Thursday, October 23, 2008

The Road to Perdition...


is paved with tasty barley pops. That is of course if you are traveling interstate 80 above the Bay area and stop off in the stretching stripmall of Santa Rosa. Within Sonoma wine country lies a zymurgilogical gem amidst the hub-bub of the saintly metropolis: Russian River Brewing Company. Started by Korbel Cellars in 1997, RRBC and Vinnie Cilurzo catapulted to fame a year short of the twenty-first century by winning brewmaster and small brewery of the year at the Great American Beer Festival. It should be no surprise to family and friends then that this brewpub had been on my top ten swirl, sip and chug stops long before I arrived in California. Hell, for Beer Nerds RRBC represents an eclectic blend of Belgium nestled into an urban nook in the endless grapevines of the Sonoma Valley. Russian River specializes not only in American Strong Ales such as Double IPA's but cask aged sour ales matured in Cab Sauv, Pinot Noir and Chardonnay barrels from the surrounding wineries.

Vinnie Cilurzo has been ahead of the game for quite sometime. From the East Coast it is nearly impossible to get a taste of this man's beverages aside from reading a few tidbits in "Brew Like a Monk" and "Wild Fermentations." In the first how-to reference manual the brewmeister describes an epic trip to Belgium in search of the brewery's proprietary yeast strain. Almost like searching for your beers' future baby's daddy. Legend. In the latter publication Vindogg(if I may speak of the man as a peer) references the surrounding Sonoma winemakers concerns with his use of Brettanomyces Bruxelenis (seen in wine as a spoilage organism) to carry out his controlled barrel ferments stating "I told the local producers that if they have any concerns about the wild yeast I would burn their clothes for free before they walk out the front door (roughly quoted)." Witty and bold this man and his wife Natalie are going places.

Or are they? They don't really have to, there joint is bumping nearly every night. My housemates Dorit and Mor (who incidentally recommended we drop on by) mentioned the place was packed during their previous visit as well. Dude-o-rama, oh it the stench was heavy. Let's see know, there was Jonny Bradawg and Co. rambling on about the Three Sheets lush and banana esters while our eyes devoured a decor of fluffy pink brassieres and bulk hop sacks lining otherwise bare concrete walls. The open kitchen oozed a fried foods stench that infiltrated our clothes like a shitty drainbow at a affinity group meeting and lingered well into the Bonnie ride back to Booneville. Why is it that no brewpub can match fine ales with anything other than baked dough or bloody burgers? For fucks sake can I get some shucked oysters? They could have certainly paired quite well with RRBC's O.W.L Stout, a dry soiled black tipple lingering of burnt coffee notes. A bit flat for my taste but a pinch too much of black patent and that batch is one for the neighbors (or your freeloading, parasitical housemates).

So while I sipped, I too sat in a dual state of perdition and salvation. No Mojo Nixon and I were not drinking with Jesus, but I was enjoying a tasty drink platter of ten different tap offerings at the brewpub. On the other hand I was also in a "state of spiritual ruin." Reason being: I was missing out on two of my favorite punk bands performing in my home town at the very same moment. The headliner NOFX was a heavy influence during my formative years teaching me as I broke down basic trigonometry that no male could quite live up to a lesbian fist and the sanitary benefits of wearing a "Jimmy Hat." Of course there was also indelible life lessons etched into my brainsky with songs like "Beer Bong" and "Six Pack Girls." Getting girls meant drinking tons of cheap beer. Sounded good at the time. And roughly ten years ago from tonight I saw NOFX rock the Funhouse, apparently their farewell tour and possibly one of the best live performances to take place in Bladsdell. I mean c'mon were talking about bombed out Bladsdell. Who else played Bladsdell, Ratt? The venue was a humid swamp, the pit a slimy throng of degenerates with stickered hatchbacks. A drunkard puked on neo-Nazi, Buffalo Flea tried to buy a Jughead's Revenge Tee of my partner in crime Diabolical Dave and a second hand high and parched White Owl throat tricked me into drinking a litre-a-cola of Mountain Topps, the rustic dew.

