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OP-ED: Carlo Rossi Was My Uncle. Please Stop Talking About His Jugs.


Photo by Lea Eisenstein

Penn students know full well that this school has truly earned its title as the "Social Ivy." The large, vibrant city of Philadelphia surrounds us on all sides, making downtowns, BYOs, and off-campus soirées the alcoholic and drug-laced glue that binds our student body together. It's something I love and appreciate about Penn. It's the reason I have friends and lovers to call my own.

But there's one aspect of our campus drinking culture that troubles me because it hits close to home. And I'm sick and tired of looking the other way every time someone asks for a cup of wine from a bulk-sized bottle.

Because Carlo Rossi was my uncle. And we, as responsible and woke Penn students, need to stop talking about his jugs.

Some may say "But I don't mean anything derogatory when I text the GroupMe 'Somebody bring the jugs' before a BYO." And to that, I say, "The road to hell is paved with good intentions." Indeed, perhaps you don't intend to objectify my cherished Uncle Carlo and his voluminous crocks of sweet elixir—what he used to call vino in his home country of bella italia—but to me, it sounds like you only care about the jugs, and not the real, human man behind the name.

So the next time you chug a four-liter decanter from Carlo Rossi's extensive collection of authentic wines, think twice before you drunkenly exclaim, "Slap the jug!"

Because when you do, you're not talking about some nameless, faceless, off-brand jungle juice; you are suckling the teat of my Great Uncle Carlo and the fermented fruits of his labor. And I will stand no longer for unwarranted comments about his buxom physique.