It's hard not to write about politics these days, despite having effortlessly avoided doing so my entire life. While admitting that readers of these pages probably land all over the political spectrum, it would be hard for any of you to deny that politicians everywhere have been especially provocative as of late. But I'll resist the urge to weigh in and will instead share a story from my weekend.

One evening this week I was completely spellbound by the beauty of a wine that came my way. It was a mature bottle from a producer whose lofty reputation I had long felt was unjustified, and the experience changed my mind by blowing it. But I've been writing too much about wine lately and would rather share another example of the disarmingly auspicious impact of unexpected profundity.

It's well known that the wine industry is in crisis, and for myriad reasons of varying complexity. As a noun, "wine” seems to be stigmatically burdened in many ways, and I wonder if it's time to take everything that's beautiful about this inimitable gift from nature and start over with a new name. 

Immediacy is an increasingly essential virtue to consumers of every stripe. When you're introduced to a band that you find appealing, you can have their entire discography downloaded onto your phone within a matter of minutes. If you find yourself in need of a new pair of shoes, you can arrange to have them placed upon your doorstep within 24 hours. Whether through happenstance or pandering, many wines accommodate these expectations of immediacy—and this isn't necessarily a bad thing. 

As Earth continues its aloof encircling of the sun, it's increasingly difficult for the human passengers to keep up with the pace of life. The faultlessly frail are rendered physically or mentally broken by the world, and even the robust and boisterous amongst us—including those who suspiciously exhibit no confusion in regard to the stark irrationality of existence—seem to have to fight to find their place. Perhaps none of us really have a place anymore. 

2024 is decidedly not an average vintage, and it contains a multiplicity of stories. I would surmise that if somebody visited 150 different estates this year, they'd hear 150 distinct reports.

It's a reality of life. Assuming a lack of independent wealth, and unless one is willing to forfeit virtually all of the conventions of modern existence in the Western world, one must seek gainful employment. Since none of my innumerable passions doubled as opportunities to earn even the most basic living, this depressing fact daunted me for many years. It wasn't until I was in my mid-twenties that the disillusionment gave way to a glimmer of hope when a burgeoning interest of mine seemed to coincide with an accessible “industry”.