"Man that was crazy."

Opening up for the California geezers was the poetic popthundergroup D4, whose Budweiser fueled lifeforce has not been felt in Buffalo since a dead drunk swaying performance at the Atomic, now Big Titties oops I mean Big Shotz, in 2000. Why have the burly boys of the Twin cities forsaken B-Lo and why did it take international geriatric supertars to bring them back? Who knows, who cares? Certainly not our loss. The first time, like laying with a woman in the biblical sense was unforgettable. The second time I saw the Dillenger Four rippers, I skipped the Young Judge's b-day party on Minnesota to drink black label in Clev-o and watch D4 blow down the Grogg Shop with Paddy's peepee plugged into a sweaty onlookers palm. The third and fourth shows were mwweeaahh, not aw memorable. But tonight! Tonight would have been the dance party of the year, sure to bring on a good case of laryngitis and over the head people spins. Mid-swirl I get my second phone call from Gaccess community at which I blundered outside and blathered into my dying phone "For Christs sake what do you people want?!" To which my response was a lo-fi static rendition of "Folk Song." I started laughing, took a couple deep breaths and went back into my sensory lab atop the bar stool.

Perfect timing? I think so young Paul Revere. While you can deduce whatever your sweet ass pleases from a song's lyrics this one is probably most emblematic of the my crew, my lost city:

"So many people with so much to show. Rotting away in the own little holes. One can only wonder why. I'll celebrate my home, but know that I'm not alone. Only fools are along for the ride. I'll think of the size of the world that's right outside. Please don't waster your time trying to hide."

Buffalo can become a stagnant cesspool filled with bright creative kids drinking 'till the cows come home. But hell we have each other, it's our home, maybe our second home and "We are fucking Proud!" And I am proud of my friends, their accomplishments and efforts to make the City of Lights a better place to settle/nest. It's also a blatant message to those in search of greener pastures; those that have abandoned the ruins at the end of a dirty ditch. People like well, me. Yep. And to that I will quote the Bouncing Souls when I say "To all you KIDS we're gone but well be back!" They all come back after all, right Benji?

Princess Passion and Gaccess you kids fucking rule! I love you both to death!

Tasting Notes:

Perdition: med-bootied, wheaty Sonoma Biere de Garde with hints of toffee. Smoothly pulverizing my liver.
Aud Blonde: smooth, with with bread, light choc. and toast. Who knew they could have so much character?
Hop Hearty: Proceeds go to fight breast cancer in this uncannily balanced APA. Seamless blend of malt and flowery bitterness.
Russian River and Blind Pig IPA's: Two of the best reasons RRBC won the 2008 Alpha King crown. I still want to throw a Blind Pig in the First Ward. Who's with me?
Pliny the Elder: similar to 90 min IPA but reasonably more balanced. Fresh cut grass and pine. Big malt body. I gave a toothy grin and Dorit grimaced with pain. You be the judge.
Dead Leaf Green: Psst. I'm pretty sure they flavor this tipple with Mendo's finest harvest bud. Tastes like liquid joint APA. Name says it all.
Salvation: Drink three of these tulips and you'll be in heaven until the next morning when your gut and kidneys are burning in hell. Rich, fruity nose, malty caramel body but a finish that screams rubbing alcohol.

http://www.russianriverbrewing.com/

"I say fuck what they say. It doesn't matter anyway. Only in the grave are you alone!" -D4

Monday, October 13, 2008

How Could Hell Be Any Worse?


