More from Kalifornia

While New York sleeps, the Patriot lies awake, streaming audio from archive.org and lamenting whatever curse of the Gods which brought him from the warm Italian bosom of Staten Island to the sunny yet foreign and smoggy country of California. This place is not like our place. Everything is new and made of either reddish brick or some strange composite concrete material which absorbs sunlight. A thick pall of smog hangs over the entire southern part of the state and even the beaches are wreathed in the murky haze. The people are mysteriously good looking, no doubt due to the nutrient powders they take in with their Jamba juices.

Being a long way from the most excellent Jeans Wine Store, and feeling a pressing need for libations, I took a rather lengthy drive in search of the one thing California is rightly known for; its tasty cabernets. After dodging assorted corvettes, convertibles and Porsche Cayennes, I found a small liquor store next to the entrance ramp to the 405 freeway. One would thing that for $22 American you couldn’t pick a bad bottle of the local grape. Nevertheless, upon uncorking the smartly labeled bottle a foul brew issued forth which upon tasting conjured up images of Welsh’s grape juice that had spent a few hours on the business end of a Bunsen burner. St. Supery, stay away. Strike two for Orange County.