It’s hard to be taken seriously by winemakers when fellow bloggers are drowning you out, requesting marital statuses, ages and favorite sexual positions. OK, the last one wasn’t exactly accurate, but 5 wines into the online Wines of Chile tasting, I was seriously doubting whether anyone was spitting instead of swallowing—yes, I’m still talking about wine.

You tend to get stoked about an opportunity like this. 8 Chilean Carmeneres, the chance to discuss the wines with the people who made them, and the ability to simultaneously discuss those wines with other bloggers who are tasting them as well—that’s called stepping in shit, friends. And given the power struggle between traditional media and emerging media you’d think bloggers would relish the opportunity to be taken seriously…to learn…to interact…to (god forbid) behave. It’s a rather unusual request on my end, I know, because I’m nothing if not seldom well behaved, but I’ve got an “off” button and I know when to smack it. I don’t care if I come across as being unpolished and unapologetic in my writing, but I do care about coming across as knowledgeable, interested and respectful to people who have just sent me the result of their toil and sweat and asked me to join them in discussing it. Bloggers busy asking these great people what their daily fucking breakfast regimen is need to stay in the playground…or the locker room…or wherever the hell it is they go to giggle and discuss boners. Just stay out of my way.

Anyhow, the long and short of it is that if you haven’t explored the world of Carmeneres, you need to. Period. Don’t think about it, just do it. They are some of the greatest values out there today, and sooner or later prices will start climbing when the US catches on to what amazing wines are being put out by that little skinny country in the southwest pocket of South America. They are aptly described as “cabernet in silk pajamas” because of their softer tannins and usually have a telltale nose of green bell pepper. It’s also interesting to note that just about every carmenere benefits from some decanting time. Here are the eight wines I tasted, in order of preference:

Viña La Rosa “La Capitana” Carmenere 2008, Colchagua Valley – Tied for my favorite of the night, it was smoky and meaty with hints of cocoa. This was the only one with nearly no green bell pepper aspect at all. SRP: $18

Terra Andina Altos Carmenere/Carignan 2007, Central Valley – Also tied for my “favorite” slot. It had more floral/herbal notes to it than your average carmenere because of the carignan addition. The two grapes, according to the winemaker, acted as yin and yang in balancing this wine with opposite characteristics. SRP: $19

Carmen Wine Maker’s Reserve Red 2004, Maipo Valley – This was a blend of 50% cab, 25% carmenere and 25% petit syrah. It was extremely balanced, with a nice backbone of acidity (most straight carmeneres are acidified during the winemaking process because they lack having enough of it naturally), and had some floral and tobacco notes. SRP: $44

Odfjell Armador Carmenere 2007, Colchagua/Maipo Valleys – Very, very dark color—the cork was stained almost black—which is also commonplace for carmeneres. Flavors of dark berries, plums, tobacco and a bit spicy. Softens up with some oxygen, and was nicely balanced, just lacking any complexity. SRP: $13

Viu Manent Carmenere Reserva 2007, Colchagua Valley – This one had bright red berries as opposed to dark ones and obvious notes of green pepper. It was earthier than the others (which I like) and had nice acidity on the finish, but I did feel it was a little to soft on the palate. It also clocked in at 14.5% ABV but it was not noticeable. SRP: $14

Cono Sur Visión Carmenere 2007, Colchagua Valley – This seemed to be one of the “greenest” tasting wines, though not in a bad way. Lots of green pepper, but it didn’t taste unripe. That greenness was balanced by hints of berries and chocolate. This was also the only organic wine in the bunch. SRP: $15

Ventisquero Grey Carmenere 2007, Maipo Valley – The winemaker sometimes adds some syrah to this bottling, but this vintage was 100% carmenere. I really wanted to like this one because it had a big vibrant nose with hints of funk, but after tasting it, the funk wasn’t a funk I enjoyed—perhaps sulfur? Not sure, but I would try this again next year as I felt it had potential. SRP $25

