GET A LOAD O' ME: IN WHICH I COP TO BEING BOUGIE

A reasonable facsimile thereof — of me

There I am, obviously (it’s so obvious) a rich, handsome guy on a private jet (is there any other kind?). Notice: my beard is neatly trimmed (obviously by my private stylist), and see that obviously expensive watch on my wrist? Oh, I’m obviously a busy guy, evidenced by all my devices, even though I’m 25K feet in the air. Notice if you will, and I know that you will, otherwise you wouldn’t be in this bougie space, that glass of wine on my resolute jet desk. Make no mistake, it’s Champagne. That’s to cool my mind, my jets (not the pilot’s) and make me cool. Further, make no mistake, I’m a self-important rich dude and you’re not.

Before I go any further, I just know my good pal Mal will be reading this, considering I forced him to so in hopes he may someday like wine; but I just know he’s going to tear me a new introspective deep dive. I can hear him saying minutes after I post this: “See, wine is bougie and you are, too. No matter what that parenthetical justifier in the title says.”

Hold on a minute pal a mine: This screed is a riff on a piece by Guy Trebay in The Times, which depicted a guy just like me, except that he’s handsomer, richer, and bougier, as if that’s possible. Trebay’s report, “Can You Fake Being Rich?” offers “Advice on How to Achieve an ‘Old-Money’ Look.” So don’t leap to conclusions.

The difference though, is I’ve already achieved “the look”. So, look no further.

Admittedly though, my shirts aren’t as starched as Trebay’s poseur. My beard is much scragglier and gray. My watch is a Seiko (hey, don’t laugh, Ohtani just gave each of his teammates one. Damn you Dodgers!). And I wear much louder clothes than the subdued light blues, browns and grays those higher-achievers wear. And, of course, I’m not slim.

BUT I DO LOVE ME SOME CHAMPAGNE

What I do have in common with rich guys is that I love me some Champagne. And I don’t settle for sparkling wine, even from England. And I love Champagne from Champagne anytime, on any occasion, including getting up in the morning (late, of course). Champagne for birthdays, anniversaries, bris’s. That’s for the plebs. Me? Anytime is Champagnola time. Am I right?

Only thing is – I can’t afford Champagne.

Especially the vintage-kind. I’d have to sell my jet to achieve that. For that, I’d celebrate with a glass or three of the Champ, but I don’t wanna sell my little jet. It’s big really, but it would break my cold cold heart. That would put me squarely in with the bourgeoisie, having to wait on endless lines of humanity like so many chumps.

No pal a mine, your Pal Al ain’t bougie no matter how hard you use your smarts, your logic and your political wiles on me. And your math to prove your theorems.

Before I’m all said and done I’ve come up with a term that I think explains my position as a wine-loving, wine-educating, wine journalist kind of guy, who only wants you to enjoy wine. And its terroir, its AVA, its pH, ad nauseum.

I’m a left-wing, socialist wine drinker, who gives a crap about what’s happening to the world. Therefore, think of me as a Lefty Winer from the Days of Old.* A progressive who loves wine? That seems an odd confluence; but not to me, to paraphrase myself.

*With thanks to Babs Gonzales’ “I’m the Be-Bop Santa from the Cool North Pole”. (You can look it up, and listen, do yourself a solid.)