sybaritesauvage   Uncorking a Mind Twisted by Wine, Food, Love & Remembrance

It was a warm night in 1979 and JoAnn had not yet broken my heart.  

Returning to my apartment, we approached a certain intersection in the commercial district populated by strip malls, not far from home base.  That evening, as we had done many times before, we decided to avoid the traffic by cutting across through the back of the local Sears parking lot.  On the back side of the building there were no other cars or people or lights.  As we rounded the corner of the building, there it was. 

Hovering.  Were my eyes deceiving me?  Perhaps.

JoAnn’s brown eyes widened .  She was artistic, pretty, buxom, had a quick smile, a wicked laugh and she was my girl.  I was crazy over her.  But she was also quite nuts (as I would realize later).  Still, she was there at the beginning of my wine journey.  Fizzy sweet Cold Duck, Riuniti on Ice, Lancers Rose, Fratelli Lambrusco and Mateus Rose– the Pantheon of 1970’s starter wines.  The stuff that Hangovers are made of.  We did them all.  But not a drop had passed through our lips that evening.

I can only say that it looked like a disk, But given our side view, it appeared cigar-shaped as well.   It had two rows of multicolored lights ringing the circumference of the craft.  Each row of lights flashing in a sequence that made it seems as if the lights were moving, pinball machine like– in opposite directions. 

I was fascinated by the flashing lights and the fact that this thing was finally there– a gift for me.  For as long as I remember, I had stared up at the skies hoping to see one.  One birthday, I received a telescope that my geeky self used to scour the heavens for signs of other life and good shots of the surface of the moon when I tired of searching.  Looking toward the heavens– Alpha Centauri, the Andromeda Galaxy, etc.– I wondered.

So here it was. 

I stopped the car.  And we both just stared.  The thing, which had been stationary, then languidly shifted course toward our direction. 

“It’s coming this way,” I said, my heart starting to race. 

Yes, I had always wanted to see one of these.  Just not quite so close.  Taking evasive action, I gunned the 305 cubic inch small block 8 cylinder engine of my gold and black 1970 Camaro, hoping it would not stall– as it was prone to do.

The car delivered and we made our way to the exit ramp on the other side of the building. 

There were more cars and people in the front of the Sears store where it was a bit busier.  I pulled to the top of the ramp and got out of the car.  The craft, now hovering over the spot that we had just vacated did not seem to pose such a menace from this distance.  An orange Volkswagen Beetle pulled up behind my car.  I approached the owner of the Beetle:

“Do you see that thing over there?” 

“Yes,” he deadpanned. 

“It looks like a UFO!” 

“Yes,” again replied Senor Zombie. 

Ohhh-Kay… this conversation, if you want to call it that, was not going very far.  Now, the part that should have come sooner– I’m beginning to freak out a bit.  I return to my car where JoAnn is waiting and we pull out of the parking lot.  Within minutes we are in my bedroom back in the safety of my apartment.  I remember that JoAnn and I, two ultra-horny college kids, did what ultra-horny college kids do.  I remember laying on my back, mid-coitus, and looking out the window from the shadows of the bed in that darkened room.  Not quite out of body.  Not quite in the body, either.  And feeling someone was watching.  Covered in sweat, winded and exhausted we collapsed into a heap of panting flesh, all legs and arms splayed akimbo.  This was different from any other time before.  We were also drenched in an eerie self-consciousness.  As I replay the events in my head, I wonder what really happened that night.  I know that somehow I drove her back home and made it back to my house, though I skipped the back of the Sears parking lot on that return trip. 

As I mentioned, JoAnn broke my heart, which she did in spectacular fashion, with a meanness that even today I find indescribable.  However, in 1983, we did reconnect for a quick visit while I was in grad school (nothing conjugal, I made sure of that).  I made a point of asking her if she remembered that night.  She did.  “It really did happen?”  “Yes, the reply reminiscent of Senor Zombie.  And, strangely, that is all that we said to each other about that night.  It’s as if we couldn’t even bring ourselves to recollect the details.  Those details, as best as I can recall, you now have read. 

Was I dreaming?  Are these just the ramblings of an overactive imagination?   What is it that separates reality from what you see?  Can you really tell the difference?  And what is reality for that matter?  Is reality the repetition of acts that we perform everyday– working, kissing your loved one, having that morning cup of tea, as I am doing now?  So everything else that falls outside of that– which is to say, a singular event, is subject to the question: Did that really happen? Did I truly experience that? 

It may just be a matter of perspective.  Children live in the realm of imagination.  Dying people too, I think.  Maybe some of us turn to writing, drawing or photography to document our personal histories and make imagination a little bit more tangible.  To give proof of what we think happened.

“That’s me on the table, Mommy.”

Now I’m not saying that I was abducted by aliens.  But if I was, this would make it to the list of bottles I could have beforehand. 

Triton Castilla y Leon Tempranillo 2008 ($13.50).  Big, Dark and Brooding, it comes upon you quickly.  With an earthiness that is subdued by persistent black cherry fruit that is itself complemented by a layer of some herbal notes, this has an in your face kind of near-meaty quality to it.  Concluding with some very satisfying tannins.  Not a wine for everyday.  And despite its name (Triton, a sea god and son of Poseidon), if you’re in the mood for something that is grounded in the masculine qualities of Earth, this may be your wine.  Rated ***

The little guy in the photo at the top of this page doesn’t have a guilty bone in his body.  Neither should you.  No-Guilt Wednesday (NGW) is not about compromising on quality.  It’s all about drinking good wine that does not break the bank ($15 or less), eating good food and of course, it’s about sharing with the ones you love.