Right now I will continue to reside in Las Vegas, where except for the fact that we have had a damned eternal summer, I have called home for more than two decades. My bucket list has a crystal ball in it that stubbornly won't let me peer into the future.
We got our flight and sat down at the lovely deck overlooking the scenery. Come to think of it, “The Scenery" seemed to be something that became part of everything that I did up there.
Ashland is about 15 miles from the California border; it's apparently where old hippies (and young ones) go to escape the rat race.
Like many of the other wineries in the Ghetto, his vineyards are located in what can arguably be termed the middle of nowhere.
The largest winery in Paso Robles isn't one of the massive wineries such as DAOU, Tooth & Nail, or even Villa San-Juliette. It's not even a winery, at least not technically.
Which means that you will be forced to visit their wine countries in order to buy many of the wines. I'm good with that.
And the lottery tickets didn't help. Eight dollars in winnings don't exactly add up to a retirement-worthy windfall.
I had an embarrassingly large meal at the Brat Stop (where two insane people are the proprietors), but it helped me to continue to observe and photograph the event without having to worry about the drunken staggering factor.
When I stopped for gas at Barstow, I opened up the glove box to see if there was a manual in there. Well there was. Unfortunately, it was on a CD, still nicely shrink-wrapped. What use was that?!?
For many years, Nevada wines were known for their relentless mediocrity - they seemed to be White Zinfandel wannabes - and there wasn't much that the serious wine person could glean from them other than a collective meh.