Today, Monday October 13 I lived my own personal hell. Jittery and flustered I stood third in line at the Customer Service desk at Wal-Mart in Ukiah. At first I was hesitant to swing by the mega-store that rolls back prices with a grotesque yellow smiley face as it steamrolls local business but I really had to get rid of a malfunctioning Ipod transmitter that had been lifelessly rotting in my trunk for the past month. My reservations were based upon the fact that a pound of scallops residing in my spacious trunk would soon be decomposing at a exponentially fast rate in the mid-day valley sun. But it had to be done. The purchase it turns out, was on impulse at a strip mall Wal-Mart along highway 80. My musical merry-making device was energetically incapacitated and I was crossing quite possibly the one most physically unappealing states in the country: Nebraska.

Hell, at the time I didn't even know if I had enough money in my checking account to cross the country and I was at the checkout in a Walmart at Strip Center (catchy name) in Lexington, NE buying bread, PB& J and a forty dollar charger/transmitter. To tell the truth, part of me trembled as I began to ponder how much money I had tucked away in my account, but after a "transaction approved" flashed on the screen I breathed a sigh of relief. "Whew," I thought, going on my best Valley girl judgment I concluded that "I must have like at least 300 bucks left. Plenty enough dough to make it to the Sunshine State." Checking your bank account for me feels a lot like going to the dentist for many. I never want to know how much money I have pissed away only to find out that I am verging on the brink of wanton bankruptcy while others don't want to find out that they have eight gaping cavities because they are addicted to dunking Oreos in carbonated beverages laden with high-fructose corn syrup (Just because it's Vegan doesn't make it O.K.) So there I was impulsively buying a product for my trans-Atlantic, well practically, journey across the vast expanses of our proud country. Said store could show us all something about integrity by changing their slogan to "Wal-Mart: Keeping America Rolling with Mass Trash Consumption."

Why did I really need this auto-sensory device? Need is such a strong word. Let's say "had to have." The answer can traced back to my driving coordinates at the time. I was entering mountainous terrain in western Wyoming and Jack-o had warned me the only public radio frequencies available to the public on the way to Jackson Hole focused primarily on contemporary bubble gum crooning country beats and a splotchy NPR station that was erratic at best. My trustworthy Road Master Road Atlas purchased for a mere three-fitty from a Lochness Monster on Niagara Falls Blvd. said it was five hours to Jackson from Hwy 80. Five fucking hours without music?!? How can one truly master the road without a killer trailblazing soundtrack
to accompany my thrill ride on "Why-ohm-mings most dane-jur-us highway," the 191. At least that was the omninous warning I recieved from the colorful folks at the Texaco in Rock Springs. "Big game litter the roads. Lotsa axe-cid-dents and tight curves," cautioned a pimply cashier clad in a Gothic jumpsuit who cordially pointed me toward the free tap water. Yum yum. The taste of blood and iron to wash down a heart palpitating energy beverage.

But seriously I want my Dillenger Four! Who is to deny me my daily dose of Avail, Mirah, Jonny Cash or Billy Bragg. This was indeed the right thing to do. After Wal-Mart I completely gave up on life and headed over to the thruway Starbucks, you know the ones that boast a giant sign atop a linearly reducing metal pole that looks like it sprouted some 100 feet out of the concrete. Yep, that one. At, ahem, Harbucks a bleached bombshell barrista stuck in the Nebraska matrix earnestly filled up my "Safety, it's My Job" mug with a perky smile and I scurried back to the Pontiac with my black death to test out my new toy. Finally, I would be able to surf the radio frequencies unfettered, much like a private loan agencies who deal government securities in the free market, in order to pick out the best channel to broadcast my personal hand-held music collection. Truth be told I already owned a radio transmitter which I had purchased from the French luxury goods store Target, but much to my behest the beastly only allowed me to choose from four different stations in the lower eighties. When I came close to any metropolitan area any stations close to the frequency I had selected would drown out my low-fi, fast paced clamor. Imagine your dismay as you belted out "Run for the Hills" and Ricky Martin's "La Vida Loca" stages a fascist corporate coup in your personal environment. That is the polar opposite of democratic. That's Clear Channel imposing it's playlists on my attempts to buck the system with Apple's advances in modern technology.

