Chronic Negress

Mainly because of the day to day at Dying Media, the Negress has been ensorcelled by Nine Inch Nails of late. Lyrics such as “I’d rather die than give you control” just seem to fit the current mood. The publication is finding its way to readers on a  regular basis, but the atmosphere is godawful. People are clustered in whispered conversations, speculating about how many have accepted the buyout package, how many have decided to hang in and who’s being told they need to go. Stories abound of people being called into the editor in chief’s office and being told their future, like he’s some kind of wicked gypsy with a gleaming set of balls. The publisher and his toupee, as weird as one of those little teacup dogs, has yelled at people in meetings and lawyered up when asked how many have decided to flee the premises. No good can come of this.

In short, a road trip was in order.  So the Negress went up to Connecticut to reconnect with one of her newest friends, her Hockey Domestic Partner, who now lives in Vermont with something of a domestic partner of his own. He joined the Negress and one of the Negress’ best friends from college so we could all head over to one of the Indian casinos in CT to see NIN. After dinner at Michael Jordan’s Steakhouse where we brought a Cline Syrah instead of a Zinfandel (how unAmerican), we ambled over to the arena. The opening act, Deerhunter, was even more forgettable than the eponymous film. My HDP plied me with beers so I was feeling full and happy when Trent Reznor and his band of sorcerers took the stage. Reznor had been having voice problems bad enough that show less than a week before this one was postponed, but he was dead game to make the experience memorable. Songs from the newest album, The Slip, sounded fierce and pointed. It’s been pointed out that Reznor, now sober sporting serious guns from gym work, has moved from being a peeved youngster to a 43 year old who’s  rage is now turned outward to a world that’s a mess. The Negress’ world is kind of mess right now so she could seriously relate. Reznor’s song, “Hurt,” was cool, quiet and sad in direct contrast to “Letting You” and other tunes from “The Slip.” He rasped out a greeting to the audience while dazzling video shrouded the band. Unlike the artists who use video to enlarge their stage presence, Reznor is more about using the video to enhance a song’s mood and structure.  It was quite a show, and even the Negress’ college friend, whose musical world stopped somewhere near her 19th birthday, agreed it was good. My HDP left for Vermont that morning after a breakfast of surprising tasty multigrain waffles with Vermont maple syrup. I napped while my pal got some work done. We stopped for lunch on the way to visit my pal’s horse so I finished my falafel salad and napped. I also spent a little bit of time deleting the voluminous Tweets from my Twitter “Friends.” Napping was more productive.

We were off dinner at a local spa with a decent wine list. My pal is red-wine averse so I recall a pleasant Viognier but forgot to write it down. More better wine comes later. We spent the next day buying fresh spices and yarn.

I came back to the somewhat terrifying prospect of studying for the WSET Advanced Certificated final exam. I did go over all of the material they suggested we revisit, but for reasons that hardly bear explaining, skipped much of the section on Madeira. One of our short answer questions was centered on Madeira. Ouch. I felt pretty good about the rest of the test but I will not know the results for eight weeks.

To ease some of that stress, not to mention the unabating madness at Dying Media, It was back to happier times on the North Fork. I realize that I had revisited the Merlots of Bedell for WBW # 48. I first understood the idea of terroir after having one. After glass upon glass of fuzzy, immature California Merlot, I had my Helen Keller moment. Since I needed clarity and vision, I popped bottles of the 2005 and 2006 and one of the 2005 reserve. What fruity beauty. I think I could not have drunk them at a more perfect time in their development. Lush, silken and complicated finishes that lingered like a kiss from a lover, not the stopwatch holding length that pops up in poorly written tasting notes. My oh my. Back to the real world, where there ain’t no going back.