One of the surest ways to kill off any blog readership one might have is to quit posting for seven months. I’m sure the dearth of new content here has done the work of the harshest of winters in this part of the worldwide digital vineyard. The cycle of inspiration and desolation of the mind is as inevitable as the change of the seasons, but warmer climes have been much more hospitable for anyone who might have been moderately interested in what I had to say.

I make no promises of regular content this time. With school obligations, a wedding to plan, and occasional co-authorship of another blog my life is much more hectic than the last time I attempted to grow anything here. Although the time appears right to till the earth again and resow the seed of thought, I’m not certain of the outcome. I might eventually grow something capable of yielding a few bottles of table wine, but history says I won’t.

That’s fine. When I originally bought this digital plot I had the idea to build it into some kind of digital obschina, a collective intellectual project that would feature not only my own writings and thoughts, but those of acquaintances, friends and relatives. That vision is more humble now, or at least more realistic. What I have here is a binary hobby farm, something to work on when I’m intellectually engaged. Maybe I’ll occasionally bring a crop to market, but my existence isn’t dependent on it. Instead, I’ll be able to create something small for myself and concentrate on the craftsmanship instead of the constancy. I can put up some supplies to get me by during the lean months, and in the mean time we’ll see how the grapes fare.
If you’re in the neighborhood, you’re welcome to come in for a glass of wine and some biscuits and preserves.

You don’t really have to go very far these days to find some really obnoxious writing. If you subscribe to one of the big national newspapers - say, perhaps, The New York Times - you’ve probably been subjected to some pretty atrocious critical reviews. Maybe I really am that much of a snob to be nitpicking this, but, more often than not, I find reviews - particularly those of literary, gastronomic, or musical subjects - generally overblown, hackneyed works written by people who probably have no idea what they’re talking about. As a matter of fact, you can dispense with the reviews altogether. A French literary professor has already published a book that will help you sound like an expert literary critic without even knowing what you’re talking about.

I was driving back from school to visit my parents last month and happened to tune in to “Whad’ya Know” as I pulled out of Madison. Joe Queenan was a guest in the first hour, and he spent nearly twenty minutes riffing on “astonishing” literature. If you’ve got the time (and RealPlayer), take the opportunity to listen to that section of the show. I think you’ll be amazed at Queenan’s quick wit and virtuosic improvisation. You can stream that portion of the show via the archive for 27 January 2007. Select “Part A” and cue it to about the 9:00 mark. If you know you have RealPlayer, just click here for the stream and cue to nine minutes.

Dating back to my days in culinary school, I couldn’t help but chuckle when reading restaurant and wine reviews. It might just be an opinion derived from my personal breadth of experience, but the foodies seem to be far and away the most prolific offenders. A delectable article condensing what I’m complaining about has already been written, so I’ll merely state that my step-father mentioned to me last weekend that he’d recently read a wine review in a well-respected wine publication that claimed a wine exhibited “hints of tar” in a course of the article.

Now, I understand that the sense of taste is closely linked to the sense of smell, but why anyone would state a wine tasted of tar is beyond me. Licking tar isn’t something I would consider appealing, but Pa told me that a number of the reviews in that article mentioned “tar” as a flavor component. Maybe it was the hot word of the month. Or maybe these people have no idea what they’re talking about.

When I think of the reviewers pounding out these articles, what springs to my mind first is a sort of semi-pro literary Jackson Pollock. Instead of flinging blorps of paint, raspberry preserves, and motor oil at a canvas like Pollock, these absurd abecedarians delve deep into their numerous thesauri and sling random nouns at their articles, waiting to see what sticks and what runs down the page to pool in a sticky puddle at the bottom. Whatever clings to the page makes it through the final editing. The Pollock Method of writing is what gives you notes of tar in wine. Either that, or sections of freeway built through vineyards via eminent domain.

I’ve actually had a solution to the review problem for quite a while, though I’ve kept it under my hat. My friend Rob and I were discussing wine at one point and hit upon the idea of comparing vino to music as a method of imparting a more accurate sense of what a wine actually tastes like. Reading that a wine “is dominated by floral notes” really doesn’t tell me anything because, generally, I don’t eat flowers. But if a reviewer were to tell me that a wine should be consumed in situation appropriate for listening to Nat King Cole sing “Those Lazy-Hazy-Crazy Days of Summer,” well, I’d know what he meant. And even if I didn’t, I could snag the song digitally via various legal and illegal means.

I could be easily induced to try a California Pinot Noir that was the distillation of “Come on, Let’s Go” by Ritchie Valens. If I read a review of a Rioja that was compared to The Gipsy Kings‘ “Trista Pena” I’d probably buy a case. Claim a fresh Patrimonio is akin to Alizée singing “Gourmandises” and I would probably scratch my head and wonder what exactly that was supposed to mean.

Of course, not everyone listens to the same music. Comparing wine to music is as silly as comparing it to flowers if the reader doesn’t know a particular artist or song. Fortunately, CDs, or even DVDs, are so cheap these days that a pre-recorded or even interactive guide could easily be compiled. Along with a description of the wine the customer gets an mp3 of the song best suited to that wine. Make the guide a website with a subscription base after a year or so of sales and such an enterprise could turn a nice little profit while being much more intuitive than searching out tobacco aftertones in a bottle of Beaujolais. The guide could even be tailored to the musical tastes of various audiences, such as The Classical Wine Companion or Wine Country! (and Western). Marketing opportunities abound.

I’ve wanted to head such a project for as long as I’ve had the idea, but I don’t possess the knowledge of wine, or the budget (or liver function) to attain such a knowledge. I’d like to see it take off, but of course I’d also like to see it take the form I’ve envisioned.

