I owe a lot to wine. According to reports, it played a major role in my conception.

Unfortunately, I'm not much of an expert. When a waiter brings the wine list, I use the time-honored system of "eeeny meeny miny mo." Otherwise you run the risk of waiters raising an eyebrow and making French sounds through their nose.

They promised that I'd be safe at Bodee's, a six- or seven-star restaurant "nestled into a remote country location" (translation: somewhere near Middle Earth).

Bodee's owner Michele Cromer-Bentivolio lives on a ranch behind the restaurant and picks avocados during her commute. These she hands over to executive chef and man of the hour, Christopher Watson.

At the wee-lad age of 27, Chris has rubbed spatulas with top cheffing dignitaries and is personally in charge of everything digested at Bodee's. He and I conducted research in Bodee's "fern grotto" (translation: patio), where Chris lined up the wine white to red.

"So what kind of wine do you like?" asked Chris.

"Whatever tastes most like Kool-Aid."

He chuckled as though I were kidding.

Chris rinsed with, and spit out, a glass of roset. I myself am principally opposed to spitting out alcohol, so I finished the glass. Think of the starving children.

Chris asked me to swirl the glass, which is where I drew the line. There would be no swirling and no poetic faces.

"The swirling," he said, "opens up the wine. Reds are especially tense out of the bottle."

I was drinking and learning at the same time. Just like college.

Chris wedged his nose into the glass the way a linebacker does an oxygen mask. That's why wine glasses are so big -- to fit your snout. Chris said that it helps you shift gears.

"Have you ever reached for a glass of iced tea thinking that it's 7-Up? That's why we sniff."

Finally, after all the pomp and circumstance, I was given to do what I came to do: Get hammered.

No, no, no. I had come to debate the floral undertones of wine while wearing a monocle.

We started with my favorite wine, the "voigner" [pronunciation tip: don't sound any of the actual letters]. Chris pushes voy-NYAY on chardonnay junkies when they want to get crazy.

"My job," says Chris, "is to help you discover your preferences. If you're into Kool-Aid, do you prefer Sharkleberry Fin or the Great Bluedini?"

I held newfound respect for this man.

Chris recommends reading Wine for Dummies unless you're a complete idiot, in which case read The Complete Idiot's Guide to Wine.

We graduated to red wines -- the Dark Side -- starting with my favorite, the pinot noir. Pinot noir lived in obscurity before the movie Sideways, which I am required to mention by state law. Sideways is about how scumbag men really aren't scumbags when you compare them to wine, as you can easily tell by the movie's title.

Chris explained the difference between red wine and white, and despite what your uncouth brain tells you, red wine does not simply come from red grapes. The color comes from tannins in the skin.

"The tannins," said Chris, "also intensify your hangover."

I verified Chris's theory the next morning when I found myself bickering at the phone long after it had stopped ringing. So it goes.

"This next wine will be your favorite," said Chris, pouring a sauvignon blanc. "It has a nice, peppery finish."

Pepper is not something I look for in a wine. In fact, it's not something I look for on my food. Yet this bottle, Rock Rabbit, was the kind of wine that made you skip dinner. It felt almost nutritious.

If you do eat, white wines go with white foods (fish, pasta, chicken), and red wines go with red foods (beef, marinara, more red wine).

What is the favorite pairing of seven-star gourmet chef, Christopher Watson?

Peachy Canyon zinfandel and peanut M&M's.

That was my favorite, too, until we tried Rutherford Hill, the house merlot. Merlot is a "dry wine," which means that if you spill it on your clothes you'll need dry-cleaning.

Chris and I swirled our way to the Bordeaux, a merlot wine named after a busty seventies actress. No, that's the Barbeau. Ha! You wouldn't believe how funny that was after six glasses of wine.

"This is not the merlot they're talking about in Sideways," said Chris. "It's good merlot."

I struggled to describe the Bordeaux. Chris had already taken the obvious choice -- smoky herbal dusk -- so I had to stick with poetic faces.