Santa Carolina Reserva Carmenere 2008, Rapel Valley – This was the least complex of the bunch. It had some nice notes of coffee and oak/bramble, but it lacked acidity in my opinion, and had a very green finish. SRP: $10

Saturday morning, approx. 3:30am. I had a dream that officially certified me as both a wine and music geek. As you read this you will either nod your head in sympathy or shake your head in disbelief. Either way, it’s my job to let you delve a little further into the recesses of my warped head. Let me also preempt the details of the dream by saying that I’m a neurotic whack job that has repeated dreams about being late for something or being unable to complete something “in time.” Here we go:

I’m taking a small test for a wine class I’m in, which involves tasting 2 reds and 1 sweet white: #1 is The Prisoner, #2 I can’t recall the name of and #3 is a Trimbach Riesling Spätlese (which I’m nearly positive doesn’t even exist). We must take copious tasting notes on the wines and answer questions about them, which I do with wines #1 and #2, but when I reach for glass #3 I realize that the idiot pourer has left my glass of Spätlese empty. I get up and go over to where the teacher has all 3 bottles of wine propped up so that I can pour some out myself, but when I get there I notice that the wine he has displayed as #2 is completely different from the #2 I tasted. So I say, “Yo, what the fuck happened to #2?” This is not usual classroom-appropriate lingo, but step off—it’s my dream. He proceeds to tell me that #2 got changed at the last minute and my pourer must not have realized it (make mental note to flog pourer). I grab the open bottle of #2 so I can taste the right wine and go to grab #3 as well, but I realize it’s missing. “Who the hell took the Spätlese?” To which the professor answers (lest it be anyone else) “Keith Richards.”

I run off to hunt down Keith and the Spätlese, when I notice an extra unopened bottle of The Prisoner (#1) off to the side so I filch it, tuck it under my arm and continue my mad dash toward the door. But as I do, the open bottle of wine #2 slips out of my hand and falls to the ground. Luckily Michel Rolland is there to retrieve it for me! He hands it to me, I thank him and he mumbles something like, “That wine should have undergone micro-oxygenation” and laughs. I giggle, of course, and think dickhead. I hurry past him, ditch the extra bottle of #1 under my desk, leave #2 on my desk and run out the door.

As I get out into the hallway I spot an old bandmate of mine who just happens to be opening for Keith Richards in one hour, despite the fact that all that kid ever wanted to play was Zeppelin. I say, “Mike, dude, have you seen Keith?” He responds, “Yeah, I saw him headed towards the stage for sound check.” “Did he happen to have a bottle of Trimbach Spätlese Riesling in his hand?” I ask. He nods. Perfect, so long as the bloody bastard hadn’t finished it all…but I knew I was running out of time to finish the test, and I had to retaste #2 as it was! I start freaking out because by now many other students had finished the test and were heading over to the concert.

I head outside and there are rows and rows of bleachers set up for the concert, and they’re already filling with people, making it much harder to maneuver my way down the blasted things, in order to get to the stage. I stumble past people, doing that awkward climb-down-the-metal-bleachers-without-landing-on-someone’s-head thing, and work my way towards the stage in a sure-to-fail panic. The stage lights are already flashing reds, blues and greens—damn that Keith for taking my Spätlese!!! But as I stumble by the front row I notice an empty seat to what is obviously a free concert (obvious to me only, I guess) and ask the woman sitting next to it if it’s taken. “Well, maybe” she says, and proceeds to pick up her cell phone to see if her girlfriend is or isn’t going to make it to the show. Bloody hell, woman! Hurry up with the phone call, I have a wine to find! She’s chatting, I’m sweating. Fuckity fucknuts, what do I do?!? Priorities?!? Test…front-row seat. Test…front-row seat.

BAM! I wake up.

That, friends, is the hell that is my dream life.

