Nurse the Hate: The Triumph Of My Maps

 

I picked up a couple of maps that I had purchased in France which had just been framed.  They are maps of semi-obscure wine regions with my thinking being that if I have them on the wall near where I work, maybe I can remember key details of the region.  I am trying to compensate for what might well be rapidly diminishing mental acuity.  I think I might have maxed out details that I can remember in life.  For example, I can remember that Steve Vai played guitar on Pil's 1986 "Album", but I can't remember "the name of that one wine producer from that one village in France that's sorta south of that other one".  I think I have to let go of something to allow something else in there.  Maybe I can see if I can forget the chronological order of Dead Kennedys LP releases to see if I can squeeze in fermentation temperature of Port wine.  I think my brain is a hard drive that has just maxed out on storage.  I might be a guy that repeats the same stories to people over and over and I don't even know it.  In fact, I should check to see if I wrote this down last week.  I might be speaking in some sort of banal loop and have no idea.

So I loaded my maps into the car and I saw a coffee place nearby.  It had the feel of a doomed business, one of those ones where later you say "What was the name of that coffee place that was there for about six months?".  It was one of those locations in a strip plaza that had no vibrant businesses nearby, limited foot traffic and only street parking.  I always wonder why people open businesses like these.  They must be delusional, just wanting it to work so badly they ignore the obvious.  "OK, here's my vision.  We open a tiny coffee shop that sells $4 drinks in a location with expensive rent, no place to park, no food, and limited hours.  We will also name it something that doesn't indicate it's a coffee place just to make sure no one wanders in from curiousity.  Let's take the space next to the dentist and the small accountant office just to make sure no one that works nearby comes in.  We can put some crappy local art on the wall.  That is pretty much all we need.  We are going to kill it!"

There was a woman working at the register from central casting.  She was in her early 20s, dyed black hair, thrift store sweater, and a regrettable tattoo that seemed like a children's drawing on her arm.  A temporary menu was still up from last week advertising special St Patrick's Day inspired items.  All of the drink names sounded vaguely like names of deviant sex acts.  Example, The Salty Irishman.  "So I'm in Lyon France at this restaurant eating alone, right?  This woman walks in and we get to talking.  Next thing I know we go back to my hotel, and she gives me a Salty Irishman.  I was like, whoah!  I don't even have a tarp.  What a mess!  Between us there's no way we have enough to tip out the maids, ya know?".

It's interesting that certain businesses are acceptable for The Cool Kids to work in while others are not despite being the same business.  For example, Tattoo Piercing Pink Hair Girl will gladly work in Whole Foods, but would never consider the same job in Giant Eagle/Wegmans.  Tattoo Piercing Pink Hair Girl will provide disinterested hipster service at Starbucks, but would not under any circumstances do the exact same job at Dunkin Donuts.  The marketing effort of those enormous corporations like Starbucks and Whole Foods of greenwashing their organizations has paid off by being able to attract overeducated young adults with attitude while Giant Eagle and Dunkin focus more on the pissed off hillbilly labor pool.  Everyone stays in their lane I suppose.

I knocked back my espresso and drove my maps home flush with the satisfaction of having successfully getting them framed before they were destroyed by strangers en route.  I had the cafe employee in the Beaune train station that tried to spill beer on them.  There was the Eastern European guy on the train to Dijon that tried to smash them with his backpack as he pontificated a confusing narrative about Putin, his friend that stole a car, a sexual indiscretion with that same friend's sister, and the misbehavior of his child that appeared to be from a third woman all as an effort to perhaps impress the brutally unattractive French woman that was his audience.  I almost then lost the maps as I paid for a Metro ticket in Paris when I leaned the flimsy tube on the billet machine, but remembered as I stepped away.  

All was secure with the maps until I placed them in the carry-on bin on the United flight back to the USA.  As the airline charges for anything possible to pad profit margins, all passengers now carry as much personal baggage on them as a sherpa scrambling up a mountain.  I watched helplessly as a dim looking man with his mouth slightly open continued to jam in his oversized suitcase into my map tube and backpack in the bin, optimistically pounding his square peg into a round hole.  The tube must have slid underneath his suitcase as the only victims were my headphone case (dented) and emergency Cliff Bar (smashed).  That man spent the entire flight doing two things.  1.  Watching Harry Potter movies and 2. farting on me.  It wasn't great.

I hauled the maps inside my house.  What an achievement.  This what Robert of Flanders must have felt like snug in his castle after the First Crusade.  I can now nestle in with the satisfaction of looking at the brown paper encased blocks leaning on the couch, comfortable with the knowledge that I won't summon up the effort to actually hang the frames for weeks.  It's an embarrassment of riches.  What plunder have I.  In my head I try to mentally run down the villages on the maps.  Fuck.  What's that one on the bottom?  It starts with an "R" I think.  Dammit.  Better get those maps up.             

 

Nurse the Hate: My Wind Machine Scheme

 

I spent the day before flying home in Paris as I normally do on a France wine trip.  I generally stay in Saint-Germain-des-Pres at a hotel where I know some of the staff.  There’s a young man that works the desk that is somehow a Seattle Seahawks fan and likes to talk about the NFL with me.  I always walk past the desk and give him instructions from the 1920s that he has learned to ignore completely.  “I’ll take my post and the newspapers in the lounge.  Bring me a bottle of Suze, a bucket of ice and two glasses.  I am expecting to hear from my editor so bring the phone in at once if he calls.  Thank you Pierre.  You’re a good man.”  It should be noted his name is not Pierre, and there is no lounge. 

