Living the Dream

Before I could wake to rub my puffy bloodshot eyes the week blew past me faster than a bullet train bound for Tokyo on uncut amphetamines.

As the torrential downpours continued off and on throughout Monday, we got off to a late start, mapping out a vineyard in the Cloverdale highlands. At 2,000 feet a cool breeze cut like sheet metal on exposed skin, but the view made it all worth it; terraced vineyards chisel a mountainside across the gorge and boxed carbenet sauvignon vineyards, verdant and golden with bolted mustard greens, fill the Alexander Valley. Down below, way down, the 101 pierces and redicules the valley's former virginity, and Cloverdale spreads its stench with an expansive junkyard and failed makeshift meth labs.

California might be the first state in our fine union where you can buy a proper burrito in almost any locale, be it a taqueria, strip mall, mobile truck (dubbed luncherias by Mexicans or "roach wagons" by uppity white folk) and yes, even some gas stations. The Chevron off the freeway in Cloverdale is host to the Aztec Grill, a West Coast chain that offers customers a chance to refill their proprietary fuel tanks with diverse spread of mexican fare.

"Pollo con frijoles negros, please" I asked politely as two squat middle-aged Mexican women with jet black ponty-tails swinging to and fro busily worked away preparing burros at the grill as the cash register clanged away with gas sales.

Two burritos in my belly by noon. Now that is what I call a good day.

If Monday made me lament on the filthy excrement created by our civilization, Tuesda made me wake up and smell the roses, and by roses I mean to say "rancid refuse." As the rains persisted we collected collapsed cardboard grow guards, drainage piping and shatered PVC pipes to be hauled to the dump. Santa Schade would have been quite dissipointed at the vast quantities of PVC cut to fit the dimensions of our pickup's bed, destined to rot and leach carcinogenic toxins into the watertable. Driving up the 116 towards the Pacific the highway turns into a coastal rainforest, the forest floor lined with waving ferns and Redwoods covered in heavy lime green lichen.

Gavito turned to me and contemplated unloading the PVC for a fee, "Maybe we can pull over in town and unload this load for $50."

I turned and looked out the window staring at the thick green forest musing to myself "If I make a run for the hills now, I can still make a clean break from civilization. But what about my debilitating debt? Ugh... is it too late?"

Hump day went as it typically does, like old people having sex, slow and full of pitfalls. Our job was to unclog a 36' long drainage pipe clogged with years of sediment. What we learned: a hoe and a dream will only get you so far. In this case approximately 8 feet. "If we only had a little baby that could crawl into the pipe and haul out little buckets of crap," I thought aloud.

"Baby Jessica?" Gavito offered.

"Who could forget?" I said.

"That happened three blocks away from my house. Yep, Midland, TX" And all these years I thought it was a scam cooked up by some human rights group to araise awarenss about child welfare.

We flew the coop, headed to the hardware store. "If we could just get a bucket, a bit smaller in diameter than the pipe," I ventured, "we could totally pull it through with a rope and scoop out the sludge. Yeah, you like that idea? Yeaahhh?"

Silence.

Then we heard a slow familiar piano intro come onto the radio and Gavito began to sing softly under his breath "Blue jean baby, L.A. lady..."

"Holy shit! Is this Tiny Dancer! So fucking good!" Two minutes later we were pulling into Central Valley Builders Supply, tears streaming down our faces, Judge, the ginormous black Great Dane sitting confused in the back seat, his head tilted slightly to the side as raised our voices to the highest pitch "Hold me clooooser Tinneee Daaanccerrr, Count the headlights on the highhhwaaaay..."

Did we really have the capabilities of clearing a drainage pipe without access to a high pressure water hose? Absolutely not. And that is why we called in the big boys, a national plumbing firm that will remain nameless. Pulling up to the vineyard on Thursday, a man in retirment pants, stark white Dexters, a flannel and a buzz cut stepped out of the company truck adorned with the red, white and blue label and shook our hands. I was already starting to feel patriotic.

"Howya doin' fellas?" he greeted.

"Well a lot better if you can clean out this drainage pipe," Gavito twanged with a Texas inflection.
After a quick lookee-see the priavte contractor reassured us, "Yeah, we'll get 'er clean," smirking with a sardonic laugh as he shuffled back up the embankment. Five minutes passed with little progress.

"You sure you can get it?" I asked, second guessing the man I presumed to be a diehard Intimidator fan. Never second guess a Nascar fan. "Oh, we'll get this baby clean. You shoulda seen the shit we had to clean out yesterday," he said sending in a revolving sprayer to root-out the problem. "Yeah," reafirmed his lackey, in a disheartened tone, smiling just slighlty to reveal a shiny rows of braces.

Looking down at the operation we overheard the buzz cut man ask his aprentice "Boy, you wanna get wet and dirty?," pointing to a spraying jet of water, "yeah? Well then go suit up and get back down here." The backwoods pipe cleaning was starting to sound like a raunchy homeade porno. We decided to leave it to the professionals.

Friday, we headed down to northern Marin County to knock out a seven acre block of Pinot Noir and Riesling amongst the sprawling green hillsides, long used as grazing lands for dairy cows.

Northern Marin is a precarious viticultural area. The green lush hillsides become dryswept, singed mounts as the summer heat takes over and the cool winds snake their way into the valley. California, it turns out has little knowledge of and limited ability to grow good riesling (Anderson Valley representing some of the best Rieslings in the state). The site in northern Marin provides a suitable cool climate, albeit on the site we were prunig, low yields: 2 tons per acre. If it wasn't for the economic downturn I would imagine Marin county to be the next target for viticultural exploration and investment. However, with the economy teetering on a precipice, wine industry experts believe we can expect new turnovers in the wine industry, which I hope can only mean new blood, better wine and lower prices.

Since the ranch was so far away, the three crews, roughly forty guys were brought down to knock out the pruning in one day. Assembling at the gate of the vineyard, workers sat in the back of vans sipping coffee from mugs and putting an edge on their pruning shears. Pulling up the rear were two company trucks, both pulling port-a-johns. "Hey, here come dos luncheras now!" yelled out Monton, signalling towards the road. "Hey, I'll take five tacos with grilled steak," Jose quipped sending most into stitches.

Part of the agreement was that the bossman would bring down a taco truck and buy everyone lunch for the day, a sign of good will. After making short work of the vineyard, pruning the sprwaling t-budded pinot plants down to two healthy 8 node canes, the boys descended upon la lunchera like a plague of famished mexican locusts. Bellies full of fermented beans we tied up the day wrapping the swaying canes to the bottom wire as Jose el cantante belted out a post lunch serinade to a polka beat. "Comi un burrito grande, carne asada, queso y aguacate y ahora se revuelvan las cosas adentro. Voy corriendo por el bano."

Delicous Mexican food, it seems, has a tendancy more often than not come out faster than you can put it in.

Until next week, have a drink for me.

Worthwhile Northern California Rieslings:

Navarro Vineyards White Riesling Dry
Esterlina Cole Ranch Dry Riesling
Lazy Creek Dry Riesling
Pey-Marin Riesling

End notes:

1. Yes, Elton John's "Tiny Dancer" is on repeat on my itunes.
2. Friday, I went to ask for a Torta Cubana, but Monton snagged the last one. As A-man often propounds "There's two kinds of people in this world: the fast and the hungry."
3. RIP #3.