susannah.  You should probably do the sound engineering thing next time. 

Anyway, here's the link to the latest thrilling episode of "Dom without the Somm":  click.

It's short -- 7-8 minutes.  

I tried the video version but the results were hideous to behold.  (Note to self: ALWAYS WEAR THE SHADES.)

 

It's all my fault!

* Halfwit, dummy, dope.

People talking with self

There are loads of them around today. Meds are off or they're still stoned from Satday nite.

I should try it. No one ever asks them for change, to complete a survey on the environment or accept a copy of The Watchtower. Jehovah's Witnesses may be stupid but even they aren't that crazy.

More dypepsia coming from me soon soon soon. Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Bryant Park, 8:54 AM

Tranquil the park on a perfect summer's morn. I assume the birds are cheeping but I have Jimi Hendrix playing "Manic Depression" at a good volume.

All the hallmarks of depression are here in my body and mind these days, only in some minor way mitigated by a number of recent alterations in meds and dosage.

Broken sleep?

Check.

Whole days of somatically imposed inactivity?

Check.

Tiredness?

Check.

Hypochondriacal symptoms?

Check.

Mental torpor?

Check.

And so on. Despite the many good turns the importing company is taking. This sort of depression isn't situatonal, although if things were going badly, my symptoms would be more intense.

Maybe this is why I fucked up the last podcast of Dom + the Somm -- the engineering scemo (nitwit) has struck yet again.

Maybe this is why the good news of late hasn't thrilled my soul.

Maybe this is why getting an iTouch seems anticlimactic after hankering for one a long time. (For the record I'll stick to the BlackBerry for email functions, especially writing. The touch screen of the iTouch seems to require delicate digits.)

One less burden, of having to come up with a post on this blog almost every day, has proven a boon. I sense the very last post is coming up soon. It will be a sort of roman a clef. It will be apocalyptic in some sardonic way. The model will be a dream-vision, like the Parlement of Fowles, which was once pronounced like fools. Mondosapore will go out with no whimper, trust me.

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

The end of Western civilization, part 327

This is something I saw through an Italian's Facebook reference.  What do you say to something like this?  "Put on a burqa!" ??

Eppur si move...

Score magic

You hear about it, but you don't quite believe it until it happens to you.  

I refer, of course, to the 90 Point Effect.

Ever since the news of the high scores for our Soaves broke early Sunday, assisted by Jeff's instantaneous emails to everyone he knew in the biz, the phone calls and emails have been whirring in.  "I want two pallets."  "I'll start with 20 cases of this and 25 of that." And so on and so on.  Many of these breathless messages from people who had been giving our man in New Jersey the cold shoulder.

And suddenly the word allocation is in the air. 

Heady stuff indeed for a startup importer.

No, Christy, we won't forget our early friends and supporters.  But you better place your order soon.   

We break the 90-point barrier in WS!

Today Wine Spectator posted to its web site the wine-review scores for the August 31 edition.  I Stefanini, our Soave producer, broke the 90-point barrier for Domenico Selections.  We are about to re-re-order.  We are pleased -- thrilled, in fact.

For it is a necessary thing that the wines you import earn a 90+ from one of the major dispensers of such grace -- whether you care about such things or not personally.  (For the record, scores never, I mean never, determine which wines I buy for personal consumption.)

Valentino Tessari, agronomo at I Stefanini, stands in front of the family home and, at left, the cantina

As I blurted the other day, we rather anticipated scores of 90 points or higher.  We got a more mixed bag of results with 3 of the 5 wines/vintages reviewed receiving 90 or more points.

Here is the link to the search I did on I Stefanini early today: link!

If you don't have a subscription to WS online, here are the scores:  

Today Wine Spectator posted to its web site the wine-review scores for the August 31 edition.  I Stefanini, our Soave producer, broke the 90-point barrier for Domenico Selections.  We are about to re-re-order.  We are pleased -- thrilled, in fact.

For it is a necessary thing that the wines you import earn a 90+ from one of the major dispensers of such grace -- whether you care about such things or not personally.  (For the record, scores never, I mean never, determine which wines I buy for personal consumption.)

Valentino Tessari, agronomo at I Stefanini, stands in front of the family home and, at left, the cantina

As I blurted the other day, we rather anticipated scores of 90 points or higher.  We got a more mixed bag of results with 3 of the 5 wines/vintages reviewed receiving 90 or more points.

Here is the link to the search I did on I Stefanini early today: link!

If you don't have a subscription to WS online, here are the scores:  

As my feet are given great love...

I was told my smile was a faded old thing here as the doughty Diomery, whose face I nearly kicked ten times as my tickle reflexes seized control of me, toiled away.

