Wine writers love to find new ways of expressing themselves, in the hope that a few of their readers will actually leave the comfort of their favorite chair in order to share in a bottle of the joy.

Wine X magazine and Karen MacNeil, author of "The Wine Bible," both love to compare wines to people. My collaborator, Bonnie Walker, and I have done it, too. A particularly pugnacious syrah could remind us of Sean Penn while a Burgundy could have the earthy grace of Isabella Rossellini.

That style of metaphor works most of the time, though it probably shouldn't be applied to everybody. It doesn't work, say, with anybody who ever dated or was married to Cher. The thought of Sonny Bono wines (a little short on flavor), Gregg Allman wines (it'll have you singing the blues) or Gene Simmons wines (too long on the tongue) makes one want to switch to beer.

Other comparisons can be equally odious, so woefully wrongheaded they cause jaws to drop in amazement. Here are some families of metaphors that do nothing to communicate wine's elusive beauty:

"Chardonnay is the semi-colon of wines, often used and often used improperly. ..."

Grammar as a wine metaphor - it's about as exciting as drinking in an English textbook. We'd hate to think what comparisons either dangling participles or colons would prompt.

"A rose as regal as a pair of Manolo Blahnik shoes ..."

Fashion don'ts are as bad as wine don'ts. "Wine should not taste like shoes to begin with," a friend said recently. The same goes for fashion analogies of any sort. Image what kind of wine would conjure comparisons with high waters and pocket protectors. Then again, don't.

"This reminds me of Band Aids ..."

That comment was actually made during the judging of a wine competition. You better believe that particular wine went home empty-handed. Who wants to drink something medicinal in the first place, much less something that conveys the unmistakable odor that the plastic and adhesive in bandages conveys?

"It tastes like a kitty litter box ..."

When I tasted my first sauvignon blanc, I thought something was wrong with the glass. I was told that the smell, which reminded me of my cat after he drank too much water, was highly desirable. It wasn't, apparently, as new trellising techniques have changed the character of sauvignon blanc considerably for the better.

So why do we do this? MacNeil offers an answer using an analogy non-exercisers would hate: "A complex wine almost defies you to describe it. Yet just as the pain of a sore muscle feels good after exercise, the frustratingly undefinable nature of a complex wine heightens its gratification." And gratification is why we drink wine, isn't it?