alcohol

CASTILLO DE MONSERAN OLD VINES GARNACHA (2007)

My Fellow Inebriates,

If I hear another parental exclamation about how expensive this season is and how booze is a “luxury,” I’m going to lose my furry mind. The budgeting conversation was so boring today that I rested my head in the curve of a bunch of bananas for most of the day, drowning out the banality.

Okay, maybe that doesn’t sound too understanding. As a bear without a social insurance number, I’ve never felt any obligation to bring home any bacon (barf—that’s for you, Hanukkah Harry—bacon is blech). So I don’t know how to budget, shop, do taxes, save, open an RRSP or any of that financial stuff. Why would I? It’s totally boring.

Except. Except that all this budgeting curtails my wine consumption.

I like exploring wines a lot, especially nuanced vintages and off-the-beaten-track varietals. I love detecting the layered scents before taking that first, tentative sip and disappearing into a wondrous, sensory ravishment by an exceptional wine.

But let’s face it, I’m a raging alcoholic, and the important thing is to keep wine in the house. If that wine is in a box, so be it.

My parents do not agree. They draw the line at boxed wine and will not stoop below the $10 mark. No matter how engagingly a liquor store’s $9 shelf talker ogles them, they will not purchase wine they can actually afford. Instead they keep a dry house for days on end and then spring for an occasional “decent” bottle.

Of course this is total BS. It means long periods of dreadful shakes and shivers, not to mention desperate cravings and urges to taste Windex and Clorox. The other day I drank half the vanilla in the baking cupboard, only to discover it was artificial and devoid of alcohol. If only my parents would invest in a friendly box of cheap plonk, I could park my mouth under the spout during these dark times and stop being the nuisance they say I am.

Still, I have to applaud my parents when they find something cheap enough to buy and drink without feeling guilty. The latest find, CASTILLO DE MONSERAN CARINENA OLD VINES GARNACHA (2007), was recommended by their local liquor store consultant, who pointed out that Spanish wines at the store often boast slightly older vintages, presumably because they tend to trickle more slowly to the North American market. Thus you can find, with a good consultant, some spectacular buys on mature wines that can certainly hold their own against the pricier Australian, US and Canadian bottles.

I’m wondering how we can get to know this wine consultant of ours a little better. My parents say he’s young and very friendly (which puts him out of their league as a potential buddy). If I wish to meet him, I may need to stow out of the house inside a purse or jacket pocket. The only problem: the liquor store is currently overrun by bears for its annual Share A Bear program, and I’m not sure what species they are. If they’re grizzlies like my friend Scarybear, then they will make things very difficult for a handbag-riding interloper, and I might end up getting the crap kicked out of me.

The reason I want to get to know this wine consultant (whose name my parents can’t even remember) is that I suspect he goes to tastings, and he might not object to taking along an alcoholic bear. Of course he might not have a man-purse that I could ride in, but maybe he has a backpack or some pockets. It would depend which pockets and where they were on his anatomy, because I wouldn’t want things to get weird.

That dude would be good to go to a tasting with because he certainly has good judgment. CASTILLO DE MONSERAN OLD VINES GARNACHA ($13.99) was a phenomenal surprise; even before it opened up, one inhalation revealed its promise. Ripe and full, this traditional old-vine Grenache bursts with plum and dense cherry, balanced oak and hints of olive. Remarkably complex for a Grenache, CASTILLO DE MONSERAN is lush yet structured, with a deliberateness about it that tells you these particular Spanish dudes know their craft.

I felt such sorrow when the last drop was drained, I had to curl up with the bananas on the counter. A spectacular value, CASTILLO DE MONSERAN OLD VINE GARNACHA is worth buying by the case.

Of course I’m not hedging my bets. Not really.

My Fellow Inebriates,

I was still recovering from my parents’ insensitive revelation that Santa’s been pretend all along, when my friend Scarybear went all apeshit at me on FB.

Scary thinks there’s no way anybody’s parents could ever deliver the swag Santa does.

I had thought that too, especially about my parents, who are always chasing clients for payment, saying the sky is falling and that we’ll be on bread and water soon.

I really want to believe that Santa’s real.

But it’s hard not to compile evidence now that the belief bubble’s been popped:

We have no chimney. How does he get into our house without doing a B&E?

"Magic."

Santa’s everywhere. Lots of them are fake. Maybe all of them are fake.

"Those ones are fake. The real one's real."

Why do my parents get sneaky and secretive just before Christmas?

"I don't know. Because tax season's coming?"

This is a honking big planet. How does Santa do it all in one night?

"IT'S MAGIC! MAGIC! IT'S MAGIC, YOU RETARD!"

I think Scary would be a good fit for the Tea Party. He’d probably be a good Flat Earth guy, too, if Star Trek hadn’t won him over already. His suspension of disbelief transcends any and all inconvenient information, leaving him free to believe whatever the hell he wants, and, just like all good believers, he knows it’s unquestioning faith that anchors the whole thing.

But what if he’s right? What if Santa’s for real and I’m going to miss the boat with my cynical questioning? OMG.

Okay, well, if I’ve messed everything up with Santa, there’s still another guy…and he comes tomorrow. YEAH!! Hanukkah Harry!…

Dear Hanukkah Harry,

I have a bad feeling I’ve been blacklisted by Santa, so I’m wondering if it’s too late to become Jewish. I’ve heard there are a few hoops to jump through, but maybe I can do them after New Year when I have more reading time.

I hear you visit for eight days rather than one, Harry, which makes me wish I’d known about you sooner. I’m really sorry I’m not Jewish yet, but if you don’t mind my waiting until next year to contact a rabbi, here are some little requests:

  • Day One: Smirnoff vodka
  • Day Two: Macadamia nut liqueur
  • Day Three: California Cult Classics Chardonnay
  • Day Four: Case of Cariboo
  • Day Five: Chairman’s Reserve Spiced Rum
  • Day Six: Blue Curacao
  • Day Seven: Bacardi 151
  • Day Eight: Jagermeister

I’m not really sure how you operate, Harry, or whether it’s cool to ask for Hanukkah booze. (I know it’s okay to ask Santa because he often looks inebriated.)

Lastly, if you know Santa, please don’t tell him I asked for all this stuff because I don’t want him to think I’m hedging my bets. Which I’m totally not—I asked for different booze from you—so it’s all good, right?

Cheers, Harry, and thanks for reading my last-minute letter. I’m sorry I didn’t believe in you before. Sometimes my parents keep valuable information from me.

Yours truly,

LB

Meat is manger

My Fellow Inebriates,

People are sending me all kinds of weird stuff lately. The latest comes from my friend Stevie: a detailed nativity scene consisting of alcohol bottles. Check out the three wise men (Jack Daniels, Jose Cuervo, Jim Beam). I couldn’t have chosen them better. Joseph? Jagermeister, maybe for the “J.” The Virgin? Absolut.

I like the electrical plate above the scene.

Then there’s this nativity scene, showing slightly less effort, considerably less cost, and, well, no variety.

I still like it better than this nativity scene made of meat. It kinds of freaks me out, especially since it’s in the oven. Of course the animals were literally meat, and now they’re representing livestock, which would have become meat in a grand circle that probably didn’t escape the artist (chef?). My friend Scarybear would wolf that whole thing down.

So when my parents ask me, “What have you done with yourself today?” or “How are you being useful?” I figure these pics should give them pause (paws) and perhaps make them happy that I really didn’t do anything.