We always love it when rock stars like The Police endorse and embrace what we’re doing here at Roshambo. Especially when they flash our logo on stage. I mean why toil in anonymity when we have access to such big name brand ambassadors?

(Oh, and Sting, you need not worry. We read you loud and clear. We’ll have those two cases of wine sent right over to the Green Room!)

In case you missed it on Saturday, the Press Democrat brought news of the demise of edgy Wine X magazine. After ten years, hipster publisher (and friend of Roshambo Winery) Daryl Roberts has finally called it quits. Our pirate hats go off to Daryl for his decade of dedication to briging wine to a younger crowd. And for all of you who missed out on the fun, here’s a story he wrote a few years back about our Wine Hero.

If you’ve ever read the very first Roshamblog post, then you probably know Scott Keneally as an attention-starved writer desperately clawing for fame, even if it means being spotlighted as People Magazine’s “Sexiest Bedwetter.” Maybe my Mom and Dad made me feel too smart and special as a child, or perhaps I’m the byproduct of an era when Time Magazine declares me to be the “Person of the Year,” but I have banked on the notion that my life is fascinating or interesting or funny enough to read about, talk about, watch and follow. Was I the only one in the theater seething with envy during “The Truman Show?”

Well, as crazy and deluded and humility-challenged as I may be, there are some blokes who think that the life we are all living here at Roshambo is nifty enough to document for global broadcast. We are still a ways away from signing any deal, but there’s a decent chance this television series will materialize. And if it does and airs in the summer of ’08, I suppose I will have achieved some of that fame that I’ve been shamelessly angling for ever since I wrote Ronald Reagan about my Presidential dreams back in ‘84. After all, your beloved Roshambuddies will be in the hearts and homes of millions of folks spanning 160 countries and 37 languages.

Whooohoooo! Right?
Well, not so much anymore.

After spending something like eight straight hours watching an eight minute pilot that the film crew cut, I’ve quickly discovered that having two or three cameras trained on me at any particular moment, capturing my every action or comment from all sides is NOT good for my psyche. In fact, after watching some of the early footage I have gnawed my nails into bloody stubs. It’s not what I did or said that was so unnerving, it’s how I looked while doing and saying. Like the low angle shots that make me look like a talking double chin. Or the profile shots with my head hunched forward like a Neanderthal and my schnoz stretched clear across the screen. Nothing speaks the truth like High Definition video and I am buckling under the burden of Vanity.

Even without seeing today’s footage I’m already the kind of neurotic mess who drives Naomi nuts by weighing himself three times a day and checking his gut after each meal. In fact, if you’ve ever visited a public restroom and walked in on a guy yanking up his shirt up rotating in front of the mirror like a rotisserie chicken, well, that was probably me. Or if you’ve ever seen someone dumping ice water on his French fries to avoid engorging, well, that might have been me too.

I can’t imagine how I could ever BE this insecure. Especially when I have friends like Patrick, a novelist with the hots for hyperbole, who recently informed me that from the side view, I looked “a lot like a chicken, with the spiky hair, long beak, and that soft chin that just falls into a wattle.” Or especially when I have a girlfriend like Naomi, who sometimes cups my chest with her hands, then her own, and says, “Yup, your moobs are definitely bigger than my boobs.”

I suppose the real challenge as I face the prospect of a Roshambo show will be in finally embracing the physical and psychotic ugliness that dogs me in wake and in sleep. I need to drop the whip that cracks me to the scale every few hours. And probably Unsubscribe to those dreadful gossip rags. Because no matter how far, fast and often I run, I’m never going to be Brad Pitt pretty. And even if I were, I would probably look clear past the chiseled chest and rippled abs and find something to despise about my thighs. So, many years ago when my mother said, “You know, about that nose of yours, we can have it taken care of,” it’s a wonder that I didn’t go under the knife. Maybe I knew all along that if it weren’t my nose it would be my toes.

If ever there was a (composited) picture that was “So Roshambo,” here it is. It’s from our Winter Wineland weekend, and that Van Gogh looking fellow decked out in his grandfather’s dapper blue suit is our very own (and very single) Isaac Smith. He wears many hats here at Roshambo, but this hat, the one which seemingly gets girls so hot and bothered that they MAKE OUT with one another, well that’s the hat I like best.

