Hustler of Culture
Electoral-Vote.com, which tabulates polls of different races from around the country, has the Democrats taking back the House and Senate this November. It’s a delicious fantasy I’m wary of enjoying too much (via Consumating).
“Literature is my Utopia. Here I am not disfranchised. No barrier of the senses shuts me out from the sweet, gracious discourse of my book friends. They talk to me without embarrassment or awkwardness. The things I have learned and the things I have been taught seem of ridiculously little importance compared with their “large loves and heavenly charities.” – Helen Keller
(in honor of the opening of Litquake)
My friend Scott Keneally is affliliated with The Roshambo Winery, a vinter in Healdsburg, a sweet little town about 90 minutes north of San Francisco. Their philosophy is something I can get behind…
You don’t need to know how to cook a steak to eat and enjoy it. You don’t need to know the difference between acrylics and oils to buy a piece of art. No one says you’ve got to understand the manufacturing process of shampoo to choose one bottle over the other. And you don’t need to speak an esoteric language just to explain how much you like your spiffy new car.
So why are we pressured into understanding malolactic fermentation, the difference between a Bordeaux and a Meritage, the art of barrel aging, and the taste of slate in order to have a glass of wine?
And the wine industry wonders why more people don’t “get” wine.
So who are we to think that we can democratize wine and tear down the carefully crafted barriers to entry? We are artists, farmers, jokers, mothers, fathers, progressives, drinkers, queens, quarrelers…and winemakers. Grandfather Frank Johnson started it all with a few acres of grapes. We continued it with the creation of Roshambo, a winery dedicated to the idea that wine should be more fun, more delicious, more Roshambo!
They’ve got an art gallery, an annual rock, paper, scissors tournament and a recently launched blog, which has nothing to do with wine and that’s ok by me. I think Scott’s running the show over there too.
I don’t know squat about wine but I’m willing to learn. Naomi, send invitation courtesy of this here blog. I’ll be up your way in an hour, less if you let me stamp on the grapes.
So my new favorite song is called “Let There Be Love” and is a lesser known, more recent track by Simple Minds.
The lyrics are pretty insipid…
Secrets of lovers
Whisper tonight
Broken down angel
Got lost in the cold daylight
The city is screaming
And I look for your eyes
Someone to lean on through the night
Your music talks to me and hits me tonight
One candle burning, I hear you say
So let there be love
Let there be love
Love
Let there be love
But it moves me in all the right ways. If you like bombast as much as I do, step right up.
So what if I can’t afford an architect? This article needs a companion piece about how to add your own secret room to your house. It probably involves a pick axe and several tiki torches (via Kottke.org).
Wired reports that while readership for print newspapers keeps dropping, online readership rose dramatically
The average number of monthly visitors to U.S. newspaper websites rose by nearly a third in the first half of 2006, a study released on Wednesday said, though print readership at some larger papers fell.
The study, released by the Newspaper Association of America, underscores the internet’s importance to papers beset by falling circulation and advertising revenue in their print editions. (via Arts Journal)
Am I the only one who feels like this season of the Gilmore Girls lacks something? Like it was once a crackling fire and now it’s damp newspaper? What do you think?
Bring me Amy Sherman-Palladino. Now.
Good Will Hunting (1997): “A gift wasted is worse than a gift never had.”
Notes: The first movie I’ve ever purchased through the iTunes movie store.
My friend Dave has put this video together about racism, tolerance using, eh, bobbleheads. F’in genius.
Yom Kippur went surprisingly well. Wrote my letter to G-D, read a book, took a long walk through Golden Gate Park and lit a candle at the AIDS Memorial Grove and broke fast with friends at the Mission Minyan.
For the last 11 years, I’ve spent Yom Kippur alone, reading, writing thinking. I started this tradition in 1995, where, as a miserable junior reporter for the Baltimore Jewish Times, I didn’t want to spend the day of attonement doing anything but thinking about how miserable I was. I’ve spent the day in that mold since.
But that was a long time ago. I’m developing a Jewish community here in San Francisco. I have places to go on holidays. And really, what good is having a Jewish community if I spend the holiest day of the year away from it?
At the end of the Passover service it’s customary to say “Next year in Jerusalem.” At the end of this Yom Kippur service, I’m saying “Next year in public. With friends.”