Lord, we come to you today with humility and reverence, and ask that you hear our pleas, for our hearts are open unto you as quickly as Stelvin allows, yet are as pure as the bark of Quercus suber. You led us to the path of blogger, encouraged us to begin our journey to discover wine, and, as you instructed us, we invited all of mankind to join us on that journey. Lord, it is a lonely journey. My room where I composeth my posts is as quiet as the grave, and my comments section is as barren as the wine list at P.F. Chang’s. I send my prayers twice weekly into your blessed Internet, and the silence with which they are greeted is as empty and soulless as a Wine Spectator editorial. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of Shanken, I shall fear no Laube, for thou are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me. Though I’d prefer it, Lord, if your staff posted a link to me instead.
Lord, we ask that you bless us with the blessings you have bestowed upon our most devout brethren. Saint Thomas of Wark, of the Holy Distribution Trinity System, who hath many followers, which is a supreme miracle. Saint Dude. Nah, nah, nah, nah-nah-nah-nah, nah-nah-nah-nah, Hey Dude. Lord, you have favored the Dude, have bestowed your greatest blessings upon him, and yet we can see no difference between his talents and ours. Just as he Vimeo, so doth we Vimeo. Just as we Tweet, so doth he twat. Is not our twat his equal? Hath thou so forsaken us that Saint Alder has ascended? Saint Alder of Catatonia, duller and emptier than the Amish FaceBook page? Lord, how you make us suffer. Have we fallen so far from grace that we are lower than Saint Blake the Petulant? Must we beggeth for alms on our blogs as he? Oh, Lord, hear our pleas.
Lord, we ask that you deliver us an audience greater than the number of people allowed in a Denny’s rest room at any one time by thine fire department regulations. We doeth as thou decree. We publish worthless and incoherent wine reviews and ask only for thine angels of UPS to bring us said wines for free, so that we may spread thy gospel, Drink what you like! Hear me, brothers and sisters! Drink what you like! Break free of the bonds of scholarship and hundreds of years of wine traditions! Drink what you like! Though your wine be corporate and more manipulated than a Florida election, drink what you like! Though your wine bears a label that insults your intelligence, calls you bitch or fat bastard, drink what you like! We shall bear witness, Lord, that we drink what we like, and, yea, we like what we drink when thine angels of UPS bring it for free. Please deliver us an admiring audience for our fatuous and simpleminded tasting notes. Let the words ring out! Great Post! Great Post! Great Post! Love, Mom.
Lord, we ask that you monetize our blogs, for we have talent, Lord, talent that comes from you, talent you should reward for you are responsible for our talent. Allow the winemakers of the world to see our talent, to admire that we Drink what we like. Allow the finest wineries in your kingdom to see the power and the glory that is wine blogging. To see that our future is their future, that your children of the Internet will cast out the powerful naysayers of print, the privileged paper tigers of the press. Your children of the iPhone will abandon the 100 Point Scale like the passengers of the Titanic abandoned ship, plunging into the cold, dark, unforgiving sea of stupidity that is their peer group. We are that cold, dark sea, Lord, and we pray that you monetize us, for we deserve it for our hard work and ability to type. Your children of Twitter will forsake the teachings of Saint Eric and Saint Jon, abandon them as they must abandon any prints of darkness. Your children will no longer continue beneath the fold, but dwell on the surface, where true knowledge lies. As the passengers of the Titanic hath discovered, there is only safety in the shallow, Lord, and none are more shallow than we.
Lord, we are the humblest of your servants. Yet we gather together and give each other awards, since you have forsaken us, and given us so little attention. Are you not the least bit embarrassed for us, Lord? We unashamedly praise each other, as baboons groom, the lowest of us attentively offering up our swollen fun parts to those more powerful in the hopes of being lovingly mounted in the parking lot of Meadowood after the Napa Valley Wine Writers Symposium. We yearn, Lord, to be the mounters, not the lowly Canadian mountees. Must we wait, Lord, must we wait so long for our palates to be recognized? Our friends are dazzled by our wine knowledge, why won’t strangers accept our wine thoughts as gospel? We have a CSW, and are in a wine tasting group. What more is there? In your name, we preach your truth. Drink what you like! And yet we feel forsaken, unheard, like Alice Feiring at a UC Davis Winemaking 101 course.