The cold that surrounded me as they hoisted me onto the trawler in the darkness of early morning, was a cold that stabbed at your head like shards of glass from a shattered beer bottle. It pierced its way through every crevice and permeated every pore of my skin as they tied me down to a mast and left me in order to attend to my soon-to-be shipmates. Fucking bastards that they were, they dropped one of them in that frigid North Atlantic ocean water and left him there to perish—no one bothered to pluck him out and spare him from an icy death. And then we were seven.

For two months they kept me bound there, as the trawler battled the wrath of the ocean that it dared to sail upon, beaten by storms and pummeled by 60-foot waves, surviving only because the beautiful songs of the killer whales were a source of lingering hope. There would be no surrender, oh no. Eight weeks later, I was no longer what I was when they first bound me to that pole—I was changed, reshaped, and yet somehow I was the better for it. The horror, the torture, the abuse, all served to make me the salty Scottish dog I am today.

I first tasted BrewDog on the recommendation of a store clerk who saw me staring at a bottle of Chaos Theory in the beer section. I was sucked in, I’ll readily admit, by the name because I’ve studied chaos theory. The clerk assured me it was worth the money, and even more worth the money was the smaller bottle of Paradox stout sitting next to it. “You’ll never want a Guinness again—I promise.” After eventually finishing both bottles, I was so enamored with both brews that I felt compelled to reach out to BrewDog to let them know just how much I admired their work, and that I planned on writing about their microbrewery. That email was met with warm-hearted thanks as well as, “please wait until we can send you a sample of our limited-release Atlantic IPA!” It’s the story of that glorious Atlantic IPA that you just read above—the first commercially available, genuine sea-aged IPA in over 200 years.

Atlantic IPA is not your average, hops-on-steroids IPA. It’s a wiry, dark, salty dog that only 2 months at sea can mold. It’s woody, spicy and earthy (I love those qualities in wine, so big surprise that I love this ale), and it’s got a bitter salty finish (not unlike peanut butter) that keeps you on your toes. It’s only available in limited quantities in the US and sells for $25.99 per 330ml bottle, which isn’t cheap by any means, but then it sure as hell isn’t your daddy’s Budweiser, is it?

BrewDog’s Chaos Theory, “a predictably random IPA,” is probably my favorite of the line. It’s a gorgeous dark amber brew that is, in fact, rather random. I’ve bought it 3 separate times and had 3 different experiences, each better than the next. The nose gave away the obvious IPA bitter, pithy orange notes but they were balanced out by a great sweet finish. Like many of their beers, it doesn’t give you much head, but then I’m sure a lot of you guys are used to that, aren’t you?

My second favorite brew is their Paradox stout, followed closely behind by their Tokyo stout. Paradox is a whisky cask-aged imperial stout that is easily the smoothest and most complex that has ever passed my lips. Cheap? No. Worth it? Hell yes. Its equally worthy brother, Tokyo, is a chocolaty treat that seems deceptively light for a stout that is ironically their strongest! It’s brewed with jasmine and cranberries added in the kettle, and then aged for 4 weeks on toasted vanilla French oak chips. The nose has incredible depth, with great hints of sassafras, and yet it’s not overly filling.

The rest of their line includes Punk IPA, Trashy Blonde, Zeitgeist, Hardcore IPA (which I’ve tried, and are all fantastic) as well as several others I’m still trying to get my hands on. While many of these aren’t readily available in US stores, they do have an online shop. I’ve been able to find a few of their brews at Stew Leonard’s and Gary’s Wine (both in NJ) not that it will help you much if you live in, oh say, Tampa. But it’s all about the hunt, ain’t it, folks? It is the fruit highest on the tree, furthest out of reach, that is often the one most worth plucking.

I’ve got a list of shit I desperately want to tell you about, notes stuck everywhere about posts that need to be written, but the dust will have to gather on those for a couple more days while I rant about a “little guy” getting shafted by big industry.

Imagine for a minute that you’re the owner of a big-ass successful company that makes sugary, high-caffeine energy drinks. I won’t say which company, but let’s just say it rhymes with Monster. You trademark your name like any smart mogul would, become a sponsor for anything that reeks of testosterone, and run out to conquer the world like a mad Viking strung out on guarana. You become a NASDAQ-listed company and pen distribution deals with the likes of Anheuser-Busch, PepsiCo Canada and Schweppes, which you know will swaddle you in bling-bling for decades to come.

