Spreading the Thunder

Those of you who have been with me since the beginning (on myspace, when I actually blogged more than a few times a semester) know that I do not endorse a product, service, or anything else that I do not love dearly myself.  That's why today I am writing to tell you about a life-changing little slice of the internet that has, well, changed my life.  I don't want you to think that I have reduced myself to being a spokesperson for some random website out there.  Instead, make no mistake, I am trying today to introduce two of my good friends, you, dear reader, and my best friend that I have never met, Mr. Gary Vaynerchuck.

Almost two years ago, Gary V, the Director of Operations at Wine Library, a major force to be reckoned with in New Jersey and internet wine sales, started a video blog educating people on the fundamentals of wine, and reviewing wine daily.  This podcast has grown into one of the most popular wine authorities on the internet, and in its snowballing journey towards awesomeness, has rolled me up and turned me into a Vayniac.  I first heard about WLTV on my old favorite podcast, Diggnation.  Kevin and Alex had Gary on a few times, and I decided that as I neared age 21, I would start tuning in.  True to my word to myself, I began watching the show about a month before my 21st birthday, so I would not be laughed out of homes, restaurants, and wine stores nationwide when it came time to learn about wine.  Gary held up his end of the bargain in a big way.  Before even trying wine, I was totally pumped about all of the different options and flavors out there. Once I got into wine, I was even more fired up about his show, and I eagerly anticipate it each day.

Gary's show it totally unique in the wine world.  If you are a fan of beer, mixed drinks, or even "the hard stuff" and have never really given wine a shot for one reason or another, Winelibrary TV is the place for you.  Gary shows that wine doesn't have to be stuffy, esoteric, or even expensive.  He stresses that the important thing with wine tasting is that you do what tastes best to you.  Plus, if you think wine is boring, Gary's daily 20 minutes will cure you of that within the first opening lines.  The crazy thing to think about is that the lovable lunatic yelling and ranting the whole show is a real bona-fide wine expert whose love for wine is surpassed only by his love for his family and his New York Jets.

I've only been watching the show for a month and a half, but I have learned so much about wine that my own parents call me about once a week for wine advice.  I really want to encourage everyone who reads this post to check out at least a couple episodes of Winelibrary TV.  Whatever you're expecting it to be, I'm willing to be you're still blown away.

www.tv.winelibrary.com

There it is.  Enjoy the thunder.

Scott

Nascar 08

First, a few items of housekeeping. If you desire to subscribe to this blog (I know they don't make it quite so simple here as they do for other blog sites) you can click subscribe at the bottom of the page, which I think will save it as a live bookmark, and it should let you know (in your browser) when a new meld is released. Due to demand, I'll continue to post on facebook when a new meld comes out, but expect one on the order of once or twice a week. Also, if you so desire (not a plug here) you can comment on these melds with either a) a gmail account or b) the shirt on your back. That's right. You don't even have to be a member of the Google universe, or any universe, for that matter, which I guess really opens up the possibilities. I'm not begging for your comments, I just know that it's not obvious that you can do such a thing.

Okay, now that's taken care of, welcome to the melding of the heads, Friday edition. A happy belated birthday to Cristina's mom, Giovinna. We're making the trek to Cooper City today to celebrate. There will, indeed, be much rejoicing. Mrs. Nevala, this meld's for you.

As you may know, I hail from Indianapolis, Indiana, The Racing Capital of the World. The day I was weaned off the teat (hypothetically, I guess, because I was never literally "on the teat," for which I am eternally grateful, but this subject is another meld entirely), I was taken to the track for a couple of reasons: 1. To have my hearing broken in. 2. To begin the process of acquiring the taste for racing. Now, there was really only one form of real racing, and that was the form that took place every Memorial Day weekend at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. The Indianapolis 500 was, at one time (if not still) the largest attendance of any single day sporting event in the world. The entire month of May aced out the entire month of December by far in measure of anticipation. Cars would start circling around the track as early as April and wouldn't stop until the race was over. It was a glorious and beautiful beginning to summer. Plus, it was cheap (if not free) to watch testing and practice. Three or four times every spring, we'd be watching practice at the track. In the summer months following the 500, my dad would take me to a small track called the Speedrome, where these goofy little cars with the stereo and all the seats removed would drive around in ovals and figure-8's all night long. This was equally as special. Racing was a very important part of my upbringing, and no doubt influenced the person I am today.