So...

 

Josefina, the operator next to Diomery, jumped up and tickled me, and it worked through all the fat around my middle.  

Allora.  Worth all the money (even with a 50% discount!)

How I spent my Dominican vacation

The resort was attractive, the staff generally wonderful, and the views beautiful.  The beach was very nice.  Though, of course, I neglected to take any pictures of the beach.  I was more attuned to the amenities and the rooms.  And the many many kinds of run drinks.  Oh so many.  And oh so many a day, at least until you got used to the all-inclusive concept and realized you'd be dead before the week as out if you didn't cool it.

Me, daintily sipping at the beginning of the day

Me, guzzling a passion colada.  Serious brain freeze after this one.  The passion colada is a superb morning alternative to orange juice, either with or without rum.  Guess which version this was?

No pix of the palm-garlanded beach.  This view of the sea from the terrace is the best I can offer you.  Yes, I'm an idiot.

Two of my many enablers. They took care of us sybarites in the cabanas.  I know, I know.  Susannah Gold says I cry poor too.  IT WAS FREE.  And not because I'm a blogger, trust me on that one.

Home sweet home

The strange case of the pedicure virgin

Though aged, Strappo had never submitted himself to -cures of either the mani or pedi varieties. Until he got a 50% discount and said, as further justification, "My feet hurt from my terrible nail-clipping and God knows what all." 

So the discreet and skilled Diomery soaked, clipped, cleansed, scaled and otherwise tickled old Strappo's pedal extremities. He was delighted but took umbrage when she and Josefina asked about polish. "Like for maricones?" He asked in mock-horror. The ladies and the two maricones got a big laugh out of that one. 

Strappo felt fine and declared, "I feel like a king!" 

"A KING?" exclaimed his companion. 

Much laughter, though muted from Strappo, who prefers to make the final bravest quip. 

After that hour of sybaritic luxury he admired his suddenly beautiful feet. They looked young and healthy, they looked and felt godly comfortable. Strappo declared, "I will never cut my toenails again!"

 One decadent visit to the spa had created a monster of Lucullan extravagance and Caligulan depravity.

 Et laetum erat ille strappus.

 Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

The patriotism of the all-inclusive

All-inclusive resorts are really patriotic when you stop and think. American patriotic. "Surely," you must think, "he's both jesting and drunk again." No and, hm, maybe.

But really. Consider two important facts: when you go to a Caribbean -- that's CaribbEan, you ignorant sluts -- resort, I say, to a Caribbean resort, you drink a lot of rum. You a) want to get your money's worth (a fine old Yankee tradition aka cheapness) and b) you have a light buzz on from morn till night. This also is very old-time American patriotic. E'en the little children of ye olde colonial era drank beer or ale all day because our forefathers had done a typically efficient job of polluting the water in the New Land. If you drank the water YOU MIGHT SICKEN AND DIE.

Sad, I imagine, but dandy if you were a brewer. And just think, no onerous taxes or government warnings. (Oh Sarah, Sarah, make it like it usta be, like it sposta be.). In fact, I'm sure pregnant women were encouraged to drink for pain-killing and sedative purposes (aka "would you just stop your endless bitching?" -- no one was very enlightened then, and all women had not had sainthood foisted on them at conception. Good times.)

Where was I? This is hard to do on a teeny keyboard with emails lighting the night with red flashes.

Oh. Patriotism. All-inclusives. Aside from the long American involvement with the rum trade, which encompassed our finest achievements in degrading the duskier side of humanity, let's not forget America's proud and decisive military actions to secure friendly regimes in both rum and banana republics. And what a boon to America! We get lots of bananas and so cheap! Plus we found a way to make molasses bearable. 'Twas a win-win for our grand republic, and I'm sure the people of the Dominican Republic are delighted that we felt so guilty as a nation that we allowed them to escape their rickety houses in the sticks for tenements in the Bronx. I've heard every Dominican boy dreams of being a car-service driver in New York, swanning about in a wafty-suspensioned Lincoln or Cadillac every day.

But that's enough. My encomium to the Triangular Trade and our traditions of perpetual drunkenness is at its end. Renee Fleming is opening her veins, so to speak, in the Four Last Songs, and it's time to think about dinner. Not that I'm hungry -- no one here is hungry unless they just came in Jet Blue -- but it's time and, hell, we gotta just gotta get our money's worth.

I'm a true American after all. Forget the insistence on Campari soda and my fondness for Speedos. (Ha ha. That would be funny indeed.)

Happy Fourth, Yankee dogs.