Then along comes a 7-employee microbrewery in Vermont called Rock Art that decides to name their 10^th anniversary beer “Vermonster” and just like that, BAM, your whole vision of total-beverage-industry domination is fucked up. So you get your 3-piece-suit lawyers to draw up a Cease and Desist, telling the little guy to stop selling Vermonster beer, discontinue his advertising of it, nix all marketing materials and promotions associated with the product, yadda yadda yadda, ad nauseum. Why? Because it will “undoubtedly create a likelihood of confusion” in the marketplace. And despite the fact that your approximate worth is one billion dollars, you demand that the little guy cover your attorneys’ fees.

If the little guy wins (which he most certainly will according to several trademark lawyers), you can just appeal. When he wins the second time, appeal again. Keep appealing, tie up the court system, burn money like it’s kindling and pummel him into submission for having the gall to call a completely unrelated product a completely different name. So what that Ben & Jerry’s makes a Vermonster sundae? So what that the beer is barely available outside of Vermont? So what that they have no plans to make energy drinks and step foot on your playground? Beat them down like the un-housebroken pups that they are and show them who the man is, for you are undoubtedly the man. Corporate America 1 – Independent Little Guy 0.

OK, wake up from the revelry, folks. You have no bling and are most definitely not a mogul, but you have a voice. People everywhere are boycotting Monster because of this bullshit lawsuit, but I beg you to do something more—make yourself heard. Reach out to Hansen Beverages (makers of Monster), Tweet ‘em up @MonsterEnergy and for the love of all that’s holy, RANT!

UPDATE: Follow this link to a petition. Every little bit helps: http://tinyurl.com/yzt7ryl

“In Spain, we often joke that there are 2 plights we can thank Americans for,” he said when asked about changing wine styles in Spain, “phylloxera and Robert Parker—and the second one is more dangerous.” The classroom broke out into a loud chuckle, because when you’re spending 3 intensive days trying to remember things like the gazillion different names they have for the tempranillo grape, believe me, a little interjected sense of humor can go a long way. By the time I got to lunch on the third day, I was pretty sure everything within a 40-foot radius of me smelled like sherry, including the exhaust fumes being spat from New York City’s buses. But who the hell was I to complain? There are worse things in this world than an 8-Cava tasting for breakfast, 8 Catalonian wines as a pre-lunch aperitif and 7 Riojas for an afternoon snack. Alright, technically I could complain about the 4 clunkers they poured from La Mancha, but nobody’s perfect.

Thanks to the generosity of the peeps at Catavino, I got the opportunity to take a 3-day certification course in Spanish wine and Sherry in New York City, taught by the Wine Academy of Spain—on the house. Considering it was a seminar I was eager to take but couldn’t afford, I nearly danced a jig when they offered me a blogger scholarship to attend it. I’m not sure how I can ever repay that gesture, but my first-born is up for grabs if that will square us in any way.

Given our less-than-stellar economy, Americans are looking to Spain more than ever for great wine values, and so this wine seminar served as a sort of traveling ministry, educating its future disciples. Over the course of those 3 days, I sniffed, sipped and spit nearly 70 wines, and despite the fact that when I got home all I wanted was a cold beer, I realized that the more I know, the more I understand how little I know. And because I’m not one to keep my thoughts to myself, plan on a few cool future posts about Spanish wines—yes, Virginia, there is more to Spain than Rioja, Ribera, Rias Baixas and Priorat. And thank God there’s more to Cava than Freixenet.

