SB House CabSav — in the handy, plastic, double-bottle

Earlier in the year we resolved to drink better wine or at least wine with a  pretty label.  Two weeks in America excised all hope for an improved future and we bought a 1.5 liter plastic jug (sort of a fuck-it bucket full) of generic Cabernet Sauvignon.

This is probably the last story I will put up about that awful ordeal (although now that your “President” is over here stinking up the joint, who knows?).  Anyway…

A running buddy in Tucson who had a thick German accent once told me that he had been in the States so long that he no longer thinks (nor even dreams) in German and that it takes him a few days back home before he can understand everyone completely.  I thought that was a bit far fetched until this trip when I realised that the dialects I overwhelmingly deal with here have become mine (despite the fact that I am told more and more frequently — and on both sides of the pond — how surprising it is that I still have my Atlanta accent); the first three days there, I was hard-pressed to decode even simple, spoken phrases.  My alienation from my former people has never before been so profound.

About halfway through this bottle of plonk, it became marginally challenging to follow conversations here, too.  I guess I would score it as, “adequate.”

Left under the flight path of Hair Farce One as the Orange Dictator flew to Stansted, a simple message from a teenager mown into a lawn. I believe the children are the future.