We were drawn to California in search of ballerinas. It all started with an excited call from our friend John who told us that California ballerinas were plentiful and could not resist the charms of eager Oklahoma boys. He told us we should come out there at once and bring a bus. So naturally we did.

We bought a ’59 Chevrolet school bus for $800, fitted it out with bunk beds, equipped it with an 8-track tape player and installed the best speakers we could afford. As we weren’t for sure what type of music California ballerinas preferred, we laid in a supply of 8-tracks by Jethro Tull, The Rolling Stones, Elton John and Little Richard.

Once everything was ready, the three of us — me, my brother Dave and our buddy Rob — resigned our positions as bartenders at the Red Dog Saloon and headed west.

Unbeknownst to us, we were about to join that countless parade of pioneers, prospectors, Dust Bowl refugees and would-be movie stars who reached California only to see their dreams squashed like the bugs on the windshield of a westbound school bus.

Our search of northern California only yielded the one ballerina and she was taken already. Dave insisted she liked him, but it didn’t look that way to Rob and me. Anyway, even if Dave was right, we couldn’t come up with an equitable way to divide that one little ballerina amongst the three of us. So, we reluctantly admitted defeat and headed our lonely bus back to Oklahoma with nary a single ballerina on board.

On the way home, we stopped off in Arizona to try our hand at being prophets. But that’s a story for another column.

These painful memories came flooding back this week as I returned to northern California to learn something about wine. This is a subject that has baffled me for years. From time to time, friends will urge me to try the latest boutique wine that costs $150 per bottle. To be honest, I can’t distinguish between that stuff and the $12 vintage I usually buy.

Wine snobs tell me I have failed to acquire a discriminating palate. For a while, I entertained this as a possibility. I am, after all, blind in one eye and who knows how the taste buds and binocular vision hook up.

But I’ve always had my suspicions about the palate theory. And my suspicions were borne out this week. With my promise not to disclose his name or label, an honest vintner agreed to reveal the secret of true wine appreciation.

First, price has nothing to do with quality. Some of the finest wines bottled in America can be had for $10. Next, wine is not necessarily better just because it’s older. In fact, wine has a life expectancy. It may hit its peak one year, five years or seven years after it’s bottled. No one can say for sure when a bottle of wine is at its best. After that point, it declines in quality to a point when it becomes really, really expensive vinegar. So the idea that you’re going to keep a cellar full of wine as a legacy for your children is foolish.

Now, here’s the secret. No matter what the snobs tell you, a quality wine is the wine you like — no matter how much it cost, no matter how old it is, no matter who bottled it and no matter the country of origin. When it comes to wine, you’re the only one who’s an expert on what you like. Just remember to stay on your toes when you deal with northern Californians.

So, I learned another lesson in manliness. A manly man’s taste in wine is a matter of his own preference. No matter what the experts say, he thinks for himself.

Now, if you happen to be one of those who insists that the only quality wine that will do is bottled in northern California and sells for $1,200 a case, be my guest. Get on up there and get some. And don’t forget to pick up your ballerina while you’re up there.

Next week, for Halloween, you’ll learn about a murder case that was decided on the testimony of a ghost.

Until then, I’m Hink and I’ll see ya.