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Wine Drinkers Only


chelle

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I've found that cheap wine often = headache wine. I'm not talking about drinking the whole bottle and getting a headache, but I have found that two glasses of some cheap and some mid-priced wines can leave me with a sinus headache the next morning.

 

It's true I think that reds are more naturally apt to give one a hang-over, but for instance I drank two glasses of some cheap French Chard the other night on a long Delta flight, and had a headache within two hours. Maybe its the amount of sulfite added. Last week, I had two glasses of Rodney Strong pinot noir (I was eating a steak, and decided I needed a second glass to ensure that I offset the fat intake smile.gif)---woke up with a sinus headache, on a workday. madgo_ron.gif

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Some People

some people never go crazy.

me, sometimes I'll lie down behind the couch

for 3 or 4 days.

they'll find me there.

it's Cherub, they'll say, and

they pour wine down my throat

rub my chest

sprinkle me with oils.

 

then, I'll rise with a roar,

rant, rage -

curse them and the universe

as I send them scattering over the

lawn.

I'll feel much better,

sit down to toast and eggs,

hum a little tune,

suddenly become as lovable as a

pink

overfed whale.

 

some people never go crazy.

what truly horrible lives

they must lead.

 

 

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Big Night On The Town

 

 

drunk on the dark streets of some city,

it's night, you're lost, where's your

room?

you enter a bar to find yourself,

order scotch and water.

damned bar's sloppy wet, it soaks

part of one of your shirt

sleeves.

It's a clip joint-the scotch is weak.

you order a bottle of beer.

Madame Death walks up to you

wearing a dress.

she sits down, you buy her a

beer, she stinks of swamps, presses

a leg against you.

the bar tender sneers.

you've got him worried, he doesn't

know if you're a cop, a killer, a

madman or an

Idiot.

you ask for a vodka.

you pour the vodka into the top of

the beer bottle.

It's one a.m. In a dead cow world.

you ask her how much for head,

drink everything down, it tastes

like machine oil.

 

you leave Madame Death there,

you leave the sneering bartender

there.

 

you have remembered where

your room is.

the room with the full bottle of

wine on the dresser.

the room with the dance of the

roaches.

Perfection in the Star Turd

where love died

laughing.

 

Charles Bukowski

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