"So how did I end up at the customer service line in Ukiah?" you ask, likewise questioning if this rambling tangential discourse will ever come full circle. The answer is the frequency transmitter was a total dud. At first I though the batteries in the package had expired but one attempt and broken head lamp later and I realized nothing short of Taiwanese assembler was going to solve my technical issues. That and returning to Wal-Mart. I fully dreaded the latter option. Walking through the doors of the mega-crap store twice in one day would have broke my spirits for months. Instead I decided to take full advantage of the 30 day guarantee commonly used by poster tour shitworkers and use the charger while it was in my slimy scheming paws.

In the end it was what I had to do. Follow through with the return. So I stood in line at the gates of hell, the suburban boy on the cover of Suffer with Beelzebub perched on my left shoulder laughing maniacally. Three landbeasts were womaning the service counter, piling a landfill of returns behind the Formica blue counter as the cattle aired their displeasure with past purchases. To my left sauntered a heavy mustachioed gent with an Alcatraz Hotel tee accompanied by a barflyish lass, skin stained with years of thick smoke and sun-washed green spiraling tattoos. Ahead of me a scraggly geriatric woman arguing relentlessly over an unknown object of desire. Perspiration began to pierce my skin and omit a raw bouquet at the center of my armpit. The greeter, a Elmer Fudd character with extended flapping upper gums barked out a thick Texan call to newcomers taking time to catch up with regulars. I contemplated running for it. Dropping my package and booking for the doors. Anxiety poured over my being as the parking lot corralled livestock through the doors to be directed through the maze of products ingeniously crafted from the excess stocks of mono-cropped cotton, corn and plantations of pine. Calming myself I stuck it out, staying placidly put in line as the mobs destroyed the racks as beckoned.

Forty-two dollars richer (accredited to my account) I felt the consumer confidence in my pocket and took to the aisles, feverishly looking for dental products and cheap envelopes for my obligatory economic transactions. Flames cascaded down my shoulders and backside as I made a beeline for the register, finding even the express lines queued with as many as 5 to 6 people much to my dismay. I though this was about convenience after all. Making due I eavesdropped on the conversations in line. "Well Sheila's gotta new boyfriend, Mike's 'is name," gabbed a curly hailed middle-ager with a gnarly chipped front tooth. "Yep, she skipped from C to M in the alphabet," she quipped with a squirrely laugh. God save me. I turned to the trashy magazines, the lot of them covered with smiling tanned celebs and sculpted male specimens. I'm immediately taken with Howard Stern's Wedding photos. Craddling my purchases with the left arm I madly peruse the magazine only to find articles about Angelina's weight fluctuations. Holy Shit, I catch myself caught in a void of mindless voyeurism and fling the mag back to the racks. Then the beef jerky is looking me straight in the eye. Oberto's genuine dusty cow-dung covered antibiotic charged feedlot beef jerky is egging me on and I am restraining myself from adding the salty particles to my current pile of bullshit. Exchange of money and I'm out the door swimming in a boxed sports utility vehicle sea of unhappy desperate housewives and frowning princesses.

Thank you Kathy Lee Gifford, you dunce. Sam Walton I'll see you in hell. I'll be the kid at the bar in the Reagan Youth t-shirt drinking Belgian strong ales and talking shit about winter weather.

Monday, October 6, 2008

The Punchdown Herald

This Week's Headlines:

Vintage Hurricane: Working in the Eye

All was calm on the Ranch this past weekend as heavy rainfall (1-2") on Thursday and Friday pushed back further harvest until Monday morning. The rain came in buckets just as harvest was beginning to pick up. Due to a cool growing season and long blossoming period much of the estate fruit has ripened at a staggeringly slow pace. The result of the sub-normal temps in the valley is that many of the vineyard sites have matured at the same rate no matter their given elevation. Both the Pinot clones on the valley floor and the stunning flat patches mid-ridge are ready to be plucked from the vines and thrown into open tops for gentle vinification. The Gewurztraminer, Chardonnay, Riesling and Muscat the same. Unfortunately while we were busy fanning the fire of vintage, crushing bin after bin of pinot, filling tanks for cold soaks and filling the lower warehouse with macro bins the heavy clouds bellowed and rained on our parade.

