It’s my last wine column of the semester. I’ve spent the fall doing a lot of journalistically sanctioned drinking, so I couldn’t possibly complain.
Allow me to activate your knowledge of U.S. history and remind you that when James K. Polk won the presidency in 1844, it was as a “dark horse,” or surprise, candidate.
This weekend, a BFF of mine came through town, which was nice, and she also brought a bottle of wine, which was really nice.
This weekend, laid up with a gnarly cold, I turned to the ever trusty DayQuil/NyQuil treatment program. These medicines’ labels warn consumers that “3 or more alcoholic drinks daily while using this product” may result in severe liver damage.
For the uninitiated, there is a certain character in George R.R. Martin’s “A Game of Thrones” fantasy series named Jon Snow.
Though I know it’s meant to indicate that its wine is robust, the name “Rex Goliath” seems like overkill to me.
Earlier this month my housemate Maggie’s cousin got married. The spoils Maggie brought back to the domicile included: a pink drink koozie decorated with phallic imagery (from the bachelorette party) and seven bottles of a rose wine (left over from the reception).
It was late morning, and Gary Birdsong had finished eating his sandwich on the wall outside Lenoir, had set up his folding chair in the Pit and was commencing the day’s marathon sermon. A couple of students were already watching, grinning with predatory anticipation.
The holidays approacheth. For me, whose hometown is small and in the eastern part of the state, so do many unsolicited questions about my life choices.
It’s Halloween, which according to the contemporary cultural mindset (and the film “Mean Girls”) means that today is a golden opportunity for women to dress in a manner that some would declare “slutty.”
