I’m listening to a cd that Cowboy made, which I finally managed to convert to a respectable format that iTunes will accept. Which means I can now convert it to another format that my *car* will accept…apparently my country was not good enough for Cowboy. Tee hee.

Speaking of CD’s…I have an Iggy Pop burn I keep meaning to mail to T.C. but still can’t get my lazy ass to put a media stamp on it. Stamps are so inconvenient, really.

I’m sure cheekytubemouse has updated many of you on popping her wine cherry in Napa, but I should summarize the sheer fun and beauty of this trip… Our first stop was Artesa, a giant aztec pyramid like thing that gives a gorgeous view of the border region of Napa/Sonoma, miles and miles of farmland. We tasted a ton of different types – they have some interesting blends and a rather impressive Gewürztraminer, which cheekytubemouse was impressed enough to buy (absolutely no floral tones, oddly enough). I picked up a bottle of buttery Chardonnay, and we quit the place for St. Supery.

They didn’t have the club tasting set up, as usual, upstairs, so we toughed out getting a seat at the very-busy tasting bar downstairs. I picked up my wine shipment, too, and figured she might like their famous Muscato, which she fell in love with (and bought two bottles of). Next up, we plotted a course for Coppola’s, to pick up my favorite Carmine Thrifty cigars, and take in the film memorabilia from Dracula and Tucker. We tooled around the little shopping area with a glass of (borggrrl) Sofia Coppola’s Blanc de Blancs and one of their (me) standard Pinot Noirs. We sniffed every scented candle in the place, and I picked up an amazing spicy cinnamon candle that smells like sex…or at least, if you smelled it, it could definitely lead to sex.

Now this is where I should mention…*the lemon*. The Lemon is a mythical object of my desire, that as the years have passed and I have made trips with various friends of various degrees to the Coppola estate, I have coveted for some time. *the lemon* lives on a tree—a very special tree—that happens to be both a lemon tree and an orange tree that grew together, so they are actually *one* tree. Half the tree bears lemon fruit. The other half, orange fruit. For many, many years, I have poked and prodded various companions to steal me a lemon. No one—I mean no one—has done this. There have been those who would have, but only if the fruit hung low enough not to have to climb. My guess is there are a lot of folks that steal these lemoranges, and it’s tough to get one in the summer because they are all gone. The last time Midnight and I were there he adamantly refused to get me a lemorange.

Then…as cheekytubemouse and I merrily made our way giggling out of the giant chateau-style setting that is the Coppola estate, I spied the Lemorange tree looming forth, and cheekytubemouse was strategically situated between me and the tree—to my right. We got to the midsection of the tree and I whispered quickly, “Grab a lemon! Hurry!” To my utter shock and delight, her little hand reached out and snatched a perfect lemon from the Lemorange tree, and I said, “Hurry, put it in your pocket so no one sees!”

She said, “Oh my god, I just stole a lemon!” And I said, “Muwahhahahahaah! Yes! Finally someone did it! I’ve been waiting for yeeeeeeears!!!!” And she said, “I never would have done that ever! I just…you said to…and wham! I didn’t question it at all! We got the lemon!”

“Yes!” I giggled, “The fabled lemon from the Lemorange tree!”
“Next time, I’ll get you an orange,” She said.

We made our way over to the Cellar Room at V. Sattui, not one of my favorite vinyards, but they have a nice picnic area. After our final tasting we sat and picnicked in the cold, letting the effects of the wine wear off (or at least I did) before driving, enjoying a nice cigar and some of the incredible chocolate she picked up at Coppola. We marveled at the perfection of our Lemorange Lemon, discussed future plans for the Lemorange Orange gathering, and watched the sun go down.

When it was time to go, we piled into the car and I switched on the buttrock. I mean, classic hair-band buttrock – which we rocked out to the whole way home. We shuffled into my apartment, cracked open a bottle from the trip, and invited Midnight and Cowboy over to marvel at the Lemorange Lemon, and generally enjoy the merriment.

Boy, was that merriment!