Winemakers and owners alike tend to cower and become abashedly upset at the thought of cloudbursts during the harvest as sugar and pH levels in grapes fall creating "diluted flavors" and excessive precipitation can lead to unwanted botrytis and mildew on the fruit and vines. On top of that, most pickers prefer not to harvest in the rain and wet conditions can become particularly tricky when attempting to haul half ton bins up steep slopes on a John Deere. Rain is of course nothing new to Northern California, but rather the contrary: an expected obstacle. With weather patterns looking refreshingly sunny and clear in the upcoming week the vineyard workers were given a much needed weekend to rest; relax their abused bones, soft drink strained muscles and weary psyches.

The showers arrived just as we were turning the first quarter leg of harvest. Roughly 200 tons of fruit have been processed on the crush pad and we have an estimated 600 to go. In all honestly the cellar was quiet this weekend; no forklifts were zooming to the crusher with a plume of spent propane in their wake, no country cowboys with shitkickers and flatbeds pulling up to unload bulbous Zinfandel from Ukiah, and little to no commotion on the center stage crush pad. No crush, no press and no lees filter. We were sitting in the eye of the storm but steadily getting things in order for the real test: the deluge of fruit that is about to bombard the cellar and fill all usable space to the brim with must, juice, ferments and finishing wine.


Anderson Valley: 1 Million Punchdowns Served and Counting

The great grape pick might have come to a halting standstill but you better bet your ass that this busy beaver was not slowing down, nope not even a little bit. Saturday morning Jessie and myself had our work cut out for us given the duty of punching down twelve 5 ton open tops and nearly 25 macro bins (half ton) of a mixture of cold soaked and fermenting reds. For those unaware of what a punchdown, or "punching the cap," means it is a technique used to keep all the grape skins in contact with the juice during fermentation. So while millions of yeast cells are busy eating sugars and turning them into alcohol (ethanol), they also create Carbon Dioxide (CO2) which forces grape skins to the surface where they begin to dry out and form a solid cap on top of the fermenting juice. By punching the cap twice a day and mixing the skins with the juice the winemaker can successfully extract color and attempt to flavor and maintain a uniform heat in the ferment.

At 8 a.m. we began mechanical removing open top lids and gracefully placing the ginormous stainless disks on the ground as we hoisted planks to the stand on to punch down. The Zin was fermenting vigorously as CO2 anxiously escaped, displaying heat lines and shooting to the ozone ceiling as each top was lifted. Punching the cap of an open top is in some respects an art form that is somehow strangely reminiscent of ice fishing. First, one must break through the cap with a circular hole and dredge up some warm juice to soak the outer layers of the cap. The spurting beet red juice often reminds me of the icy slurry that is dredged out of the water with the auger. However instead of throwing in a squirming skewered bait to the cold depths of a bay, the puncher continues to enlarge the hole by chipping away at the cap half-moon by half-moon. Ten minutes later your out of shape ass in gasping for breath and "WALLAH" you have a juice covered cap with bobbing berries. The excitement soon wears off and futility fills your thoughts as the ferment is once again back at it, doing its best handy work to push the skins back to the top.

