The New Yorker, despite its antique, loony brie-and-chardonnay radical chic politics, still has the ability to find writers who can make any subject interesting. Such as wine fraud.
Now we are going for a little ride before the rain comes. The vet seems to have cured the gimp in my usual comfortable ride (a hunter, not a quarter horse), who/which I can compare to the ride of an old BMW 650 cruising bike. Smooth.