You see, I don’t want to waste the three comparisons I’ve already hit upon.

For that dynamite mid-price Chenin Blanc that should be drunk early, I’ve selected Chet Baker and “You Make Me Feel So Young.”

The expensive Cabernet Sauvignon centerpiece of a good wine collection would rate The Alan Parsons Project performing “Old and Wise.

And that bottle of Bordeaux that is aging gracefully in the cellar, and though it isn’t quite ready to drink is ever-so-tempting to uncork? Easy. Guns N’ Roses and “Patience.”

If I tried hard enough, I could even work in Sinatra and “It Was a Very Good Year.” But I thought I should spare you.

Note to faithful readers: I’m sorry for my unannounced hiatus from Carriage Return. Between moving and starting school again I’ve been a bit more overwhelmed than anticipated. A few readers have been kind enough to prod me back toward posting, and while I can’t say I will be able to adopt a schedule just yet, I will be making attempts to update with greater reliability. If my buddy Stick over at Stick and Ball Guy was able to sustain a blog while studying for the bar exam, I sure should be capable of keeping things going around here as an undergrad.

New content will be up soon.

I’m really happy to be leaving California.  Really happy.  The last few months have been extremely stressful, both in terms of my professional and personal lives.  The work schedule of the past two months was intense, with two field operations lumped on top of my out-processing responsibilities.

Combined with work was the application and admissions process for school next semester.   I would come back to my room in the barracks after work, already feeling defeated and worn down from the day, and I would sit down at my computer and plunk out some part of my application - my personal statement, my personal/extra-curricular activities history, my application itself - in an effort to turn in my Wisconsin two weeks early (as I would be in the field when the application was actually due).

I also had a commitment to my newspaper writing, something that I entered into eagerly and still enjoy.  As a result of my various diversions, this site has suffered.  The number of daily visitors has dropped by half, and it’s not the fault of the readership.  I’ve stepped away from the commitment I made here to attend to other things which were a higher priority (some to me, some to other individuals).

I’m not going away, at least as long as my cable Internet provider (I hope someone at Cox is reading this) doesn’t fail me.  In the past month I’ve had to call the company on two separate occasions because my connection has dropped completely.  Being an IT guy by trade, I can generally fix anything that is wrong on my end (nothing), but of course to get any kind of service on the other end I have to navigate through an annoying automated troubleshooting system, repeating “I WANT TO SPEAK TO A REPRESENTATIVE” countless times before, finally, I’m hot-routed to a customer “service” rep.

I can count how many times Cox’s rep has been helpful or able to provide me with service on the outstretched fingers of a clenched fist.  Tonight was such an occasion.  At about 8:30 I attempted to do some research for a few of the changes I’m planning for this site.  I begin to fret when, five minutes later, nothing has loaded in my browser.  I disconnect the modem to refresh the connection, but when it comes back on the link light is dead.

I call Cox.

The automated system begins the tired routine, asking me to verify that my modem is unable to connect, then telling me to do everything I have already done to attempt to connect to the service.  Not in the mood for tomfoolery, I continually request a representative until I am finally put on hold for the next available individual.

Travis, the rep, can’t help me.  We try refreshing everything, both on his end, and mine.  Travis informs me that he’s going to dispatch a tech to come look everything over, which I agree is a good idea.  After all, there just might be something wrong with Cox’s equipment in the server closet of the barracks.

Then Travis gives me the bad news - the tech won’t be here until sometime Saturday.  I inform him in no uncertain terms that I find the wait completely unacceptable, especially in light of my previous problem this month.  Travis informs me that this is, in fact, the third time I’ve had to call Cox in three months, and that if I call their billing department tomorrow I can request my service be prorated to absorb the lost time.

I thank Travis for his suggestion, but inform him I’d rather have someone come fix the service I’m paying for already.  When Travis says it’s very unlikely that I’ll see someone before Saturday (but he’ll put me in the standby line, just in case!) I request to speak to the manager.  Surely a manager can do something.

The wait on hold for the supervisor takes 25 minutes.  By the time Manager Brad announces his presence on the line I’m fuming.  No service for nearly an hour.  Waiting until Saturday for the cable company to fix their problem.  Quite the way to run the business.

I tell Manager Brad all my problems.  The polar ice caps are melting, the North Koreans have The Bomb, and oh, my Internet service is down.  I don’t need help with fixing the air pollution in LA, but I could use a little help connecting to the Web.  You know, Brad, in case any of the schools I applied to send me important emails or I decide I want to update my blog for once in a blue moon.

Brad says that, as a mighty manager for Cox, he can’t do anything.  But he can make sure I’m on standby.  I tell him that I’m already on standby.
Brad: Is there anything else I can do for you tonight, sir?

Me: Well, Brad, have you been able to do anything for me so far?

Brad:  Umm…no…

Me:  Then it would seem pretty pointless for me to expect you to be able to do anything else, right?

Brad:  Well…

Me:  It seems to me, Brad, that the usefulness of this conversation has expired.

Brad:  Well, sir, if you feel that way I’d like to thank yo-

Me: *click*

I’m not proud of giving Manager Brad a little verbal abuse, but it seems to me that Travis is getting the short end of the stick.  The stress of the last two months is slowly ebbing, but little things seem to be continually working their way under my skin and annoying me like the cake crumbs inside the rhinoceros’ skin.

I’m slowly working my way back here.  Two posts this week, two last week, hopefully one this weekend.  I have interesting things going on - packing up belongings, burning CDs for the long drive back, reading Zamyatin - things you might like to read about.

Things I’m going to start writing about again (again).