By ten am we're down in the lower Oval Room, often utilized for barrel tasting but pragmatically used as a fermenting room for macro bins throughout harvest. By Sunday morning there were 55 bins in the Oval Room, their berries' egos inflated and ready to be you guessed it punched down. If an intern had to say he got his chops doing something in the winery it should probably be here. Shoulder deep in fermenting pinot, the wafting smells of cooked berry infiltrating the olfactory while CO2 burns your nose hairs and fermenting juice splashes your face. I really can't get enough of this shit. There is something incredibly beautiful, archaic and romantic about punching these caps with your own to hands. You, the non-violent puncher are helping to sculpt a fragile and delicate wine that will inevitably showcase ripe, rich fruit and velvety tannins. While Navarro uses this technique for a number of reasons (more quality control, less manipulation) other larger wineries wouldn't even consider using such a technique, blowing it off as a complete waste of time, capital and peoplepower. A Luddite by nature I scoff at the corporates whose main goal rarely surpasses cranking out large lots of bum jug wine (Yeah, sure I admit it was cool to hold the Carlo Rossi bottle upside down with the little thumb hole and chug it when you were barely legal). Instead of manually punching down the large producers have turned to automatic metal punchers, pump-overs and giant butterfly plates that sit at the top of the tank and flip the cap automatically twice daily. Where is the heart and soul in automation?

Of course no punchdown would be possible if it wasn't for the introduction of yeast which brings me to my next topic: Yeast Pride. No dummy, not the yeast found in your Lycra short's shammy after a six day bicycle tour but rather the eukaryotic microorganism of the Fungi family that given the right environment will happily metabolize carbs for our favorite adult beverages. Yeast, which is derived from the Greek word zestos which means boiled, is a reference to bubbling or foaming during fermentation. After re-hydrating dormant yeast cells in a food grade bucket at 104 degrees Fahrenheit these single cell suckers take off in about ten minutes. As millions of yeasties (officially saccharomyces cervesiae) come back to life they are nourished with a splash of fresh cold soaked juice. In the past few days as we have watched the yeast eat, grow and bubble asexually in buckets a trend of showing off your personally manipulated yeast porn has rocked the cellar. I blame Jonas for this phenomenon but since he is not here to defend himself there is no way to identify the true culprit.

As has been the case, a wildly bubbling pre-pitch bucket will be shown off with glee. "Oh my God, look at these beautiful babes," Jonas boyishly brags, "they are gonna ferment the fucking house down Nicky!" We pitch, either equally dividing the yeast between bins or carefully dumping the yeast into a center pocket of the open tops. Then it's a waiting game. The next day, by the second punchdown the lids are liberated for all the world to see: who fucked up and who is birthed a super duper yeast starter. Upon post pitch inspection the center of the open tops often look like a raised, desiccated blemish after being brushed with a hundred Noxzema pimple pads. Not too attractive, eh?, but yet a great sign that our yeast has taken a foothold and built up it's strength to spread like wildfire. Shit, why didn't I become a microbiologist?


A Mushroom Hunting We Will Go!

Now we change our programing to a different relative in the Fungi kingdom, the mushroom. I love mushrooms. Hands down they are delicious. Sauteed, raw with Mescaline mix, deep fired, in sauces and consumed primarily in the states as a pizza topping (Eighty percent). Delicious as they may be Americans (gringos in this case) share an unnatural aversion, or fungophopia, to these capped organisms. Personally speaking, one of the most rewarding parts of working within the wine industry has been meeting a cast of characters who have changed my dietary habits and vision of the culinary world. Jonas, my German flatmate, is the newest to be added to the list. Growing up in the Black Forest it was rather commonplace for Jonas and his mother to take a romp in the woods and forage fungi for part of their weekly feast. In season of course. While walking home from a local food joint in Boonville a week ago my new compadre told me that part of his preparation for coming to the Anderson Valley was a course that he took at U.C. Davis on mushrooms. Surprised as I was it made total sense, the man loves mushrooms and come the rainy season in Anderson Valley these hills teaming with spores will have exploded into, you guessed it faithful readers: a mushroom bonanza.