Lord, the simplest of us gather to have Wine Wednesdays and give each other strokes, as Boy Scouts often discover the joys of situational homosexuality. Other simpletons reach out to your least blessed children, Lord, your most intellectually deficient children, your children who seek wisdom from wine blogs, and offer to teach them the basics of wine with splashy graphics and using the simplest words. Forgive them, Lord, they are but the crazy guy in the park lecturing the pigeons, the retired professor lecturing to the empty class room in his mind. They are idiots, they are feebleminded, they presume to teach though they have the qualifications of a one-legged stripper and are just grasping at poles. Yet they are us. Others provide wine pairings for the stupid, who are much in need of wine advice, Lord, and underserved. Pairings for Girl Scout cookies, and breakfast cereal, and edible panties. Oh, Lord, what goes with edible panties better than wine from ancient bush vines? And yet these somms for the simpleminded are us as well.
Lord, hear our pleas. Let us be read and admired, let us be monetized through self-published books and newsletters, let our words be heard, our opinions carry weight, our business cards open doors to the most exclusive tastings. Ask not of us originality of thought, insight or integrity, for we have not the tools. Suffer us fools gladly, Lord, for we are but your fools. We walk our path to discover wine and expect others to walk fearlessly with us through the valley of the shadow of ignorance. We use our gifts to bless others with our wine wisdom and faultless palates, and want only to be recognized as a force for sales, and be taken on junkets where we can get drunk and be unfaithful, like people at real jobs do. We ask this humbly, Lord, though it’s only what we deserve. It was this, or a porn site on Tumblr.
I've been keeping a little secret, among all my really big secrets, like how I'm actually just a floating head in a jar of Pinot Grigio who writes with his brain waves like Stephen Hawking, though mine are more like brain ripples. After long and intensive study, ridiculously complicated and difficult tests, I have achieved the singular title, Commander of Wine! The exclamation point is always included. As Commander of Wine!, I rule all who put wine acronyms after their names. I am now Ron Washam, HMW, CW! To read about my astounding achievement, take the virtual leap over the Pond to Tim Atkin, a mere MW, sans "!." And watch for the even stupider movie about my momentous achievement, "COMM," coming soon. Please feel free to leave subservient and sycophantic remarks on Tim's site, or leave them here and expect them to be rightfully ignored.
I don't know how she came up with the cash, there are things you just never want to know about Lo Hai Qu, but my rather crazy intern attended the Wine Writers Symposium at Meadowood a couple of weeks ago. She asked me if she could write about the experience. Like an idiot, I said yes. OK, buckle up, here we go.
So when I decided to go to the Napa Valley Wine Writers Symposium I was kinda thinking that it would be a lot of fun to hang out with a bunch of wine writers. Like we’d get wasted on really good wines every night, wake up naked with somebody new every morning, like, wouldn’t that be the coolest thing if you had Alzheimer’s?, and the rest of the time we’d do fun shit like steal golf carts from room service guys and play Demolition Derby. Yeah, what the fuck was I smokin’? Those people put the “simp” in symposium. I mean, I walk in there all pornstarred looking, you know, like five inch heels, fishnets, and tight skirt that’s so short that whenever that old lech Jay McInerney exhales I can feel the blow on my blowhole, and nobody hardly notices. All these dorks, and, wow, this is one ugly crowd, it’s like they took the castoffs from “Biggest Loser” and asked them to dress like they’re in a trailer park, and they’re the fucking trailers, and all these fools can talk about is Robert Parker. I’m not even sure who that is. He invented some scale, but, shit, I hope it’s one helluva scale cuz lots of these writer types would have no trouble busting some ordinary scale.
I wasn’t very happy after the first get-together with these people. I was down like Motown, all lonely and abandoned, and looking at nothing but stupid writing seminars on stuff I don’t care about like How to Write Tasting Notes, and How to Pitch Stories, and How to Get Over How Sad Your Wine Writer Dreams Are. But, I told myself, Lo, come on bee-atch, make the best of it, don’t worry too much about that shit, just do what you always do. Find a way to annoy these losers. That will be fun.