A few (like 13) years back, the power players at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway (hereafter referred to as IMS) decided to bring the premiere performance art of the South to Indianapolis. Thus, the Brickyard 400 was born. Everybody was pretty excited to see NASCAR come to Indy, but when they started fixing races in the late 90's in order to generate TV ratings and people who cared (which it did), many Hoosiers (including myself) were turned off to the point of hatred. After all, who wants to see street cars with stickers for headlights go around the track 50 miles an hour slower than the slowest Indy car, bumping and jostling the whole time? Open wheeled racing is just so much faster, sexier, and demands so much more driver skill. And that's just how I felt before I became a Formula 1 fan.



A few (like 8) years back, Tony George (who I am convinced is one of the greater men to ever walk the earth), completed a multi-million dollar renovation of IMS and brought the European snobs of Formula 1 to Indianapolis. For my dad and me, this was the greatest thing ever. I hadn't been too much of an F1 fan until this point in my life, but there was no turning back. I haven't missed an F1 telecast in I think about 2 years, and even though they're live from all over the world, and it usually requires odd watching times, I wouldn't even think of it. The man who thinks he rules the world, but ends up just making F1 fans angry because of his power trip, Bernie Ecclestone, calls NASCAR "taxi-cab racing." On that point, I agree with him 100%.


So, when I knew I would be rooming with a guy who's aunt owns a NASCAR team, I smelled a sitcom in the making. Well, maybe not a sitcom, but I looked forward to many opportunities to rip him up one side and down the other for his ridiculous passion. When we got to school, he told me that he had brought his Play Station 3. Awesome. Of course, the only PS3 game I've played is the F1 game, and the only game he spends any amount of time playing is NASCAR 08. Hoping to show him a thing or two about racing, I took to the controls one afternoon. Given my love for most things racing (when you switch views, you can't tell its a stock car) and my tendency to jump into things with three feet, it became immediately apparent that I was going to spend a lot of time playing this game. There were times when I think I could have spent time with friends, but instead I stayed in to race. There were times when I should have slept, but I stayed up to race. There were times when I should have eaten, but I ran to the dining hall, ate, ran back, and picked up the race where I left off. But, put on a clinic for Chris I did not. From reading the above, you can probably imagine how my opinion of stock car racing (bumper cars) influenced my desire to operate one like a delicate instrument. It took some time, but I am getting to the point where my car (The number 42 machine) is no longer "collecting the 18 and 44 cars down on the apron." And, I've mastered the art of the draft, something which only seems to matter when you're driving a car big enough for a family (husband, wife, 2 kids, dog, goldfish) instead of an engine attached to a monocoque (honestly, if terms like monocoque don't make you want to watch F1, I don't know what will) and some wheels. But the big problem is that there is no 2-Player, so there is no way of really knowing, head to head, eyeball to eyeball, toe to toe, shoulder to shoulder, who is the better man (I say better man because when we start, we'll say, "may the best man win."). Also, I've started winning races like it's going out of style. Word on the streets is that we're getting the F1 game soon. I'll keep you posted.

Well, that's all I've got for today. I guess if you didn't care much for IMS history, you probably didn't like this. Well, I've got two words for you. You should. And watch some F1. It'll change your whole outlook on life. We'll meld again soon. Until then..

Two Cents

Friends, I sincerely apologize for the delay since the last post. I've been busier than a mega-church nursery worker who's going solo for the week because all the other volunteers got tickets to the football game. But I'm sure you've been busy too, which I guess makes things a little better. Expect more from me as I start to get into a routine now that I'm all moved in at school. Anyway, this week's meld is designed to tear at your heartstrings, if even only a little. It's about the downward spiral of humanity, and how what you mean when you say, "everything that's right in this world" is shrinking severely. Let's meld.

