Am empty bottle of wine and a glass. Remnants of a great night of drinking.

“…Hints of green peppercorns, black coffee and the mild aroma of geriatric sweat.” I just hate describing wines that way; and the wines descibed that way, I tend to hate too.

I am not, and I don’t intend to be, a wine connoisseur. If you asked me today what the differences between the different grape varieties used in wine, I can tell you that I don’t know the difference between a Chardonnay and a Pinot Grigio from a technical standpoint, but I can tell you that I like my Pinot Grigio more than most Chardonnays I’ve had.

After deciding to quit drinking hard liquor and beer except for when I’m out to the bar, I find that wine provides me with a great drinking experience, a decent buzz and no awful aftereffects the morning after. I can’t say the same of vodka, for example, which I can’t have more than a few shots without feeling a generalized weakness in my extremities. Neither can I speak that way of beer, despite having almost every major macrobrew shoved down my throat like American heartland camel piss. Not even the deliciously complex microbrews from stouts to ales can deny the simply fact that because of the hops used in brewing beer, beer is basically bitter.

(And before I leave the topic of beer altogether, I will still have a bottle or two of Magic Hat #9, whose hints of apricots make for a lovely summer afternoon drink on the outside porch of a great friend, while smoking a cigarette—Marlboro mediums, yo—and simply bullshitting about life. It’s certainly a great beer for friendship’s sake.)

Given that my knowledge of wine is next to nothing, I think I can actually write about wine with a different perspective from other erudite writers and drinkers. I’d like to describe more about how I plan to do it, but most of my reviews will focus on the experience of the wine itself, of what went well with it, of the sensations I experience from it.

I’ll be back soon with the first of my reviews.