I tied one on last night and passed out. This is not normal behavior for me, especially on a Monday night. When I got off work yesterday we went to the store. We bought a fancy-looking bottle of wine, originally $25 and marked down to $9, so we could not pass it up. That's our system of buying wine; we find the best deal within the price range.
After dinner, S listened to an old record of Southern songs, stuff recorded in the 1930s by Alan Lomax, including some old man playing, on a mouth harp, "The Old Grey Mare Came Tearing Out Of The Wilderness," which was Abraham Lincoln's campaign song. I learned all about it, oh yes. The other side of the record had fiddle songs, most of which have been lost and forgotten. These inspired S to play his own fiddle, and all his recent practice is certainly paying off; he always sounded great, but he's finally working out the rhythm of the bow. The dogs don't sigh and roll their eyes at him anymore.
We should have known, since the wine label blabbed on about the etched glass art and the art gallery and the artist and about how the wine was in the bottle but didn't actually say anything about the wine. It was not very good wine. In fact, the $2.50 Merlot from the Argentine vinyards established with Spanish stock in the 1500s kicks its ass and we should have just bought four bottles of that stuff rather than the watery somewhat-bitter legless bouqeut-less so-called "Oregon Pinot Noir" from some winery up near Salem. I do not think it is what they say it is. But it sure got to me. Didn't drink enough water, maybe, and not enough starchy foods, the wine went straight to my head and I passed out.
I certainly don't recall the things S told me I said. He found me around 10 o'clock curled on the bed looking pale, and tried to get me under the covers since I was cold, and I allegedly told him, "Keep playing that music without the words." And then I guess I said, "Don't touch me." Which is not something I would say to him, and I think it was probably because I was afraid if he touched me I would wake up enough to feel sick, and be sick. Which I hate.
But I feel great today, so go figure.
I'm sticking with the red wine I know from now on. No more fucking Chardonnay, no more skank super-discount "Pinot Noir." Give me red peasant wine.
After dinner, S listened to an old record of Southern songs, stuff recorded in the 1930s by Alan Lomax, including some old man playing, on a mouth harp, "The Old Grey Mare Came Tearing Out Of The Wilderness," which was Abraham Lincoln's campaign song. I learned all about it, oh yes. The other side of the record had fiddle songs, most of which have been lost and forgotten. These inspired S to play his own fiddle, and all his recent practice is certainly paying off; he always sounded great, but he's finally working out the rhythm of the bow. The dogs don't sigh and roll their eyes at him anymore.
We should have known, since the wine label blabbed on about the etched glass art and the art gallery and the artist and about how the wine was in the bottle but didn't actually say anything about the wine. It was not very good wine. In fact, the $2.50 Merlot from the Argentine vinyards established with Spanish stock in the 1500s kicks its ass and we should have just bought four bottles of that stuff rather than the watery somewhat-bitter legless bouqeut-less so-called "Oregon Pinot Noir" from some winery up near Salem. I do not think it is what they say it is. But it sure got to me. Didn't drink enough water, maybe, and not enough starchy foods, the wine went straight to my head and I passed out.
I certainly don't recall the things S told me I said. He found me around 10 o'clock curled on the bed looking pale, and tried to get me under the covers since I was cold, and I allegedly told him, "Keep playing that music without the words." And then I guess I said, "Don't touch me." Which is not something I would say to him, and I think it was probably because I was afraid if he touched me I would wake up enough to feel sick, and be sick. Which I hate.
But I feel great today, so go figure.
I'm sticking with the red wine I know from now on. No more fucking Chardonnay, no more skank super-discount "Pinot Noir." Give me red peasant wine.
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