What a Riot

I do not understand the logic behind celebratory riots. Many riots you hear about are celebrations of a joyous occasion, like your stupid local sports team winning a championship. The thought process (though I doubt there's much thinking involved) seems to go something like this: "After a long, arduous season filled with ups and downs culminating in a nail-biting final game in which our team manages to pull through against all odds and win, bringing hope and boundless joy to our city, I think I'll express my utter glee by destroying shit. Nothing says 'this is the happiest moment of my life' like a nice bottle to a cop's head, or maybe a structure fire if I'm really feeling bubbly. I love my city! Now let's burn this city down!'"

I can understand rioting if you're pissed off. Hell, I got caught in the middle of a riot in Barcelona that started in protest of a law that banned drinking in the streets (by 'caught in the middle' I mean I eagerly planted myself smack dab in the middle of the last stronghold of rioters. I immediately regretted that decision). You cops won't let us drink a bottle of vodka in the street among friends? How about I fill said bottle with gasoline, stuff an oily rag in the top, light the rag, and throw the fiery concoction at you? I knew I was in the wrong party when they started serving Molotov cocktails. Not to be outdone, the uniformed hosts then started playing a perennial party favorite: firing crowd control bean bags from shotguns indiscriminately at the crowd.

As stupid as that riot was (almost all riots are stupid), at least it was out of anger. If I won the lottery, I'm almost certain my reaction wouldn't be to punch the nearest person in the mouth. That makes about as much sense as rioting in celebration.

I want to be a wine connoisseur, I really do. When I choose a bottle, I want to be able to recite the family history of the charming old Italian family that's run that specific vineyard for centuries. I want to cork the bottle with a grace that comes from years of opening bottles and enjoying them in good company. When I expertly pour the first glass, I want to place the lip of the glass just beneath my sensitive nostrils and, before daring to whet my lips, take a deep whiff of the aromatic nectar that brings me back to the autumn afternoon in Tuscany when I first tasted that grape. When I press my lips to the glass, eyes closed, and let the mahogany-colored liquid glide onto my tongue, I want to be inundated with the rich flavors and intricate subtleties of the grape; with each subsequent sip, I want to be able to better identify the type of wood the wine was cased in and say things like, "ah yes, the palette is graced with hints of tobacco and pepper, the bouquet haunted by the lingering memory of autumn peaches."

Wait a second, I hate those people! Why the fuck would I want to drink something that tastes like tobacco and pepper? "Hey, have you tried the new Dr. TobaccoPepper Lite? Same great tobacco and pepper taste with half the calories!" And how can wine taste like tobacco? You're full of shit. There is probably a handful of people in the world whose senses of taste and smell are so freakishly refined that they can actually dissect a wine and determine its individual flavors. But I thought wine is just made from grapes. How the hell did peaches get in there? In my mind, bouquets are over-priced bundles of flowers and tissue paper that are useless after a few days when the flowers die.

So I guess I'm a bit conflicted over my wine desires. On the one hand, I'd like to look sophisticated and mature in front on a nice date or in the company of adults. On the other hand, I don't want to have to punch myself in the face for being a pretentious prick. So until I sort out these conflicting emotions, when I'm on a date it'll be the usual, which is the second-cheapest bottle on the menu. That shows the girl you're a shrewd shopper, but you still have some class. And in the company of adults, I'll stick to saying I love the wine they serve me even when I hate it, and trying to stop myself from knocking back three glasses when I do like it. It's worked for me so far.