So like me, these people were supposedly wine writers. I guess if you can pony up the couple of grand to attend this deal, you’re a wine writer, like if you go a couple of nights to bartending school you’re a fucking mixologist. Yeah, I went to Meadowood to Wine Writers school and now I’m Jonné Bonné Bo Bonné Banana Fanna Fo Fonné. But most of them just had lame blogs or wrote for online magazines, cuz, you know, that’s where the future of wine writing is. Like, they think me and my friends are totally givin’ the old wine critics memberships in the Go Fuck Yourself Club and are gonna start reading shit on blogs about what wines to buy. Really? Me and my friends just drink whatever cheap wine that, like, rappers are drinking, or whatever’s in the 50% off shopping cart at the Albertson’s. We go online to read about ourselves, not stupid wine. Or, most of the time, to see if our girlfriends posted their tits on Reddit. I don’t know about those people at the Napa Valley Self-Delusional Fest, but I write about wines, I don’t read what other people write about wine. That’s how it works. You just walk around pretending you read other people’s stuff, like, “Hey, I loved that post where your dog says that terroir is wherever you lift your leg and spray your love juice,” only you didn’t read their blog you just know they’d write something douchey like that. And then they pretend they read your shit. “Oh, you’re Lo Hai Qu! Didn’t you win a Wine Blog Award for your piece on what wines go with stir-fried endangered species?” Ever notice how the smaller the talent, the bigger the need for acknowledgment?
The keynote address—fuck, I was embarrassed, I thought they said Keno address and I kept asking people where to buy the cards—was by that Robert Parker guy. I texted my friend Loqueesha, sent her his picture, and asked her if she knew who Robert Parker was, and she said, no, but she thought he was one of those guys on “Duck Dynasty,” which I guess is some weird fucking show where they take that old TV show “Dynasty” and have ducks act out the parts. People will watch any shit they put on TV for free. Which is like wine blogs, right? Oh, free?, sure, we’ll read that. You want me to pay? Check your mail, I’ll be sending you a Go Fuck Yourself Club membership card along with my check for zero dollars and kiss my ass cents.
The HoseMaster wanted me to take some notes during the speech made by the Duck Dynasty guy, which I did, but, a lot of the time I was dozing off, so I probably got some of it wrong. It seemed like a lot of those wine writers came to hear this Parker guy but they didn’t like him, so it’s like paying to go to a Yanni concert if you have any taste in music. You hate him as soon as your clenched little butthole hits the seat. So that was weird, it was like this weird mix of people who had the Duck man up on a pedestal, worshipped him like he was something they’d never achieve, like an original idea, and a whole bunch of people who thought he was an arrogant old windbag who’d fucked up their whole pathetic little wine business, like he was to blame for all that’s shitty in wine writing, like he’s the fucking A-Rod of wine. So I wrote down some of the stuff he said, but I was kind of wasted from this lunch I had with this wine writer dude who turned out to be softer than a four dollar Moscato, so I might have misheard some of it.
“The climb to the top is what makes it worthwhile. Once you get to the top, there’s nothing there except a shitpile of money.”
“My alleged thin skin is actually quite thick, like my wallet. Chew on that, wannabes.”
“I wish I knew more of you, but, really why bother? I also wish Miley Cyrus would return my calls, so I wish all kinds of shit I don’t mean.”
“The truth is on my side. History is on my side. A tattoo of Michel Rolland is on my side. Your foot is on my side. Get off my goddam side!”
I got kinda depressed for the rest of the simp/osium. Mostly everything was about how to make money at something where’s there’s no money to be made. It was like telling homeless people who ask you for money to “Go get a job.” Yeah, that’s helpful. Homeless people can’t get jobs, and they dress better than most of the wine writers. I went to this thing where I was supposed to “pitch” ideas to some chick named Talia who runs this online magazine called “Punch.” So I Googled this Punch, and surer than FaceBook is for old people, this site is just like actual punch—all sweet and sticky, but pretty much empty and worthless, and totally forgotten two minutes after you finish it. So they named it right. Let me Talia, she didn’t much like the ideas I had. So, like, what’s wrong with interviewing leading sommeliers and asking them if they cry about how worthless their lives are? That’s cutting edge. Talia just kinda stared at me, but I know she was just jealous cuz I was rocking my “Yellow Tail” tube top. And she didn’t like my idea for an article on sleeping your way to the top of the wine writing business either, which is how I was gonna write off this whole conference on my taxes, so there goes that.
You know, for my money, the whole thing was a total waste of time, which I guess is like most wine writing. So that figures. Like all I got was some really good advice from these gurus, like, “Don’t give your content away for free, but good luck selling it.” And “Maybe writer’s block is a blessing in your case.” But I did get to meet a lot of real, authentic, natural wine writers, though I didn’t know any of them. They’re kind of a sallow looking group of people, kind of all yellowish most of ‘em, like their kidneys moved to Pakistan. Everyone said they were some of the most powerful wine writers in the whole country, except that the Duck Dynasty guy was the one they were tired of, and couldn’t stop talking about, when they weren’t talking about their blog stats, so I figured he was the real powerful one. Funny thing, they could all tell you a million things wrong with that Parker guy, see all the harm he’d caused in the world, tell you how the wine world would be better of if he’d never been born. Not one of them had ever looked in a mirror.
