Nurse the Hate: I am Korg, You are Korg

I have begun the most intensive unit of this absurd WSET Diploma wine certification, the "still wines".  Whereas you are probably sitting around knocking back a Bud Light watching TV, I am sitting in a windowless conference room in a Holiday Inn with about 40 people discussing in spirited fashion if a $16 Macon-Village has "medium plus" or "medium acid" on the palate.  I will tell you this.  There's a guy with a beard that might punch some woman from Idaho if she doesn't relent on her stance of the lesser acidity.  The whole thing is sort of crazy.  It is hard to fathom, but right now as you read this a group of people is very intently debating if a 2010 Chateau Haut-Bages Liberal, Bordeaux, Pauillac AC has had any filtration and what type of gravel/quartz over marl subsoils are evident in the secondary aromas of the wine.  It should be noted that I once opened a bottle of this wine at a holiday party and watched a woman take a sip, wince, and add about 6 oz of 7-Up to the wine.  I don't know if she didn't care for the "flinty finish on the medium nose" of the 1996 or preferred "the added acidity and residual sugar" of the 7-Up.

The room is filled with people like myself.  We have all gone too damn far.  It's like when you go over to someone's house that has been involved in the rockabilly scene and is ALL IN.  The house is like stepping into a living thrift store with antique appliances, 1950s era kitchen table, Elvis pictures on the walls, and the lovingly restored greaser custom car in the garage.  While it seems like a good idea to look like Squiggy from "Laverne and Shirley" when hanging out at the Car Show with your rockabilly buddies, that flaming eight ball tattoo on your neck just freaks out most suburban moms.  You've gone too damn far.  Come on back.  Let's get you to Sears and get you a microwave.

Unfortunately I am no better.  It's the same thing but with different details.  The wine thing is like a fucking onion.  The more you learn, the more that is revealed that you don't know.  There is no point in which you can proudly step back and say "At last.  I have finished and I know all of it."  The intellectual lawn is never mowed.  The grass you just cut has become overgrown by the time you loop back around.  This is, of course, part of the sick appeal.  Knowing that there is always something you don't know keeps the illness alive.  There's always some other wiseass ready to knock you back in place because you have the audacity to not know a leading producer in the Jura (a place no person of sound mind needs to worry about).  It's insane. 

The expectation of the information that needs to be internalized is daunting.  It's not "is that a German riesling"?  It's "differentiate between the Dr. Pruhm 2011 VDP Erste Lage gold cap Auslese and that of the 2011 Saar Qualitatswein Bestimmter Anbaugebiete in regards to winemaking and viticultural techniques in response to the corresponding soil types, slope aspects, harvesting techniques, yields and potential for chaptalization".  Ah, what's that now?  I mean, I'm just a man!  How can I remember all this shit?  I'm not a fucking farmer!  It's not even in a language that I understand for God's sake!  They're Germans!  They're too organized.  We know this!  Can't we just agree that the one on the left is better and move on?  That's why they have the fucking Hitler looking eagle on it!  I am you.  In the end, I am the guy with the 1958 refrigerator and Elvis painting on my wall.

Like all things focused on collecting and remembering reams of data, this world has a lot of dudes in it.  If you notice, women don't waste their time collecting things.  Sure, the occasional woman will collect Hummel figurines or maybe Pandora charms for bracelets, but that's rare.  Women are more sensible.  For the most part, it's men that collect.  Baseball cards, records, stamps, guitars, art, cars, wine, you name it.  Men need to hoard things of interest and perceived value and then lord it over other men.  "Want to check out the car in the garage?"  I've been giving this some thought.  It has to be primal.  It must be a way that men think they can differentiate themselves over other men and present themselves as more appealing to the opposite sex.  Stay with me here...  Men gather all this stuff they think has value and then proudly display and discuss it.  I believe this is a manifestation of the male core drive to attract a mate.  This caveman has more than the other caveman.  "You come with Korg.  Korg has Mickey Mantle rookie card."  Women don't have that stress.  For women, finding a man is like waiting for a bus.  If she stands in one place long enough, some other penis will come chugging down the road that she can opt to jump on or not. She doesn't need to pursue the horribly faulty idea that a potential partner will fall for her based on her having the Buzzcocks "Spiral Scratch" 7 inch on the original pressing.  Sure, she meets a lot of creeps but at least she doesn't have to go through bins of records at smelly thrift stores looking for the Dead Kennedy's "Fresh Fruit For Rotting Vegetables" on blue vinyl.

It must be programmed into my DNA.  I can't stop.  I am going to put myself through this hell and collect all this data.  There is no more end game than a guy looking for 1909 Lincoln S penny in mint condition.  It's a fool's game we're all in on.  So while you are busy with fixing the flywheel on your 49 Mercury, don't worry.  I will be wasting my time as well trying to remember that all Grand Cru Burgundian whites are located in Cote de Beaune within the Cote d'Or with of course the exception of Musigny Blanc.  We all have our crosses to bear.  I hope you find that Iggy Pop import 7 inch and the Cavegirl you have your eye on didn't hop on another bus while you were out looking.  Korg must learn wine now.