California Could Use A Hand--and a Drink

And a prayer or two or a dozen. These fires are serious and there are a lot of folks in real danger.

I complain about the wackiness of this state a lot, but there's much to admire. In MM's discussion of the removal and swift reinstatement of a tribute to area soldiers at the Paso Robles Post Office, I left this comment:

Paso Robles is still a great little town and it’s in one of the nicest parts of California. It’s getting a little winey and pricey as rich folks retire there from Silicon Valley and LA, but I’d actually recommend it as a great stop for anyone coming out to the west coast. This incident aside (which you’ll note was quickly corrected), it’s not too moonbatty and is california in a good way–relaxed, pleasant, classy.

If you like wine but aren’t super pretentious about it, it’s a great place to do drive around and do some tasting. The scenery’s nice, and you’re not far from Hearst Castle and Big Sur. There’s a pretty good barbecue place in town off the 101 as well–nothing that I would encourage a visitng Texan or Okie to stop for but manna from heaven if you are marooned out here.

To which commenter "mucho muchacho" responded:

I have visited the “central coast” several times. One of the most pro USA / proud displays of our military / respect for US service men is at the Tobin James winery outside of El Paso De Los Robles (Paso Robles)on 46 east. Don’t be fooled, this is a conservative California stronghold. God bless SLO County!

Hooray for Tobin James! Mrs. See-Dub and I visited there a while back and while I don't remember the pro-troop stuff that mucho muchacho did (though I'm not surprised) they make great wine and pour it generously when you visit.

I've enjoyed visiting wineries and tasting different wine while we've lived in California. It's a great excuse to get out and drive around in the country, and it's given me some better ideas of what I like. We've never had the disposable income to get serious about wine, and even if we did I'm more of a whiskey drinker (as is Mrs. See-Dub, who will indulge in a wee dram now and again). But it's been educational as well as fun, and I feel better prepared to filter out the bodacious hoopla and pretentious marketing BS that radiates from the wine industry. For one thing, I've realized that for me, there is a law of diminishing returns above about a $25 retail bottle of wine. By that I mean that if I were to taste a $25 bottle of wine and then a $50 bottle of wine, I could usually tell that the more expensive bottle is better. But twice as good? No. The improvements above the $25 range are usually pretty marginal.

Anyway. The whole wine-tasting thing is very different in the Central Coast down to Santa Barbara. The area is largely populated by second or third generation Okies, and many of the wineries you can tour more resemble a cattle ranch than a French chateau. I remember walking into one of them, I think maybe this one, and hearing country music playing on the radio. And when we ate at this place, a favorite of local winemakers, it was all pickup trucks outside.

Up north, things are different. Not that it's not a fun expedition, but the pretence and Europhilia and politics can be off-putting.

Some oenophiles of my acquaintance were members of the wine club at Bonny Doon, near Santa Cruz, who specialize in odd and different stuff and make, in my uneducated judgment, really good wine. But on the eve of the 2004 elections, they sent out postcards to all their club members picturing a baby letting a balloon, shaped like the world, float away, and captioned "VOTE!" My friends took that as a "save the world from Bush!" slam (and I think they were right) and resigned the club immediately.

Then there was another winery up in the Santa Cruz Mountains, in which the college girl pouring the tasting abruptly decided to turn the small talk political. Perhaps she had sized up me and Mrs. Seedub (and Baby See-Dub, who was then quite small) as right-thinking fellow-travelers, and with an arched eyebrow accused this administration of some sort of criminal behavior.

I was still formulating a witty response to that when I heard a sound like water running, and thought that Mrs. See-Dub had tipped her glass on the floor in disgust. But she was looking at me in the same way, wondering whether I was intentionally or accidentally spilling my own glass. Then we realized with horror, as the sound continued, it was neither of us--- but it was, in fact Baby See-Dub, in my wife's arms. She had wriggled into a position in which her Huggies gapped a bit around the legs and spontaneously, with cosmically Karmic timing, commenced a-peein' upon the winery's plank floor.

My wife, horrified, ran out with her, and I downed my sample of pinot noir, laid my tasting fee upon the counter, and took off after them with a hasty apology, careful not to slip, trying not to laugh.