Low Rider - Have you ever noticed how much, if you're not paying attention, "Low Rider" by War sounds like a scratched record?

About a year ago, I was watching the news and got wind of a new line of wine with the label Charles Shaw. Most people in California have heard of this stuff by now. It's pretty low-frills stuff, only sold at Trader Joe's for $1.99 a bottle, and it was good. Soon, empty cases started showing up on the street right next to trash cans outside parks all over town.

Well, it was all right. You know, the truth is, there's only so good it could possibly be for two bucks, but I'd say, much to the ire of wine reviewers all over the country, it's as good as some fancy $7 bottle, at least the Cabernet Sauvignon is. The Merlot was a different story.

Round about Thanksgiving, I was buying some wheat-free eggs and some vegan orane juice when I noticed there were new bottles; a Syrah and a Pinot Noir, so I grabbed a couple, headed to the checkout, and put the bottles in my rack where they sat until this weekend. I'm aware that the entire idea of racking $2 wine bottles is a little bit on the excessive side, but it's all about the image I present to my guests.

Saturday night, we needed some wine. The first bottle my hand hit was the Gamay Boujelais Pinot Noir -- now well cellered for over a month. The first sip reminded me of an old pickup line I never used. My teeth started to hurt. I shivered. The dog ran from the 30ml (at least according to the ad for the paper towel I used to clean it up) I spilled on the linoleum.

I shuttered, and flashed back to when I was living in Albuquerque. Mike and Marcy came to visit. We hopped in the car, and hit a couple of tastings at wineries on the way to Taos for a relaxing weekened of standing around and imagining where skiiers would be if it were a few weeks later. One of them, the Santa Fe vineyards, in Espaņola, forced a lumpy, gelatenous mass of evil on me that made me grumble "Who are you and why did you let me put this in my mouth?!" as I ran outside and shoveled dirt from the side of the highway onto my tongue to ease the pain. We should have known by the tire tracks leading back onto the highway from the lot that something was up.

Still, though, by 10 o'clock, the Charles Shaw bottle was gone, exorcised to the recycling bin outside. There's some time lost in there, and I think I need to sit closer to the TV and the newspaper than I did last week. At two bucks a bottle, though, it might be dangerous, but it's a pretty cheap lunch.