After 19 years as a Sommelier in Los Angeles, twice named Sommelier of the Year by the Southern California Restaurant Writers' Association, I moved to Sonoma County to explore the other aspects of the wine business. I've spent, OK wasted, 35 years learning about and teaching about and swallowing wine. I am also a judge at the Sonoma Harvest Fair, San Francisco Chronicle Wine Competition and the San Francisco International Wine Competition--so I can spit like a rabid llama. I know more about wine than David Sedaris and I'm funnier than James Laube. Stay tuned for an informed but jaded view of everything wine and everything else.
I'm living proof that alcohol kills brain cells.
What the Critics Are Saying About HoseMaster of Wine
"If you want a great hoot and howl moment or two...go read the HoseMaster's year-end reflections...that guy is without a doubt the funniest SOB in the blog-world...and thank him for having the brains and balls to target his laser of laughter on anybody...HoseMaster for President...HoseMaster for Blogger of the Year...although he would be the first to say the bar is so damn low for that award, he should win it every year..." --Robert Parker
"No one is immune from California sommelier and wine judge Ron Washam's skewering. He polishes that skewer with boundless enthusiasm and acuity."
"As serious as the world of wine is, it does allow time for humor. Each Monday and Thursday, Ron Washam customarily posts a commentary on his needling wine blog HoseMaster of Wine. Washam, a former sommelier and comedy writer – he might say they are closely related – is the most opinionated, humorous and ribald observer in the wine world. His body of work is irreverent and remorseless. It’s almost always satire and parody, though he occasionally drifts into straight commentary, sometimes even with tasting notes. This past year, one of his posts was named the best of the year in the Wine Blog Awards. His success has spawned several imitations, which in their awkwardness show just how difficult satire is."
--Mike Dunne, Sacramento Bee
Read more here: http://www.sacbee.com/2014/01/21/6089630/dunne-on-wine-wine-blogs-and-bloggers.html#storylink=cpy
"Please let this guy write the scripts for Saturday Night Live which has gotten so lame...his newest "wisdom" is worth an Emmy....I wonder if he is the genius behind all those Hitler/Parker,etc. clips? No one else is remotely as funny or as talented.And the wine world sure needs someone to poke fun at all the nonsense and phoney/baloney unsufferable crap out there."
"Washam uses his own blog, HoseMaster of Wine, to skewer the industry in general and wine blogs in particular. If your mouse scoots to your browser's close box while reading a wine blog, Washam may be the blogger for you."
--San Francisco Chronicle
"...that guy Hosemaster has real talent...if you ask me sign him up for Comedy Central...he's the funniest guy since Adam Carolla's hilarious book...IN 50 YEARS WE WILL ALL BE CHICKS..."
"Ron Washam, former sommelier, is easily the most bitingly funny blogger/wine writer that we have ever come across. He is an equal opportunity crusader who pillories big wineries and amateur bloggers alike, as well as everything and everyone in between...One needs a sense of humor and a tolerance for earthiness to enjoy reading The Hosemaster. We must have both because this guy deserves a wider audience, in our humble opinion." --Connoisseurs' Guide to California Wine
"In my opinion, and that of many others, his blog is one of the best. And in terms of satirical or parodic wine blogs, it has no peer. Ron’s alert eye catches every pretense and skewers it with laugh out loud mercilessness."
"This site should carry a warning label. It's sort of a Dave Barry/George Carlin approach to wine. The Hosemaster (real name Ron Washam) skewers fellow bloggers and industry savants with glee, while offering hilarious wine guides such as his Honest Guide to Grapes..."
--Paul Gregutt, Seattle Times
"Washam is a skilled wine judge (I have judged with him) who is willing to judge wine double blind, in public. To my knowledge, Parker does not do this and never has. So Ron's credentials are in place, and so is his sense of the absurd."
--Dan Berger, VintageExperiences
"...I consider Ron a very talented writer and I’ve long been an admirer of his scathing wit..."
"And if any free sites think they can conquer the world, there’s always the Hosemaster to take ‘em down a notch."
--Tyler Colman "Dr. Vino"
"Those of you who know Ron either love or hate him, because he throws jabs like a punch drunk boxer, and we’re all in the firing line. He’ll throw them if he hates you, and he’ll throw them if he loves you. He’s a satirist of exceptional quality."
--Jo Diaz "Juicy Tales by Jo Diaz"
"I must say you are an idiot. I've never liked you. I have no idea why people find you funny."