I've been all around this great big world, and I've seen all kinds of girls

Spent yesterday hopping from winery to winery, throwing back Pinots and Zinfandels by the dozen. There was this one pristine moment, when we were barrelling down the winding road with all the window's open and a joint going, and everywhere you looked there was just sky and hills rolling in all directions covered with neatly-lined lush vineyards, and behind that small purple mountains, and the sun was so yellow, the air was so soft, everyone was very funny and vulgar and high and pleased with the surroundings, and everything was just fucking great--everything about it screamed run-on sentence with lots of descriptive visuals. I know it's cliche, but hanging around this part of Northern California really gives one the illusion of being amidst a Steinbeck novel, or at least what may once have been one. The way the grapes dangle, bountiful and dark, below the masses of green.