Normally
I’m a beer and beer nuts man, but due to some protracted whining from my
girlfriend and the fact that she splurged for the tickets, I was obligated to attend
the annual Rose Wine Festival in my fair city. Now
as time goes on at these events, my memory naturally becomes more and more hazy
until I wake up half dressed in my bed the next afternoon and burp out, “How
the hell did I get home?”
Of
course, currently I have an Uber account and a girlfriend who could drink Hunter
S. Thompson under the table, so the inevitable blackouts are less of a worry to
me.
The
first thing I noticed was that this was a very different clientele than attends
the beer fest. It seemed as if every rich college girl was there, schmoozing it
up with her friends. Each wearing similar clothes, similar hair, sunglasses.
They even had similar voices. That upwards “yah” inflection which is de rigueur
to master before entry into a sorority. You could only tell them apart by their
height.
“You look so pretty.”
“No, you look pretty.”
They
looked the same.
On
this particular weekend, there had been dire predictions of an apocalyptic
downpour which threatened to toss back to the city back to the time of Noah. In
fact, they had canceled my beloved Taco Festival the previous day due to these
forecasts. The fact that the state has had massive flooding for the previous
two years gave weight to the weather reports. Therefore, to combat the
elements, all of the wine tasting vendors were placed into a very long stall
and everyone else jammed in with them.
The
deluge never happened, but it felt as if it could have at any moment. The air
was muggy and pregnant with moisture. That heavy air which causes everyone to
sweat more and with everyone jammed into the same stall the temperature quickly
rose. And with it the BO.
There
were a few connoisseurs there. People going through the
rigamarole of smelling the wine’s nose, peering at the chromatic redness of the
juice, then sampling it, only to spit it out in a nearby bucket. But they were
edged out quick as the rising tide of sweating bodies must have overpowered
even the most pungent wine. And as for spitting it out, well, heh heh heh, that
didn’t last long and I certainly didn’t indulge in the repulsive habit of
wasting alcohol. I slurped it down! Hoping the effects would soon inure me to
the crush of bodies and their bad smells.
As
I was adjusting myself to these new surroundings, I noticed a new fact about
myself. Honestly, I can’t tell the difference between one type of red wine or
another. If it was beer I’d be all over it, hoppy, smoky, pilsner, Belgian,
dubble, tripple, quad, pale, milk, wheat… and all the subtle variations within
those classifications. Sweet and dry was all I could make out from these liquids.
 |
| Just before the storm |
Now
all of this drinking, even if it comes in dribs and drabs, builds up over time
into a swell of alcoholic bliss and eventual unconsciousness. So the need to
stanch the flow of alcohol in the blood, or slow it down, was great. Luckily,
this was included in the price of the ticket.
At
a massive open roast oven, huge platters of steaming paella was plopped down for
the now completely blitzed crowd. At the sight of the food, the onlookers let
out a collective moan of hunger. As one, they ripped into the Spanish dish. It
was a display of pure horror. Women shrieked and clawed their way ahead,
ruining their nails almost beyond repair. Men battered back their children and
wives to grab fist-fulls of the food, only to be garroted back themselves by
the sneakier attendees who had the foresight to bring waxed coated twine and
yarn to the event.
One
lady, dressed in a day-glo orange, lay dazed and drunk on the manure ridden
floor, propped up against a log. Her husband, kneeling down, was attempting to
feed her a forkful of paiea, when a trio of college girls descended on them.
Two of the girls screamed and attacked the man, battering him in the testicles
and attempting to claw out his eyes. The third began to repeatedly kick the
wife in her face. The food was scattered across the floor.
I
myself attempted to get a nosh, my woman was squatting in the port-a-john by
this time, only to be spritzed in the face with pepper spray by some old pinch-faced
alcoholic female, upset that her womb was now no better than a rock for
reproduction.
Now,
it was my turn to scream. I ran blindly away, knocking over people young and
old. If you’ve never been pepper sprayed, I cannot do justice to the amount of
pain and disorientation that comes over one. It was like a box of miniature
hornets had been let loose in my eyes and they were having a field day
stinging. My nose and throat became clogged with mucus. It was only after I
stormed a vendor’s area and emptied half a bottle of J. Brut Rose from the
Russian River Valley into my eyes, that I felt relief.
By
this time, things had truly gotten out of control. Vendors had abandoned their
product and were zipping off in unmarked vans, with screaming people throwing
empty bottles after them. A general orgy of violence erupted. Tables flipped.
People attacked. Toilets violated.
My
significant other, finished with her deuce, grabbed me.
“I called an Uber. Let’s get the hell out of
here before we’re all killed!”
I
roared an assent, then filled my complimentary glass to the brim with a left
behind bottle of pinot noir, and we ran for our lives from the event.
For more fun try books by Rex Hurst
Honoré
Gabriel Riqueti, Count of Mirabeau (1749 - 1791) even to this day is a divisive
figure. Various historians have labeled him, a demagogue, a hero, a villain, a
pervert, a traitor, and a patriot. No one can figure him or his actions out.
Perhaps the most accurate portrayal is that he was a man who made sure he kept
his head in life. After all he was a noble who survived the French revolution.
For Assassin’s Creed fans, he was head of the French Assassin Brotherhood in
AC: Unity. 