Walking the gritty streets of Boonville on Sunday, hellbent on a returning to grind up a dark Nicaraguan blend I spotted two patches of mushrooms in a neighbors yard. Thinking quickly and thoughtfully I filched one outside the fence, carefully plucking the stem and cradled it all the way home. Placing it next to the finished black death I told Jonas I had a little surprise for him. Ambling over to the modern appliance half asleep the Germ exploded with enthusiasm at my find completely disregarding what typically is an essential part of the morning, coffee. Running to seize his new bible Mushrooms Demystified (Ten Speed Press) by David Arora, Mr. M began studying the parts of the fungus as he thumbed through the hefty manual. "Oh, shit Tom this is great, but I think it's a Deathcap. We're probably not eating this one."

"A Deathcap," I silently thought. "I picked up a beautiful goddamn Deathcap along the sidewalk." It makes complete sense why Americans have an aversion to mushrooms, no one is connected to their food chain any more (topic of future discussion). The typical God fearing nuclear family, Joe Schmo dudebro or curtly Christy has no training in mushroom identification and frankly doesn't give a damn if they have edible fungus in their backyard. If it doesn't come packaged, processed and with a expiration date no one wants to eat it. And how are we supposed to tell the difference between a poisonous fungus and a Belotus anyway? Practice I tell ya.

family the fungus was pegged for After work we took to the hills searching for King Belotus under a grove of Oak Trees, but we were skunked. Better luck next time. It was the first rain and mushrooms are finicky organisms, exploding from the soil and breaking down within a matter of 24 hours sometimes. When we came back home Jonas was more successful at identifying our mysterious mushroom. Instead of belonging to the poisonous AnimitaLepitoa Naucina, or "Woman on a Motorcycle." Taking a spore sample Jonas placed the cap on a post it note before work and removed it to show that the gills left creamy white spores. Furthermore the trademark of the Lepitoa is its omnipresence in graveyards and front yards at the beginning of the growing season. Not deadly but not recommended to eat either. I am excited for some more mushroom hunting!


Four Year Infatuations

Things that happen every four years seem to get me really worked up. Mostly it's the world cup but the Presidential Election of the United States usually does the trick as well. This time around I think the election is more poignant than ever. Our economy is in the gutter, China owns our debt, we are in an unprovoked war after being lied to by a greedy administration of clowns and no one likes us. Well the last part is nothing new but you get the point. What happened to the good old years with Blowjob Billy. Fuck, the non-sheep know full well that politics in the United States is a fucking farce (big money and payoffs right?) but I don't know if I can handle a couple assbag republicans running Washington for four more years.

What will happen if the GOP takes the big show. McCain looks like he could spit dust and kick it at any moment and what would that mean for us? An incompetent buffoon named Sarah Palin as the prime executor of our infamous government.

Matt Damon poetically described it best by saying "It's really like a bad Disney movie. The hockey mom from Alaska...is the President. She's facing down Vladimir Putin using the folksy stuff she learned at the
hockey rink. It's absurd."

For a trailer of the upcoming brain-exploding-blockbuster check out: http://www.collegehumor.com/video:1831461

The scariest part of about Sarah Palin is the middle class, blue collar, APL drinking, rural demographic that she appeals to. That demographic includes my parents, the people whom I grew up around in bucolic upstate New York. She's not stately but she can speak to the common person. Trudge through the bullshit spewing from her mouth and you will hear "Me beauty queen, you ogling dad. Me strong women, you working mother." "You like ta kill shit. I lovta kill shit." "How big is yer pickup? Big 'enuf to fit a heffer. Mine too!" Lock, stock and two pork barrels. Identify with your constituency, spend some time mass commun-a-catin' and add a smear campaign and you are well on your way to a fighting chance.

Tina Fey does a far better job of painting a better picture of Palin. Check out:
http://www.nbc.com/Saturday_Night_Live/video/clips/vp-debate-open-palin-biden/727421/

I'm out. 'Til next time bizsachos!