So like I've been awakening recently in the early-morning hours with my mind expanded with a vision maybe reeking of reading too much Phillip K. Dick in my wayward youth (or maybe it was exposure to the L. Ron Hubbard fictions of the Miscavige years while I was installing stars into the sidewalk of Hollywood Blvd?) and feeling not at all in control of my real-world destiny, oft believing that nothing in my sphere of influence has ever actually been controlled, shaped or affected by my own free will, but that my past, present, and future have instead been preordained by alien overlords or Harlan Ellison's Allied Mastercomputer, grooming me for their own nefarious purposes, God knows not what they might be (which makes me wonder if maybe the Republicans could be right on that grooming bullshit?) but these fantastic nightmares invariably wined up with me being transported by the alien masters to their home planet (note: not Ork) where I'm poked and prodded and precious bodily fluids are removed and topped up and are used as the basis for an entirely new species of humanoid-like creatures with which they populate planets like Neptune and wannabe planets like Pluto and the moon, not to mention the odd mineral-rich asteroid.
But in this dream, once they've finished mining moi, they realize they forgot to write down where they beamed me up from, and wanting to be safer than sorry, these grandes etras terrestres from Planet El Stupido just dump my ass in the middle of the country in someplace middle-ish like Indiana, equidistant from culture and the socialist tendencies of residents closer to the coast (any coast). And now, Professor, you tell me that I can just walk into a wine bar and can drink great wines made by interesting people from places I cannot pronounce, and all without having to have the bottles flown in from fly-to places?
Man, what a freakin' relief! Now maybe I can stop worrying about the potential of alien abduction and focus on the real matter deeply giving me pause and baggy eyes because I'd stay up worrying about it, to wit: what if I succumb to injuries brought on by a roadshow tour-level recreation of the "Honeybunny" scene in "Pulp Fiction" and I don't have my ID on me when I show up at the pearly gates so they send me to the depths of hell, whereupon I'm assigned to bunk with say, Fred Franzia, who's been sent below for just a couple of eons because he sold Alicante grapes from Fresno as if they were Cabernet Sauvignon from the Napa Valley (who knew he was only predicting the future of global warming?) I mean, what are my chances of getting a decent glass of anything but maybe Pruno or Charles Shaw for the millennia it's going to take to get me sprung out of there? Really, I can't be the only Disorderly who thinks about this sort of thing, can I?
-Eden (but seriously, how great is it that you can get good wine in all sorts of small burgs without having to risk life and limb venturing to like, Chicago, where you might get caught up in someone's sorority cosplay recreation of the chase scene in "The Blues Brothers"?)