I walk around the city with a vague gameplan in mind.  I like to go to an art museum in the morning, but now tend to avoid the Louvre and Musee d’Orsay as the struggle to avoid throngs of Asian tourists taking expressionless photos of themselves in front of the best known masterworks is too detracting from the experience.  I would like to go to a Japanese household one day and be shown dozens of photographs of the dour lady of the house in front of every top of mind European landmark possible in some sort of slide show.  I have no idea of what happens to these photographs after the attainment.  There must be some sort of private showing to their inner circle to which I am not privy.

I walk down the Seine and marvel at the sheer number of American girls in their twenties holding giant coffee cups talking too loudly.  You cannot walk a block without seeing a Kaitlin that is in Paris for a few months to “gain experience” before being placed at a lofty position in the family company somewhere on the East Coast.  These girls have the confidence that comes from no economic pressure, no responsibilities, and absolute freedom.  They think they have the world by the balls, and you know what?  They do.

Walking by yourself gives you time to think.  I had spent the week in Burgundy with the team at Albert Bichot.  I spent a day in Chablis where the technical director talked about the various processes and challenges in the region.  One of the most northern growing extremes for quality wine, Chablis has benefitted from climate change in the level of grape ripeness they can now achieve.  The downside of climate change for them is the sheer unpredictability and dramatic weather events that occur.  Frost has always been an issue there with their location, but now they are more susceptible than ever to frost events.  Here’s a great example of climate change…  It never used to warm up until late March/early April, but now there can suddenly be a week of 65 degree temps starting March 5^th.  The plant, sensing the warming earth, begins its growing cycle and begins to bud.  Then, the weather might revert back to unseasonably cold temperatures a short time later and destroy all the buds with frost.  This will severely limit the amount of grapes the vineyard will produce, and therefore crushes the entire business.

The best defense against frost now are three practices, none of which are ideal.  If you have deep pockets, you can install electric wires across the fruiting zones to prevent frost.  This works fairly well, but at $80,000 per hectare to install, it only makes sense for the most expensive vineyards.  The second is wind machines that move the cold air out before frost can set in.  These are giant elevated fans that take warmer air from above and shove out cold air to lower lying areas.  Again, it’s an expensive proposition to buy wind machines.  The third and most used method is using frost candles.  These are just big citronella looking candles that are set up all across the vineyard to produce just enough heat to prevent the frost in picturesque scenes across the best Chablis vineyards.  The downside there?  It’s $8000 in candle cost each time you do it, and that adds up fast.

This was when the idea hit me.  My associate Bob Lanphier and I have often come up with various schemes like our ill-fated “Feasibility Study” business where we take these unbelievable large sums of money like the $800,000 the City of Cleveland paid someone to determine if it was feasible to connect the Lakefront Loop railway with the Cuyahoga National Forest train.  (It isn’t.  No one rides either of these things, and the issue isn’t because you can’t take the train from one to the other.  The problem is no one especially wants to go to either destination and a train won’t make them give a fuck.  Thank you and can I please have the $800,000 now?).

The Miller-Lanphier Wind Machine Company would offer bargain wind machine leasing options to cash strapped farmers.  I picture myself standing around a vineyard talking to a hard working vigneron.  “Look Marcel, I’m not trying to tell you how to run your business, but candles?  Candles?  What are we, in the 1700s?  And at $8000 a pop?  Let me say two words to you… Wind.  Machine.  I know I know I know, you’re thinking “I can’t afford a wind machine!”.  I get it.  I do.  But I have good news for you Marcel.  A little financial innovation we have brought over right from the USA… the lease!  Now before you say “no”, hear me out.  How would you like to have all the benefits of a wind machine but at just a few dollars a day?  Is that too much to pay for piece of mind?  Of course not.  Let’s get you signed up today.  No reason to dwell on the contract, let’s get that signed before your neighbor rents out our last wind machines right from under you!”.

Now you might be thinking, “I don’t think Greg and Bob know anything about wind machines”.  C’mon, what’s to know?  We drive around Europe and buy up any old wind machine that’s getting replaced, tow it out to the greater Chablis area, and have Leo and his guys at the ready for installation when frost is in the forecast.  It’s not like those guys will fuck that up, right?  Sure, not one of us can speak a lick of French.  Yes, it will be difficult to read the French directions on how the wind machine works.  True, when buying these used wind machines we have no idea if they even work.  The equation I see is Overpromising Salespeople + Lack of Product Knowledge + Lack of Experience + Poor Middle Management + Unreliable Labor + Predatory Contracts= Big Success.  I can see us right now laughing it up in an office outside of Nuits St Georges until the first frost hits.  I am fairly certain the headline will read “Les charlatans américains détruisent les récoltes de 2024 et les entreprises familiales détruites”, which roughly translates to “American charlatans destroy 2024 crop, family businesses destroyed”, or maybe “Les escrocs des machines éoliennes sont toujours portés disparus” meaning “Wind Machine Grifters Still Missing” as we try to slip across a border to Switzerland. 

Granted, this plan does have some large sized holes, but to win big, you must think big.  While the various British tourists sit around trying to figure out if their Parisian waiter is ever coming back to take their order, I’m using this time wisely sitting at my table for one making plans.  Big plans.  I leave France tired and jet lagged.  I will return to triumph.