I write this post usually to keep those who give a rat's behind in "the know" of interesting and unusual experiences in my life. Well, yesterday I had a doozy. Had an elephant flown by me yesterday, I probably wouldn't have been so, well, amazed. I got up, as I do every Sunday morning, at the crack of dawn to go lead worship for the middle school ministry at my church. The plan was for my girlfriend, Cristina to come to my church with me and leave from there to drive up to her house to take care of some "things". Let's put it this way, if there was a customs checkpoint between Miami and Ft. Lauderdale, and the clerk asked if we were traveling for business or pleasure, the answer definitely would not have been pleasure. Although there was one pleasureful part of the day, Cristina's mom's Alfredo sauce, which I would rank among the best foods on the face of the earth. I could probably eat it as a soup. And Big Brother 8, which they all have some obsession with. I could see getting into it, but only for the comedic value. Where do they find these people? But I digress. I had a whole new band, so practice was trying, to say the least. When we got up to do first service, my guitar wasn't sounding off like it had a pair. In fact, it wasn't sounding off at all. so we played the first two songs, with me singing whilst communicating with people in the back to get me my other guitar, which the Foghorn-Leghornesque ("Luckily, I keep my feathers numbered for just such an occasion") problem-prevention side of me had demanded I bring. I got it switched out fairly seamlessly, but the band sort of fell apart, which was a bit of a drag. Anyway, we got our act together, but my other guitar didn't work either. After a prayer and a Zaheer Mohammed trip to the stage to get to the bottom of things, my guitar started working in time for the last two songs, which demanded acoustic. It was a rough service indeed.

We came back in second hour and blew the roof off the place though, so that was good, and by that time Cristina had arrived. I walked out of service to grab a drink when I got done, and she had been on her way to the main service when she realized that she had left without her cell phone. Well, the sermon was going on, so we couldn't check until after the service. I had Todd make an announcement at the end of service, we scoured the room, and had called it about 30 times, but to no avail. In fact, we called it until whoever took it turned it off (didn't want the ol' conscience bothering them). So it appears that Cristina's phone was stolen. At church. During Middle School worship. I doubt crimes get much more heinous. Can you imagine stealing a phone from someone at church, ignoring all kinds off attempts by the person you robbed to get her phone back, and actually keeping or selling it? It's pretty low. And suffice it to say, the rest of the day wasn't too much more upbeat (aside from the aforementioned alfredo & Big Brother combo. I don't know about you, but I take my Italian with a side of reality.) So, if you see any red razr's pop up on Ebay, you'll know where it came from.

Well that about does it for me. I've got to get back to my phony-baloney job. I apologize if you were looking for a laugh and I failed to deliver. Deal with it. We'll be melding together soon. Until then..

Welcome to the Meld!

Hello again, dear friends. I want to personally welcome you back to the Melding of Heads. If you don't know anything about MOH, I am pretty stoked that you are reading as well. So, Welcome. About a week ago none other than Justin Price himself called me up solely to ask that I start melding again. I don't know about you, but when you get a phone call all the way from Sylvania, Ohio (where I do believe there was just some women's golf tournament of sorts) asking you to do something, it is hard to say no. So later that evening, I opened up a blogspot account--because as for myspace and me, suffice it to say, "it's over." Plus I figured this would be easier to plug. Anyway, I'm just now getting up the courage to tap in my first meld. Justin (and all of The Journey)--This is for you. Shall we meld?


The purpose of the blog in my book is multi-faceted. It exists to make one cry, make one laugh, impress others with one's master of the English language, convey ideas, and spread fart jokes. Because who doesn't like a good fart joke? Like the one about the snobby woman in the restaurant who had just finished a bowl of clam chowder at a very ritzy restaurant. She reached down to her purse and as she was doubled over in her seat, she had no control over her own bowels. She let out one of the sharpest, crudest, wettest, longest, and loudest farts anyone had ever heard. She turned the brightest shade of red and, hoping to blame it on him to save face, she said, "Stop it!" At once the waiter, as helpful as ever replied, "Of course, madam, which way did it go?" Anyway, my idea for this blog is for it not to follow the trend of any other blog, except that I will draw from personal experience. So there you have it, a mission statement. Writ large:

I will draw from personal experience.

That's really all I can promise you in the way of our Melds, dear reader. I can promise you that this won't be a forum for me to force my views on you, because if you're willingly reading, I'm not forcing anything. In other words, expect extreme levels of pontification. So tonight, what I was hoping to share, rather succinctly I think, is a love story about my newfound passion.

As often happens in the summertime, we tend to spend time with different people than we do during the schoolyear. This is more or less forced on me, since neither my girlfriend, nor anyone else I associate with at school spends any significant amount of time in the Bay Area, let alone the west coast. Since a pretty good sized group of my friends are in the same predicament, we've been spending what some investigative journalists (like that guy on To Catch a Predator) may call an "inordinate amount" of time together. Put it this way. If one of us were a 40 or 50something, and the rest of us were like 8 and 9, it would definitely raise some eyebrows. Anyway, after playing Monopoly until we were all ready to commit some sick group suicide with Monopoly tokens placed over our eyes or something, then doing other things until we reached a similar level of frustration, we were at the end of our rope. After a hard day's work, what was a low cost, fun, and fresh way to spend the evening? John Neiser had the answer. Bingo. I'll admit, I too was skeptical at first, recalling family bingo night with the hard cards that we traded after each round, the yellow markers that we never quite had enough of, and Dad calling out numbers: "O-75, the grand-daddy of them all!" Then it occurred to me that we live in Florida, God's waiting room. It was very possible that I would witness someone dying of natural causes in between the Box-Kite and the Super Speedy. Needless to say, as a fast-paced, jai-alai and greyhound loving man, I was a little slow to accept this radical new idea. Finally, however it worked out to go. We walked in the front door and I knew I had either just made the greatest mistake of my life or had just begun the clock on my finest hour. I quickly realized that I was much more likely to see someone enter eternal dreamland on account of lung cancer than old age (not that there was anyone there under 65, mind you), as the smoking room was about twice the size of the non-smoking room. Both were full. It was $15 all you can play night, so Steve and I each were dealt in for three sheets. For those of you who don't frequent the bingo halls, you may start getting confused here. I sure was. See, at bingo halls, you will be laughed out of school if you play one card (I didn't know if there was any other way to play, to tell you the truth). Most patrons favor 3 or 4 sheets of 9 cards each, yielding a grand total of 27 or 36 cards. Indeed, this was a whole new ballgame. We purchased bingo markers (they're these blotty things like you might see as a gate-return stamp at a low budget ballgame) and made our way to our seats, me with 27 cards, Steve with 27, and John with 18. One of the floor-workers, Maria, was kind enough to show us the ropes. And boy was she patient. We had no earthly clue what was going on (which surprised us, since we had all been family room bingo champs at one point or another). For one thing they only give you 20 something seconds in between numbers to mark all your cards and look for bingos. That's hard to do when there's eight real ways to get a bingo. You've got your ups, your downs, your diagonals, your postage stamp, your four corners, your diamond, your small box, and your small diamond. Believe it or not, fishing is harder when you have more rods to reel in more fish. We were totally embarrassed. Stately elderly citizens were laughing, pointing, taking pictures, making snide remarks, calling us out, they were doing it all. If you didn't think there was trash talk in a bingo hall, think again. As soon as someone raised their hand to call a bingo, there was a low grumbling of profanity that was fashionable back in the 20's or whenever, followed by the angry ripping of bingo sheets from the packets. I can sympathize. It is probably one of the most stressful and suspenseful ways to have fun, but man does it sting when you're only one number away from hitting the big jackpot and someone else gets there. My hands shook after every round. I felt alive. When I finally won, I had to split the purse with three other lucky sons of guns. Our table-mates, Kay and Betty, hit for a combined $75 dollars or so all night, but it was up to me to be happy with my paltry $16. Which, after tipping the floor volunteer, was just about equal to my entry fee. When I hit, a bingo-blotter-bag-toting woman behind us who looked like she'd been ridden hard and put away wet more than a few times said in a salty voice, "it's beginners luck." When Steve hit a couple rounds later for $25, she repeated louder, "I'm telling you, its just beginners luck." It's a good thing John didn't hit, or she probably would have thrown down.

To say that it was fun and addicting would be an understatement. I would highly recommend this foray into an unfamiliar culture to anyone I know (who is of legal age of course). One word of warning is that you may become addicted, blotting numbers in your sleep, hearing things like I-27 or G-50. I can't be held responsible for that. So there you've had my warning. Go out, be fruitful, and win some money off the elderly.

Thanks for reading. Spread the meld and tell a friend!