I had no idea, for instance, that the region of Galicia has inheritance laws just like Burgundy. When the patriarch of a vineyard dies, the property must be equally divided amongst all his children instead of going to the eldest, which makes for very tiny patches of independently owned vineyards as the years pass. I also didn’t know that you’ll hardly find a Spaniard drinking Sherry outside of Andalucia (the region where it’s made), or that a 4-pointed star on a Cava cork means it was made in the traditional Champenoise method. And despite the fact that the region of Castilla/La Mancha is the largest area under vine, finding a wine I enjoy from there has proven more than difficult.

Photo by Ryan Opaz

There was, however, one thing that it actually pained me to learn. It turns out that my absolute favorite Rioja winery—R. Lopez de Heredia—is scoffed at by many Spaniard wine drinkers. Apparently, the winery’s “old world” mojo doesn’t cut it with the masses, who want something less funky and earthy, and something more fruity and floral. They poo-poo Lopez’ use of old barrels (including some huge ones that have been around almost 100 years) and their “no chemicals, no pesticides, no chaptalization, no machines, hand-racking, aged-for-at-least-sixty-months-in-cask” policies. They also don’t much like the fact that the wines then spend several years in a bottle under a thick veil of mold and cobwebs either, despite the fact that keeping the bottles amongst the mold seems to prevent insect damage to the corks and preserve humidity. I was seriously bummed to hear that Lopez has become the butt of many a joke, exchanged over tapas or a fino, but then I guess that leaves more for me, so grab your fruit-forward wines, my Iberian compadres, and leave me the Lopez.

I have no doubt in my mind that he’s thoughtful enough to separate his recyclables when he gets home each night. I’d even put serious money on the bet that he doesn’t litter after he’s done tailgating at a Jets game. And I’m pretty sure he doesn’t drive home from that game in a gas-guzzling, filth-spewing, my-wanker-is-bigger-than-yours Hummer. So why is it, I’m wondering, that every shipment I get from GaryV’s Wine Library comes packed in Styrofoam? I love you, Gary, but dude, gimme a break—step away from your computer screen and save the fucking planet, will ya? If McDonald’s packaging is greener than yours, you should be worried.

Obviously Wine Library is far from the only company to ship wine in polystyrene (Styrofoam is Dow Chemical’s brand name), but I just got a shipment from there, so it gets to be the lucky recipient of my pointed wrath. Using polystyrene as packing material pisses me off for several reasons:

1. It’s made with petroleum, and manufacturing it emits almost 9 times the amount of toxins that producing molded pulp does, wreaking major havoc on our ozone levels.

2. Styrene, its active ingredient, is classified as a possible human carcinogen by the EPA.

3. Even though they claim it’s “recyclable” you’re more apt to find a tree-hugging Palin than you are a recycling center that will take the shit off your hands.

So even though your town’s recycling program might tell you that they’ll pick up polystyrene products in your recyclable trash, chances are they’re taking it to the nearest landfill. All you well-intentioned peeps, washing out your Chinese take-out containers and dutifully tossing them in your recycling bin—take note. One of the few places that actually takes polystyrene packing material and reuses it is the UPS Store, but it only takes the “peanuts”. Short of bringing these inserts to a local wine merchant who ships, so they can reuse them, you, my friend, are SOL.

So all this begs the question, why ship with it? Because it’s lighter in weight, that’s why. Styrofoam cheerleaders (in my warped head they’re chubby, bald, sweaty dudes) will tell you it’s actually environmentally conscious to ship with it, because the less something weighs when it’s transported, the less greenhouse gases the mode of transport will emit. They’ll also tell you that Styrofoam is better than cardboard or molded pulp at keeping the wine insulated from temperature extremes during transport, though why anyone would want to chance having wine shipped to them in the dead of winter or summer is beyond me. I realize keeping the wine safe from impact is also a critical shipping issue, but there simply has to be a better option.

The molded pulp is made almost wholly from recycled materials and is completely biodegradable. Polystyrene? Not so much. Its decomposition rate is…uh, never. But if you can’t see your way to shipping your precious cargo in anything less protective than Styrofoam, Gary, for the love of all that’s unholy at least try something recyclable, like popcorn…or better yet Cheetos—puffy ones, not crunchy, please.