The Deserted Bandwagon

Author: MATT KUNZWEILER

Over the years Carlo Rossi - the world's most beloved jug of wine - has convinced me to pull some outstandingly humiliating stunts. He's whispered sweet-nothings into my ear and massaged away my inhibitions until I've been midair between my trampoline and hot tub, moments away from suffering a bruise of the most embarrassing size, color and location. Carlo loves adventure, occasionally at my own expense. And that doesn't change the fact that he's my wingman.

But Carlo hates Pub Night. And it's not just because of the random dude from my 9 a.m. class who invariably slaps me on the shoulder and yells, "Can you believe it, man? Free Labatt!" Carlo hates Pub Night because it's plagued by another and more threatening manifestation of awkwardness: hippie dancing.

Hippie dancers, you are upsetting me and my friend, Carlo. I realize you feel liberated by driving eight hours to a jam band concert, loosening the waistband on your fannypack and wiggling your body and arms like a small child who has just downed four adult servings of Sudafed. But if you want to feel liberated, do so on your own time, in seclusion. Just know that Carlo needs an exciting venue for his patented tom foolery - and Pub Night is lame enough as it is. It simply can't sustain your deathblow of weirdness.

Then again, hippie dancing isn't nearly as disappointing as raving, a fad which (thanks to the slow hand of karma) is finally on the way out. One time Carlo and I accidentally ended up at a rave. Pointing to the ranks of dancing drug test dummies, some raver girl yelled into my ear, "This warehouse is their chapel. The pyramid of speakers is their alter. And those standing closest to the alter are the most spiritual, beautiful people you will ever meet." Carlo was not a happy camper.

But how can you dislike Carlo? - with his indefatigable sense of adventure, his complicated sense of humor, his endearing surliness. Admit it, he has a dynamic personality. And at one point in time haven't we all wondered…if Carlo Rossi could talk, what would he say? Well he can speak. I've heard him. After a dud of a weekend, Carlo (what a character!) once said to me the following:

"Sure, drink me dry and don't recycle me. You think I like that kind of treatment? - that kind of abuse? Of course I don't. That's just not the ideal us. Remember The Giving Tree? You and me are kinda like the kid and the tree, respectively. Write a book about that. You fancy yourself a writer, huh? Well that, my friend, is your big story right there. The Giving Rossi - wait, no, Travels with Carlo - agh, we'll work on the title. But hold on a second - why write a kiddie book when you can write a historical fiction thriller? You gotta think about the market. What's hot right now? Stories with big revelations, that's what. And your big twist at the end - are you ready for this? - I was the wine at the Last Supper. Carlo Rossi is the blood of Christ. Boom. What do you think of that? Move over, Dan Brown, you picked the wrong Italian to write about. By the time the ink dries, everyone will be reading The Carlo Rossi Code on the airplane while drinking the eponymous Chablis in flight. Cross-marketing. Sell, sell, sell. And what are they all reading six months later? De-coding The Carlo Rossi Code, written by - wait for it - you. Once again, boom. We'll split the profits 60/40 - in favor of Carlo. Nah, I'm just kidding, you take the 60."