A while back, we had a rather grim or dark idea for an art show that showcased the works of the condemned. Roshambo’s “Death Row Art Show” surely would have raised a few eyebrows and likely invoked a fresh batch of hate mail, but eliciting and evoking sharp emotional responses was always part of the Gallery’s mission. Naomi often showcased the works of emerging conceptual artists with somewhat skewed, slanted or prurient perspectives. NOT the wine country water colors that you see on too many walls in our neck of the vines.  And just in case you missed our revolving art shows, I’ll use this blog in the future to spotlight some of the artists we’ve displayed in the past and track their movements.  But in the meanwhile, I’d like to shine a bright light on a recent SF Weekly feature on Death Row Art. Oh, and given the ecclectic crew of nuts, bolts and weirdos that we staff, it should come as no surprise that this story was penned by one of our former tasting room employees, Ella Lawrence.

Here’s a teaser…

Some artists create best in crowded cafes, the burbling noise of city life rolling over their shoulders as they hunch over their work, a forgotten latte cooling beside them; others require complete silence. Some artists work best in huge, wide-open spaces; others prefer to be closed in, no pretty views to divert attention.

Artist William Noguera’s preferred method is to fold a wool blanket on top of an upside-down five-gallon bucket. It supports his large frame as he pushes his mattress to the side. Bent over the bed frame, he lays down layer after layer of dots. From his drafting pen to the 20-by-30-foot Strathmore paper, the ink transforms a blank page to a hyperrealistic photo-image after hundreds of hours of painstaking labor.He has the time to spare.

Four feet wide by 10 feet long, this artist’s working space is utterly free from distractions. Precise scale drawings of it and the artist’s descriptions show that it’s free from pretty much everything except for a bed, a toilet, and a few sketchbooks. Those books contain the vivid dream images Noguera has transmitted from his internal landscape to paper during his 18 years on San Quentin’s Death Row.

Click to read the full story…

Later today, an overseas production crew arrives in Healdsburg to film our Wine Hero (and staff) for a few days. This company is in talks with a major global television network to produce a “fly-on-the-wall documentary” about “a year in the life” of Roshambo. They promise they aren’t looking to craft a “reality” show like the Real World or The Restaurant or any of the others that rely on interviews, tears and manipulated drama. And this is the only reason we would consider such a venture.

Now, if something like this did actually materialize and the Roshambshow is created, it would of course have a tremendous impact on the brand. No longer would we be toiling in (relative) anonymity as the show would air in 160 countries in 37 languages. We’d suddenly have an international platform to showcase our punky attitude and irreverent approach to wine culture, advancing our mission to demystify wine and bring it to the masses. And in a sense, Naomi would probably feel some validation for all the years of blood, sweat and tears she has spent in the creation of her brainchild.

HOWEVER, we do have some major concerns. The most obvious would be in the portrayal of the star (Naomi) and our brand. Even though they assure us this would be an unnarrated documentary, would it surprise anyone if they cut and edited it in a way to create dramatic (and unflattering) storylines? This is, after all, tel-e-vision. But perhaps most daunting is the intrusion into our lives. Cameras following us? For a year? Yikes! We are of the belief that there’s NO amount of press and publicity and brand exposure that can justify compromising our quality of life. And so, I suppose this week will be a good gauge of whether or not we have it in us to stomach the hassle. The hope is that we do and the network likes the pitch reel enough to bite on a series.

Even though we have some issues with Bud Light and their overtly slutty commodification of the noble sport of RPS, I couldn’t help but laugh my ass off at their new Super Bowl commercial. Though the boys from the World RPS didn’t crack a smile, I thought it was quite funny, and further proof that rock, paper, scissors has slammed onto the pop cultural landscape with a thud. Can you spell ‘zietgeist’?

Anyways, if you ask me, it’s only a matter of time before our Rock, Paper, Scissors line of screwcap wine is recognized for what it is - the hippest (and yummiest) damned bottle of red and white grapestuff for under $10.

(P.S. - If you didn’t blink at that earlier spelling then you can’t spell ‘zeitgeist.’ But no worries. I NEVER beat Naomi in Scrabble and I’m supposedly a “writer.”)