We finished with Conn Creek Cabernet, the "youngest" bottle and definitely my favorite. I always thought that wine had to ferment for decades, but then my grandfolk, they's from Kentucky.

"We consume so much wine as a society," said Chris, "that you can hardly find a six-year-old chardonnay. Most wines are designed to be consumed quickly."

And boy was I consuming quickly. The bottle read "12% alcohol by volume," which had something to do with how loud we were getting. Chris cut me off when I started to shout for more Barbeau.

By day's end, I was not only sideways but upside down and backwards. I had, however, learned some things. Whereas my motto on wine used to be "quantity, not quality," I now feel comfortable walking into any snootsy restaurant, looking that French waiter directly in the nose, and ordering my favorite wine -- whatever they recommend.

The Buddha said that we're not punished for our anger but by our anger.

That's why I let go of things: bad umpiring in the World Series, Hummers taking up three lanes at once, politicians looting our treasury under cover of American flag.

But there is one thing I cannot tolerate, and that is the walkie-talkie cell phone.

We're hemmed in by people who used to be perfectly quiet, but now, thanks to "progress," walk around like borgs with Bluetooth headsets. And we, the innocent bystanders, are caught in the crosstalk....

"Hi, Dave. This is Skip. I was just calling because silence scares me."

"Hey, Skip. I'm on the other line with my German shepherd. Let's talk three-way!"

And every sentence ends with that merciless, ever-present, blood-clotting "chirp." That's what Nextel would have you call them -- "chirps." Cheery name for something that makes your ears bleed. Science is only beginning to understand the evils of second-hand conversation.

Maybe we've arrived at too much technology. My family used to discuss these things over dinner; now we're too busy checking voicemail, surfing the net, watching TV ... So it goes.

Mark Twain suffered through the advent of the telephone, cringing at those early conversations when people kept clicking the receiver saying, "Can you hear me? Can you hear me now?"

In 1890, Twain's Christmas card read, "It is my hope that all of us may eventually be gathered together in a heaven of everlasting peace ... except the inventor of the telephone."

The problem is that phones are issued to humans at large, regardless of their age, I.Q., or ability to sense WHEN THEY ARE SHOUTING. I once saw a homeless person with a cell phone, an excellent way to talk to yourself without people staring.

So everyone is talking to far-away people but won't even smile at humans who are actually, physically present. We've all got Elevator Face, staring straight ahead because CNN has taught us that meeting new people could result in death.

Speaking of CNN: Doctors in Taiwan removed from the rectum of a distraught young lady one Nokia cell phone. I'm not sure why CNN mentioned the number of phones. Maybe in Taiwan they have to distinguish between this and multiple-phone dislodgings.

But it is just this kind of obsessive cell phone behavior that led a man in aisle three of my local Albertson's to call home and ask his -- chirp -- wife whether -- chirp chirp -- he himself preferred mild or medium salsa, and that was my Rosa Parks moment.

I returned that day to Albertson's with my friend Blake, who asked not to be mentioned by name. Blake and I manned opposite ends of the aisle and held a conversation by way of -- you guessed it -- bullhorns. I mean, what's the difference, right? And after each sentence, we did our best impression of the adorable Nextel chirp.

"Blake, tomatoes are on sale, four pounds for $3.92. Did you bring a calculator?" Chirp chirp.

"No. Round up. Hey, how's your sister doing?" Chirp chirp.

I got as far as her malignant growth when security arrived, thinking that we might work for the post office.

"Reality check, produce. Reality check..."

And there in front of the embarrassed-red tomatoes I debated the walkie-talkie cell phone with Harry, Albertson's manager. Harry confessed that the cell phone chirp also caused him digestive problems, but he would not join the Revolution.

I was hoping to be ushered out in handcuffs like Sean Penn or Tim Robbins, but Harry just gave me talkin' to. He also invited me to not come back.

I myself am willing to die in a war against the walkie-talkie cell phone. It is the least I can do to save our grandchildren from a world chirp where even the Buddha chirp would chirp chirp go chirp INSAAAAAAANE chirp chirp chirp chirp chirp.