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the year to come

In this is a quarter-life crisis on January 5, 2013 at 7:36 pm

Two thousand twelve has come and gone and we’re five days into twenty-thirteen. Many have looked back on what we drank in the past year and extrapolated some zeitgeistian significance; many are looking ahead with their fingers on the pulse of the American drinker and proclaiming the inevitable hotness of sherry, Beaujolais, democracy, and the Non-Douchey Sommelier. The Orange and the Natural are decidedly over, according to a hostile biker & de facto Williamsburg Town Crier. And everyone else.

The prognostications of the Great Taste-Makers are often the self-fulfilling sort, and while they are not entirely devoid of merit, the only sure thing for 2013 is this:

There will be wine, and people will drink it.

What kind? Oh, all kinds.

What’s the use of such a generalization? Not much, really. But all bets on the future are off, as the American wine-drinking public is going through an (inevitable) period of uncertainty and fickleness and self-doubt. Yes, we are going through a quarter-life crisis.

(Metaphor, Go!)

Our family’s puritanical streak stunted our growth during our early childhood; we were mocked in kindergarten for our puny heads and inability to pick out the square blocks from the triangles. Eventually our omniscient Monktonian father held our hand and explained to us, in words our under-developed brains could understand, the way of the world. There were numbers and pretty colours and pretty-smelling things – it all made so much sense! 

But then we grew up and realized…Dad is sort of a dick.

It’s your fault I am the way I am – you’re the reason everyone hates me! You know what? I don’t need you anymore! I can make my own decisions, so take your cigar box and shove it up your ass!

We were ungrateful and arrogant twats, but we didn’t realise that yet. We were too busy diving head-first into the seemingly infinite possibilities of the Real World. We ran away to strange lands and met people whose names contained no vowels. Sure, we couldn’t understand a word they said, but there was some deeper, unspoken connection. They were really living their lives. They were authentic. 

We experimented with pagan rituals, smoked copious amounts of pot, waxed poetic about how copious it all was, and praised the universe for its infinity-ess-ness. We could go anywhere and do anything, it was a glorious time. 

Several years passed. We woke up one day, tried to rid our clothes of the barnyard funk and thought, what the fuck? When did all this choice become so paralyzing, so claustrophobic, so meaningless? 

We longed for the familiar comforts of home. But they were long gone, and Dad had run away with some Asian mistress. We took a long, hard look in the mirror and thought, I guess it’s time to get my shit together. 

It’s time we figured out what we really wanted. But while our minds are a bit more focused, we’re still not really sure…about anything. These are the best times of your life! everyone keeps reminding us. Well that’s just great, but it doesn’t really help us out that much. It doesn’t stave off the feelings of confusion and anxiety. Plus, we’ve single-handedly polished off two bottles of Lambrusco while curled in the fetal position under a blanket more times than we’d like to admit. And we didn’t even enjoy that stuff. In fact, it was gross. So don’t tell us these are our best fucking years. 

The thing is, we’re in sort of a delicate state right now. And that means we’re quite unpredictable. We still want to assert our own individuality, but we’re open to suggestions. Seriously, any suggestions. Sherry, you say?  Sure. Poulsard? Why not? California is back on the table? Fantastic. And you know what? If you gave us some malbec we wouldn’t complain. 

(And, scene.)