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

El 4 julio

Nice to be away from the pseudo-patriotic bullshit of politicans, the news hour cliches of picnics and beach outings (clip of kid getting smothered in cotton candy), the clip of 239 new citizens of 100 nations being sworn in (inevitable stories of deprivation, unfreedom and American redemption), and let's not forget the most patriotic thing of all, SALES.

Here am I sitting in the shade of a coconut tree, watching a wasp burrow in the sand (quite the diggers these Dominican wasps), watching the men rake and load wheelbarrow after barrow with sea weed (excellent fertilizer), two tourists try and, sadly, fail to send themselves out to sea in a canoe. (Rather hilariously too.)

The good thing about being in another country on their holidays is that you're free to ignore their patriotic blather even if you somewhat speak the language. You can just do what you want and about your deliciously pleasant business without any psychic interference. It's celebrating Christmas without the family and its ancient baggage.

I admit I love this place, always warm, almost as warm in winter as summer. Despite this being the rainy season, the sun has shone hot and strong each day. Not a drop of rain, not a hint of it. It doesn't hurt that, when sun is done for us, we repair to a huge upgraded room, with upgraded food to match. (Note: the wine is among the vilest ever drunk -- or undrunk -- by your humble servant. Rum it must be.)

So, holiday-makers in America, as I sit in the dappled shade of a coconut palm or two, a pleasant mishmosh of songs on the iPod, I wish you Feliz 4 de Julio. See you in New York in a few.

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Dapples: more buzzed up thoughts from beachside

The sea is calm tonight. Ignorant armies clash but - and this is the point - not everywhere, not here.

I'll give you another 19th century poetic allusion. "Glory be to God for dappled things." It's true. Dappled things are a balm to the human soul.

It's well affter dark now but in this spot 10 hours ago, I was glorying in the dappled shade of a pair of palms and another fat-leaved tree that almost springs from the sea. The breeze blew in stiff from the water, cooling us at the edge of the strand, and the dappled shade soared back and forth at a hypnotizing rhythm.

Why does this dappled shade gladden the spirit so? For I've always found it so.

If I were sufficiently aesthetic, I'd be likely to owe it all to the pleasing play of light, to the altered perspectives of light and dark that enable us to see the familiar in a new -- well, light.

If I had a degree in sociobiology I'd be inclined to say that dappled shade provided protection and respite for our ancient ancestors, not to mention a comfortable, useful vantage point for hunting (and an early warning system for being hunted).

This sounds a little more plausible to me. The satisfaction and comfort of dappled shade are too profound to be explained mainly in aesthetic terms. I do think it's got everything to do with early memories that became built into us over the millennia. And memories that are more recent, in fact personal. I close my eyes and see the shade of the silver maple in my grandparents' side yard. I see the meticulously groomed back acre of my favorite house, the one I lived in for 12 years in Akron. No nostalgia or regret. A remembrance of pleasure past, of simple happiness, of unconditioned oneness.

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Not so tristes tropiques

Claude Levi-Strauss wrote his famous book back in the 1930s when the West was still in the thrall of a Rousseau-Gauguin romanticism about the exotic world of the tropics. Writing about its tristesse was, I suppose, meant to be something of a corrective; writing about his sexual relations with the indigenous women of the Mato Grosso was the clincher.

If I wanted to be an ugly American of the purest sort, I might remark that driving through Puerto Plata the term "banana republic" springs to mind. Worse would be to say it's the South Bronx without the 6 train. But that would be an injustice.

True, the public section of the beach here at Cofresi' is dirty and uncared for. The beach fronting the all-inclusives is immaculate and groomed.

The towns are a wild mix of run-down and pristine, usually in close proximity, unlike the strict social segregation of most American towns. A bit more like New York in that respect -- think today's Lower East Side or Bowery.

If there's anything sad, it may be the inescapable effluvia of international commerce, most notable in signs and on the lips of the people. "Shopping center." "Karaoke." "Cappuccino." "Non-stop." "Mac o PC?. And so on, the usual.

On the other hand, you know at once when you land in the DR that you're in the real tropics, not the fake ones you get in Florida. That lushness, the abundance of those flaming-red trees, the hundreds of types of palms that grow spontaneously all the way up the mountains. The year-round heat, the always-mild sea (actually hot against the skin at times), adjustment to a slower rhythm of life that is essnetial for your physical well-being.

I think, too, of the moralistic writings of old colonial administrators and explorers from England and New England. They wrote about tropical living and "the jungle" as if it were unmitigated hell, revolting and killer. I would guess your perspective changes when you take off yout waistcoat and dress down a bit in shorts and flipflops. The tropiques are no more tristes than London or Boston, they're just warmer with better rum drinks.

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry