So, last week my friend Erin and I (this is a real person by the way, not someone I made up and unimaginatively gave my own name to) went wine tasting in Temecula.  I guess in the last 10 years or so Temecula has become a hot new microclimate and wineries popped up all over the countryside, with a sprawling new township to support them.  So what were a couple of silly young girls doing in suburbanite paradise?  I was visiting Erin two Sundays ago while her mom was on a trip to Chicago.  Erin pointed to an empty bottle of wine on her cat’s furniture.
“We have to go to Temecula.  See that bottle?  That was my mom’s wine and I drank it, so we have to go to Temecula and replace it,” she declared.
“Are you serious?  Where is Temecula?!” I had had enough beer at this point to consider her offer.
“It’s happening Wednesday,” was the answer.
On Wednesday, I woke up late so there was a late start to the adventure.  “Oh well,” I thought.  “We’re only going for one bottle anyway.”
Erin picked me up and we made the hour or so drive with no problem.  We found the South Coast Winery and Spa with ease.
“It’s just down this road on the right.”  Erin had a great sense of direction.  I did not.
“Wait!  Isn’t that the way in?!”  I said, pointing backwards.  I started blurting out directions after she made the correct turns.  “I think we’re supposed to go left,” I’d remark after she turned right and passed another large sign saying “THIS WAY TO WINE COUNTRY.”
At the winery, we went wine tasting for the first time.  You pay $7, and you get 5 shots of wine.  Literally, a shot of wine… the bottles have speed pours on them.  We tasted the bottle we were going to pick up for her mom, and then decided on a few more for us.  The lady was very placating, everything I said she ended up agreeing with.
“This would go great with lamb,” I said after trying a nice Cabernet.
“Oh yes!  Very good with fine red meat,” she echoed.
“I’d like to make up a cheese platter for this one,” I nodded to my taster of Sauvignon Blanc.
“Indeed!” she said cloyingly.
“Horse buttholes would be delicious with this one!”
“Naturally!  I eat them everyday!”
I made that last part up, but everything else is essentially true.  It was too late when we realized she didn’t actually like buttholes, she was just angling for a tip.  I ended up buying one bottle, while Erin bought five.  Stolling out to the car, already with a mild buzz, Erin and I decided $7 for 5 shots was a pretty good deal and we should see what the other wineries had to offer.
We became the Goldilocks of Temecula.  One winery looked too ghetto, while another was too “busy,”  and still another was only good for its porta potty, (which Erin used, baffling an onlooking landscaper).
Two wineries were satisfactory, however.  One guy decided we should try every wine they had even though we didn’t pay for it.  I spilled a full taster on his bar to show my gratitude.  The next place had a real witch for a server, and Erin loudly observed that fact several times and spilled a glass of wine for emphasis.  We ended up with a few more bottles and decided we should get back to town and drink some more.  A few martinis and a couple of beers later, our adventure in wine country had concluded.
It may not have been executed with the class or grace typical of what one would expect in Temecula (the people staring at us as we laughed hysterically in one of the parking lots proved that), but it was fun.  And that makes for a good Wednesday in my book.

There is no good segue into this story so I’m just going to go balls out on it: Yesterday, I was on the Price is Right.  Not just in the audience, but on the show.  30 something of my housemates and I got on a Green Tortoise bus and went to LA with group reservations for the show.

Before I go on, let me tell you about this bus.  Green Tortoise buses are hippie busses with bunk beds instead of luggage compartments and huge mattresses instead of seats.  The driver will make liquor stops whenever you want and share his Cherry Garcia with you. The upholstery smells like sweet, sweet hashish and there’s a compartment in the back with a door for sweet, sweet scrumping.  We left at about midnight, and I had just returned from Santa Cruz so I had just enough time to tear my room apart looking for my passport, trip over my roommate’s stupid chair, and run out to the bus holding my sweet, sweet shin.

Fast forward many long hours and it’s Casa Zimbabwe in LA.  We split into two groups for the two tapings of the day and I (of course) fell into the later group.  We walked to Melrose, had breakfast.  I had an enormous cup of coffee (black, like the devil made it), and we stolled around aimlessly looking at the funny SoCalians.  Back at CBS studios, we entered the golden years of our lives waiting in a five hour processing line.  The highlights of the wait were making up dances with my mate Ben, listening to Dustin sing about “pizza rakes,” and screaming the lyrics to “We are the Champions” before the interviewer told us to shut up.  So we wait, get nametags, wait, sing, wait, run to Quizno’s, group sex, wait, get interviewed, wait, FINALLY get into the studio.

