July 1, 2043: No More Tattoos, No More Natural Wine

An unexpected, but inevitable, missive, from Last Gen
(translation by devinchi’s Submarine)

It’s so odd to be writing this note to people who are probably already dead, if it weren’t for the fact that we found a back door in the time-space continuum. So, while most of you have less life in you than the tartrates at the bottom of a barrel of Krug (Boomers) or just plain shaggin-old (X’ers and Millennials), from where I transmit this communiqué, I know this is reaching most of you while you are alive, and still very much full of yourselves.

I am a mid-century somm. Well, we don’t call it that anymore, but the word we use would be meaningless to you (and devinchi can’t translate it anyway), just like the word sommelier is to us in 2043. I was born on July 1, 2018, and am turning ⓴❺ today. Happy birthday to me, ĿǦĕĕ. My device just snapped a holo of me and sent it to my 3 million followers. Instantly I received a holo-cake back with 3 million candles on it. My personal assistant, ĂĬ, “blew” out the candles for me. A good time was had by all. So they tell me.

My Đǽńȕȟ (devinchi note: cannot translate) mates asked me what I wanted to do that evening. Not virtually, but in the flesh. How quaint (devinchi note: quaint - not really the word, but the closest equi-verb come-at-able). One of them said there’s an old-chum down by the pier who does old-style ink. You know, the kind that never fades away. I don’t think there’s enough pale ale in Portland to ever get me down there for that.

Another of my mates wants to throw me a party with all kinds of wine. There’s a lab down on NW 16th under the old 405 that will make anything we want, while we wait. They thought it’d be fun to get a slew of Georgian, French and Italian natty’s made. How so very superannuated. I think I’ll take a pass on that one too.

It might come as a surprise to all you (how did you call yourselves, wine geeks?) but the things you were into - we’re not. I AR-scanned my dead grandfather, before we cryo’d him out to M31, and really did not get why he covered his body in the ink brands of other people and things. Tattoos were a thing 30 years ago? So was orange wine? Yeah, everyone living in New York, they were living la vita naturale, alright. Bunch of schtupping hypocrites. Getting a colorful brand on your bum and drinking wine made like it was on The First Day. Γαμώronic (devinchi note: cannot translate). Parading around, protesting and thinking how “epic” you were. Meanwhile, we get our water and our oxygen allocated on a daily level. And have to live, most of the day, in clime-suits, 'cause if we're outside of them for more than two hours, we oxidize quicker than an Arizona Malbec. Thanks a lot, people from the past. Glad you’re all fuckin’ dead.

Wine in mid-21st Century? Thanks to you all, it’s still a luxury for the few on the SpaceX spanz-orbs. That is, the stuff that is made from grapes. There’s no more oak, but after you all pillaged the forest and then decided you didn’t like oak, what did it matter to you? Then you got into tongue searing acid? You ought to see our synth wines. You want -zero dosage? No problem. Craving Silex? We can get it to you in a nano. You missing Nerello Mascalese after Etna blew up and destroyed itself in 2028? Easy – we can make one that will bring Cornelissen’s mortal dregs back from Andromeda – and he will weep with joy. But don’t ask for natty. It makes my personal assistant, ĂĬ, crazy. And you don’t want to see the crā-version ĂĬ. Never-ever.

The deal from here, is we know (and feel) like we are truly the last generation. So, we don’t have time to piss around with making our bodies more colorful. The sear-sun outside will do that in a minute, if we step outside at the wrong time without our clime-suits on, thank you very much Mr. and Mrs. Boom-Gen. And now that most water is brown and tastes like piss, we can’t really relate to your affection for wines made without intervention. I mean, have you looked around the planet lately? No of course not, you’re dead! Some generations have all the luck.

Meanwhile we’re here to pick up the pieces. Well we would if they weren’t so blisteringly hot. How did you all say it – meh? (devinchi note: cannot translate) Yeah – meh to you too (devinchi note: whatever).

So for my 25th birthday my best mate scoured her great-grandfather’s bunker and found us a throwback for the celebration. It was born 50 years – 2-gens – before me. 75 years ago, from 1968. I’ve been told it was a superior year. Hell, it even said so on the label. Yeah – a paper one – how swell!

This wine - with a time-tripping name – Martin Ray – what the hell? Let’s open it and see.

I don’t recognize the first smell – could it be the smell of dirt? Gosh, that’s a first for me. The smell of dirt, before the orb-fires razed most of the tress and scorched the soil. So, that’s what it smelled like? At least that’s what my personal assistant, ĂĬ, is chanting into my earbud.

What else, my trusty coadjutant? Olives? What the hell are olives? Give me something I can relate to, ĂĬ. Just lay down the viz-script for us, will ya? I can’t fig-zig it out… Here goes:

"The Martin Ray Cabernet opened strong with earthy, smoky notes. plenty of fruit, and much more. The wine was different from most California CS's, but we're talking Martin Ray here - the Frank Lloyd Wright of California vintners.

"Through the night, the wine never let up - it was a full steam ahead, onward through the fog kind of wine. In essence, for me, it was time-tripping 101. I lived near Martin Ray in those years as a college student and when the wine was opened it was like letting this genie back in the bottle. I was 17 again, if only in my mind."

I don’t know how he did it but ĂĬ got into the grandfather’s database and scoured it for notes. This appears to be a 'peg of a napkin with hand-writ scrawls on it, maybe from a guest at one of his many opulent end- of-the-world dinner parties. Cool!

So, yeah, no tatts, no nats and yeah, thanks to you all (Boom-Boom’s, G-Xer’s & Me-llinnials), no no-sox days. We now all have to wear SPF100 body-sox, 24/7. You fuckers. But thanks for the wine Gramps. And Martin Ray, wherever you are, thank you, Rusty!

And who in hell was Frank Lloyd Wright?

transmitted and photographed by Alfonso Cevola limited rights reserved On the Wine Trail in Italy

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