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In This Issue

Weekly Column

 Come join the editor Jennifer Barnick as she searches for the Champagne Life....

click for daily column

Sparkling Wine

Feature Speaking with Fred Frank about his father Willy Frank
Sparkling Wine Review Real champagnes with real terroir by John Euclid
Arts & Sciences What's the deal with sulfites in wine and why the warning? byTimothy Smith, PhD
Industry News ...a brief survey of sparkling wine news

First Person

HelloGoodbye Cassandra H. Katsiaficas says hello and Wayne Scheer says goodbye
Passion ForumSuzie Sims-Fletcher shares the joy blue fake fur and PB&Js
Under the Goldlight—True Tales of Drinking ChampagneDave Brown sets out to see if lightning can strike twice
Life Before Ten The sneaky mean bully exposed by Rose Tolstoy

Art & Literature

The Marcia Reed Virtual Gallery The paintings of Marcia Reed

Drinker's Poetry Deborah M. Priestly and Robert Slattery

Fiction "The Woman" by La Vonne Schoneman

TRUE new non-fiction by J. Blake Gordon

Film in ReviewAnna Luciano reviews a current release; Fritz Voigt ponders a current DVD rental, and David Sirois gives us a great movie that won't be checked out


Other Goodies

Founder's Page Greeting from Dr. Timothy Smith
Letters to the Editor click for full list
Photo Gallery Click for Pics



     The woman walked lightly along the dusty, dirt alley
that led behind the premises.  Her low cut, white, cotton
blouse set off her dark skin.  Her jeans had been washed so
often they covered her like melted butter poured over a

     She had a plan.  To get the key to the grounds and find
that blackmail letter!  She knew exactly how...  had been
born with the skill...  perhaps all the women of her family,
possibly, all the women of Mexico, shared this secret skill.


     The caretaker swept the hard-packed dirt yard, gathered
bits of leaves and twigs fallen from the date palms and the
scarlet bougainvillea which made a canopy stretched across
the front of the office of El Jefe, his boss.  He deposited
the debris in a battered wheelbarrow where the remains of his
lunch (furnished by the company) resided also.  A roll,
called a biscosa, had been split and filled with chilies and
sliced beef (the chilies made him break wind and when he did
it burned).  He eyed the discarded roll, diverted momentarily
by the local slang for a woman's private part vulgarly
described by the same name, BISCOSA, due to the unique shape
of the roll.  It was made to be opened down the middle.
Shaking his head he exchanged the broom for a rake.  Not very
lucky for him, the only time he got a biscosa, it made him fart.

     He was referred to as El Viejo (the old one) even though
he was but fifty-five years of age.  Secretly, he was afraid
that his juices had all dried up since his wife died a decade
ago.  Time had weathered his face and turned his hair gray.
The strong, young burro of his youth had given way to a bent,
old man reduced to working at a menial job for a giant
corporation in order to subsist.  As he raked, he mused about
the woman he'd seen emerging from El Jefe's office earlier
that day.


     Like a wily, kitten she could insinuate herself between
the face of any man and the object she desired (in this case
the lock on the fence gate), purring, pleading, refusing to
show her claws...

     The chain link fence separating them was too high to
scale.  Twelve feet tall, topped with razor wire.  As she'd
been shown the exit that afternoon she'd been careful to note

     He stopped raking.

"Don't hide your face behind that dark curtain of hair," the
old gardener pleaded silently, "lift your eyes to me... "

     She snuggled her body against the fence, tossed back her
hair and lifted liquid, brown eyes full of promise.

     She pressed her lush body tighter against the fence and
the top button of her blouse came unfastened exposing the
warm fullness of her tanned breasts.

     The old man caught his breath as he stared at them.
"Twin mangoes," he thought, imagining twin handfuls.
Indeed, he could almost taste them.

     His hands itched with anticipation as he drew nearer the
fence, forgetting the rake, which fell to the ground.

     "Toss me the key," she wheedled.

     He fumbled for the heavy key ring at his waist.

     "Throw it over the fence... then I can return tonight,
after dark, when we will be alone."

     Still he hesitated, fearing the censure of his employer,
the EquisOil Company.

     "Hurry, hurry... "

     Mesmerized, he pulled the chain from his pocket,
searched with fumbling fingers, found the key and threw it
over the fence.

     She caught the key neatly with one small hand.  The
other hand still clung to the fence.  Her skin-tight, blue
jeans outlined, no emphasized! every line of her femininity
from seam to straining seam.  The perfectly formed pelvis
thrust against the fence fanned the dying embers of the old
man's imagination.  He wet his dry lips with his tongue.

     "Hasta Luego."

     Night fell softly behind her going... nothing was left
except the faint, musky, woman-scent lingering upon the night


     For three nights he waited for the woman to return.  He
finally made up a story about losing the key down the drain
of the new black toilet he'd just finishing installing for El
Jefe.  He knew El Jefe wouldn't want the floor torn up again,
so he got off with a severe scolding.  Within a week he'd
convinced himself that's what really happened.  After all, he
had been the victim of a cruel joke played upon an old man by
a tempting woman.  Best not to admit to that.  Forget it.
Yes, forget it.






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