The sad part is not how young these wines are. The sad part is not the annual trotting out of PN and rosé as the wine to serve with today’s complex thanksgiving dinners and how non-PN those PN’s have to be to function like that because if anyone brought a real PN nobody would drink it. The sad part is not that all these wines are mechanically picked, nor how the once-pillar Martini cab has settled into embarrassing dretch in 30 years. The sad part is not how shockingly yummy that Wm. Hill cab is–but in an aunt-Carol-fills-her-glass-to-the-point-of-only-getting-2-pours-per-bottle and missing all your not-subtle hints at how rude that is way. The sad part is not how Frei and Gallo Sig were amazing little hand-made pet ventures in 1990 and are now made by some Davis grad in a lab-coat who hangs out at brewpubs. No, the sad part is 99% of readers will ignore the three words at the very top and miss a blatant opportunity to grasp how centralized today’s labels are.