Emissary Sip

Mike Madigan
Nov 18, 2018 · 5 min read

Home. Sunday. Coffee. By self while wife takes kids to meet another mom and her daughter at place up the street, that jungle gyms/bouncy house/gymnastics-esque building. Usually accompany, and I do have quite the form of fun there. Had to sit this one out. Did some reading yesterday, finally, a little of Bianca Bosker’s book. Didn’t get too far, but did start. The journey of wine life, writing about it. I have no interest in Somm’ pursuit, although at one time while working at Roth and in other sectors of vino existence and life, writing, it did appeal and call to me. I thought, “How far could I get?…What if I got further than I thought I could?…What if I become a Somm’?” No. I’m just a writer, blogger, someone putting words to his wine experiences and sights even when and especially when not drinking any.

Thanksgiving coming up, matter of day, four away from this one, and I plan on making it a wine event. Should go by my buying spot today at some point, if I can. Set aside budget. To this point, that I’m here at home, I inventory my pursuits going into the year I turn 40. Wine, music, literature, poetry, essay and memoir and nonfiction. ‘Nother reading assignment, re-read Moveable Feast. Found a copy in office. Thank christ, I thought, knowing then and now I don’t have to go out into that glacial garage and look through boxes and stacks of shit re-located after last year’s fire and our displacement in the hotel.

Air quality outside better than yester’, but not what I’d like. Not what anyone would like. 9:23, still early enough where I can get a sprinting movement up on the day itself. Office supply store for external hard drive, do some budgeting, and maybe book store trip. No, hold off on that last one. Have enough reading with Bianca and Papa. Hemingway, how he saw everything in that café at the book’s first impression and then later in the streets, often talking about vin, what wine he’d pair with oysters or whatever else he was drinking. Literature, music especially jazz like what I’m listening to my soul brother Mr. Coltrane. But then I need something a little more mood-molding. I turn station to the Chill/Downtempo already pre-set by the station itself. Massive Attack’s “Exchange”. Speaking of wine, she paints a picture for me of a travel, sipping some red in a small cup in an airport, just having landed and taking a minute to self before heading to hotel. I’m in and on travel of late for speaking at wine businesses and other businesses about the importance of writing in business arenas and principle operations. Even though I’m just now dreaming, I’m assured this is happening from this track. People all around me in transit going from one locale to another, some so eager to get home and see family while others are just on a mission to snag their plane seat. All my passions and studies finally now coming together in a code of amorous coherence.

Sunday coffee home study, giving me this entry or essay, and my own air. Last night waiting for the Chinese takeout down the street, at a restaurant that quite bluntly makes Chinese cuisine with more altitude and effort genuine than any place I’ve ever been, ever ever-ever, I finished drinking the Pinot from… can’t remember, and stood by the door, waiting. I thought of a shop, a wine business of my own as I have in the past, my kids having places their, possibly even their own offices. Ran into a friend yesterday whom I haven’t in years seen. He helps out his father in the numerous haircut locations around the Bay. I was just there getting a haircut, and in he walks, walking past me then reproaching leaning in, “Mike Madigan?” I thought that was him I told him and stood, hugging him and unable to believe he, we, were there chatting, just as calmly and with as much volume and vocal gait as we used to. In the tasting room. We met years ago, nearly ten, at St. Francis. I remember him as a new hire, always having one arm behind his back when pouring and every time holding the bottle by the punt. When my cut was done, I went to the back, into a makeshift office where he told me the recent movements in his story, moving back down here from Oregon with wife and, now, 2 kids, dog. Living in East Bay, and helping his father with the franchise business. Our story, started with wine. All my stories it seems begin and end and re-start with wine.

Why I started “Wine Dharma” last night, or yesterday. Wrote that article on my phone as I was too fucking lazy to take laptop from backpack. Well, know, right now I very much type like an actual writer. But anyway, pardon the tangent, I started this column my last attempt at a consistent column soon to be re-named “vino dharma”, all case lower, as my story is wine. IT, never strays too distant from the tasting room. Do know, I don’t think I’ll ever again be in a tasting room other than my own in a few years, but wine. Wine has me. It is my order and re-ordering of self and certain wines that have me writing like the Riesling I opened last night as a starter wine. Surprised by its song and persistent push of impression and character… her pages and direct speak, speech to me, right there in the kitchen while talking to my babies about what they wanted for dinner and what they wanted to be when they grew up. Jack and Emma, both, at the new table we bought for the living room telling me they were talking business, that they had business and to leave them alone ’cause they are doing business and I’m not invited. Interesting exchange, I thought. Wine was in the room, listening. And demanding I note their words and seat postures paired with that less-than-a-hundred-cases white.


(bottledaux.com, me and wine and thoughts for pages and pages…)

Mike Madigan

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