It’s impossible to get excited about any task unless you’ve some passion to begin with.
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It is a bleak sight to see the many clusters shriveled, dusty, and funereal abandoned on the vines as the leaves turn yellow and drop. They seem more like mourners all dressed in black accompanying the departed to the cemetery.
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This is a tale of two bicycles, both gifts, both with dots. It begins in 2004 or perhaps it was 2005 when I was planning an extended bike tour of New Zealand.
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Almost all forms of Art deal with this basic human need which arises out of our self-conscious awareness of our own mortality.
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But you never hear about binge reading. Maybe nobody is reading. Maybe reading is considered somehow more morally sound so that the tinge of binging does not adhere.
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This past Saturday evening I was sitting around home in jeans and a tee shirt eating pistachios and drinking a Martini when I decided on the spur of the moment to walk downtown and have dinner out.
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Whatever possessed me to begin it was a benign sort of demon I suppose, and I was quickly under its power.
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While much attention is given to the harvest with the short and intense birth pangs of the vintage, I consider blending to be the greatest of the winemaking arts.
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