It’s a lot smaller than I thought.  So, we’re sitting there clapping like trained monkeys and this announcer comes out (not Rod, he’s dead), and starts making dirty jokes.  Not impressed.  We’re sitting there, applauding the applause sign, and they start filming.  They call out names.  The third name they call is mine.  “Capn Nobear” is what he actually called, but if Ms. Nobear had gotten up to contest my spot, I would’ve shot her face off.

The next part is a little hazy.  I remember looking back to my group, specifically this guy Keith, for help, and not being able to hear shit while I was bidding.  I eventually was the closest when I bid on an exercise bike, and ran up onstage and stood next to the man himself, my personal god, Bob Barker.  He asked if I was excited and I think I said “Yes.”  I might have slipped and said, “I just wet myself with joy,” but you can’t prove that.  Then Bob said, “You’ll be more excited with this!”  And all I hear is “A new car!”  I remember seeing a truck and a big board with some numbers roll out.  I remember guessing the price of the truck.  I also remember dancing around like a fucking idiot and hugging Bob Barker.

I’m a little tired and, as always, lazy, so I’ll be brief: I filled out forms, spun the wheel, creamed my jeans, smoked a ton, drank a shitton at a bar where they gave me ice cream, drank on the bus, arrived at home and called my dad.  I came away with a Dodge Dakota, an exercise bike, $95, a year’s supply of Alka-Seltzer, and an autographed picture of Bob.  And they let me keep the signs with my name on them.  You can see me act like a greedy fool on December 24th, around 3pm.  I am out of my mind right now.  My sister didn’t believe me, either.

This weekend, Blair came to visit me because there was a party at my house.  Thus begins the saga/epic tale/porno of this weekend…

Saturday
Our house made about $930, and at $3 a person… that’s a shit-ton of people that came.  Blair and I pre-partied with a beer a piece and a bottle of wine.  This was her bright idea, not mine, because I was already almost at the point of being wasted.  Let me illustrate “almost”:

Actually being wasted:
Blair- (Brings plate of spaghetti from kitchen) I made this for us.
Erin- Yaaaay!  Baaafftime!  (Dumps spaghetti on own head)

The degree of wasted I was:
Blair- Want some spaghetti?
Erin- Nah, I’m good.  (Takes enormous swig of beer and puts on really smoov sunglasses)  I don’t need to eat to survive, I get all my nutrients from the finest hops and barley.

Saturday was a dance party for Blair and I- and the rest is drunken infamy- I mean history- HISTORY!

Sunday
I was leading Blair to Zebra, my piercing parlor of choice on Telegraph Ave.  When we arrived, Blair needed to step outside “for air,” and then proclaimed an urgent need to “sit down.”  Taking “this” as a sign of the apocalypse, I began the trek “home.”

“I need a place with a bathroom.”  Blair looked around anxiously.  At the crowded corner of Bancroft
OK?” “Do you need a cab?” or “What the fuck is going on here?  This is my pukin’ street!”  Least of all, me. and Telegraph, before the light could change, Blair opened her mouth and vomited in the street.  After crossing the street, she did it again… silently opened her mouth and expelled buckets of puke.  This was the most hardcore, punk-rock thing I had ever seen.  No one bothered to stop and ask her “Are you

After that highlight, Will wanted to rent Kung Fu, so off to Blockbuster it was.

The rest of the day was yak-free.

Before I lose power to my machine, I must hastily pen this message to my co-agents to warn them of this new impending danger: BLACKOUTS.

Last night at around 5 o’ clock I was taking the elevator up to my floor, minding my own business, peacefully thinking about recycling and adopting a highway, when all of a sudden the elevator goes dark, and I’m suspended in this creepy, dark dorm limbo.  My reaction of course was, “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!”  This went on for about a full minute until the lights turned back on and the upward motion resumed.  I was extremely grateful for this, because my thoughts at that point were “Ah!  I’m alone in here!  I have no one to eat!”  After this long, perilous trek to my floor, I finally arrived at safety… or so I thought.

The power over the ENTIRE campus was out.  Everyone in my hall was either freaking out or deciding this was a prime looting opportunity.  (“This apple was legal, but this banana is ALL contraband, baby.”)  We were left in the dark all night (a blessing for some), and some classes were canceled this morning.  My roommates COULDN’T HANDLE IT and bailed, fleeing against my cries of “Fine!  Leave!  I will sink with the ship like a TRUE CAPTAIN!  AAAHAHAHA!”

I brought out my camera, and Will’s response to my “do something cool” was “Let’s dress up like Duff-man!”  Will didn’t exactly look like the man himself… he was perhaps better.  Grrr.  We went out to ice-cream and he ordered as such: “Duff-man is thrusting in the general direction of raspberry.”

Overall, I thought it was a fairly cool experience.  A room to myself, shadows to hide in, cosmic trips, prime looting time (Dorm pirates!)… excellent.   Next time the power goes out at your place, try dressing up like Duff-man.  And send me the pictures.