Chronic Negress

I cannot keep track of each corporate sponsor that has hung a name on the Meadowlands Arena, so the Negress will just go with a location. The advanced test had come and gone, and Dying Media was still awash in neurosis with various people feeling compelled to share various bits of dubious bits of information with the Negress. The Negress is trying to look forward to the next thing and focus on lifelong learning and getting away from every sad little moment that’s being thrust in her direction. The Negress is often praised for joy in the face of the unfathomable. Many people around her are stomping all over that joy. Bring out the Zinfandel and the mask of indifference. Also, bring back Nine Inch Nails. We fell hard for the Zabaco Ranch Dry Creek Valley 2004 reserve Zinfandel because it was big without being oafish. Zinfandel is more slubbed silk than, say, a satiny, sassy fat Cabernet. It’s that untamed quality that slays the Negress just about every time.

Our latest encounter with Nine Inch Nails found us meandering around orange cones and being thankful for the handicap hang-tag the Negress has for the next three years. After a series of missed connections with a co-worker whose name rhymes with “crazy,” we sold our extra ticket at a loss. Where was our Hockey Domestic Partner?  Well, a multitude of expenses related to his crippled Mazda kept in safely in Vermont. I was slightly heartbroken. MY HDP is one of my favorite friends and I feel blessed to have found someone I like quite a bit in the turbid waters of middle age. I also know he would have loved the show as much as I did.

The run-up was bit annoying. I ended up selling the face value $75 ticket for $30 and missed the opening act. I heard the last notes as I was getting seated. Based on those notes, they were more engaging than Deerhunter.  However, once the show started, a pair of millenials, feeling cocksure and whatnot, stood up and stayed up, blocking my view of the stage. The Negress has a pair of titanium knees. After bopping, writhing and being delighted to dance through two songs, I had to sit down.  The sound was much better here than at the Indian casino in CT, and Trent had regained most of his vocal powers. “Hurt” was a singalong here, which was moving and annoying simultaneously.  The songs from “The Slip” were fierce and felt more like old friends than before (I’ve been refreshing while I write this). I moved to the front row of the seats above the floor and enjoyed my unimpeded view, a little more dancing and a few slimy high fives from a drunken enthusiast. I did no beer this time (day before payday and the Negress is trying to retire some debts before fleeing Dying Media), but was thoroughly intoxicated by the show. Barack’s  historic speech the next night paled (get it?) by comparison. Also, the Negress’ mom is in the gloaming of Alzheimer’s, and the event seemed robbed of meaning knowing she wasn’t connected to it.

Oh yeah. Once home from the Meadowlands with ringing ears and a T-shirt, I drank the last of the Zabaco Zinfandel. Ain’t that America little pink houses and all.