NADER, I’M MAD AT’ YA!

Okay, so now I’m good and pissed off. You, me, even David Letterman, we’ve all spend months hammering away at George (smirking) Bush, and finally, in the last few weeks, we’ve seen some cracks appear. But just as we were started really to wonder if the light at the end of the tunnel was actually hope, and not the on-rushing train of neo-Con dictatorship, Ralph Nader lurches in this weekend, demanding everyone's attention like an ignorant drunken whore at an otherwise perfectly pleasant party. Fuck you, Ralph, you opportunistic, egomaniacal, shithead. Your vote syphoning got is into this mess. You’ve already had quite enough of our attention this year when millions of us sent you emails telling you, quite politely, to stay the fuck out of the race. But you didn’t, and now we hear you will announce whether you’re going to run for president on Meet the Press tomorrow, and I have to get up at fucking 8AM on a Sunday to see what you think you’re doing. I swear, if you run, I’m coming after you with pliers and a length of old Harley Davidson timing chain, because, pal, if you fuck up the 2004 election and put Bush back in the White House, you deserved the hurt being put on you -- with extreme prejudice. If for no other reason than, in the current political climate, no one in their right mind is going to hand you the cash to run EXCEPT THE FUCKING BUSH CAMPAIGN ITSELF!

Which makes nothing more than a treacherous bought-and-paid-for creature of the Bush White House, with less ethics than a 10th street crackhead rentboy. Go away Ralph, before we do something you’ll regret. This isn’t finished by a long shot, but I’ll wait until you announce before getting any more serious. You are enough, right now, to drive me to drink, and you wouldn’t like me after I’ve been drinking.

AND TALKING OF DRINK

In last year's LA CityBeat Xmas gift guide I wrote.

For the bohemian who has tried everything, what better than genuine Czechoslovakian absinthe? The forbidden green goddess of demimonde decadence is a legendary aphrodisiac, a subtle and colorful hallucinogen, and only quasi-legal. Plus the romantic imbibing ritual – involving sugar, ice, and a naked flame – is super-seasonal. Better hurry, though. Online absinthe suppliers, La Boheme, promise a ten-business day delivery to the US, but the stuff does have to be ordered in the UK and the shipped from the Czech Republic. (We tested an order, though, and all worked as advertized.) Compared to other exotic liquor, absinthe isn’t cheap, but measured by hallucinogen prices, it’s a steal. A sample starter of 140 ml., in a highly keepable stainless steel flask, is $34.99, while the 70 cl. Absinthe King Gold could fuel an orgy at $199.99. But before you dim the lights and break out the satin and lace, also order one of the decorative absinthe preparation spoons that start at $12.99, and find some elegant, goth-green, tumbler-sized glasses for real belle epoch class. (All orders come with history and full instructions.)

Go to www.laboheme.uk.com

Well, Fidicen took my advice and here’s his report...

A large cylindrical package arrived at the office yesterday and despite an angel on my shoulder loudly advising I wait until nigh on the weekend, by 9:15 p.m. I was dimming the lights, chilling filtered water, and pulling out the sugar cubes. At approximately 9:25 I toasted my cat as well as the visage of Arthur Rimbaud gazing down at us from a lovely French import edition of original manuscript facsimiles perched above the poetry section of my library. I'd read about the first taste being difficult and had to laugh knowingly as the beclouded green fluid met my palate like a sweet and dear friend. Admittedly, subsequent tastes were occasionally odd, but my mostly empty stomache can assume the blame there. I took to it like a doctor to medicine. I felt light effects quickly, knew something was afoot, and noted a desire for only upbeat and happy music and thoughts. A couple more rounds in and a rising exuberance began to take hold, I upped the volume on the stereo and gleefully took a call from a journalist friend and found my thoughts lucid and animated and being received as such.
After quaffing another, the confines of my apartment would not suffice. With but little concern for my obligations on the morrow, I put on my coat and dashed up to Sunset in search of after midnight adventure. Definitely a social drink; I don't expect to drink alone on this one again. Of course there was a special breed gulping down alcohol on a Tuesday night nearing closing time following a three day weekend in quaint old Hollywood. I made fast friends and promptly got myself in a heck of a condition, overflowing with lust and verging on drunken madness. Easy to understand why those old poet and painter bastards got themselves in a knot. Jesus Z Christ, what's cutting off an ear when you're on a jag with this lady?? Of course I saw no indication that it would provide creativity, or even augment it--assumed that was mostly the mythmaking of spastic hack writers with a hard on for fin de siecle Europa. Then again, perhaps more mysteries await me. Mostly I noted a cocainesque thing of nasty confidence building, quickening of thoughts, and bodily unabashedness. Quite the devilish dash to add to an 140 proof concoction.

Bartender, another.

More carousing, they generously offered me a free Newcastle Brown, and finally forced me out around 2:20 upon which I happily bounced homeward and jumped into the building's jacuzzi. For good or for ill, not a soul seemed to be around. God knows when I went to sleep but I do know about waking. Talk about a world class hangover. That's got to be the true danger with this stuff. Interestingly, the effects were clearly still upon me, a lucidity and positivity, gentler under the duress of my newer condition. Somehow I got to work, even though my brain really is preferring not to function. I found myself not wanting to hassle with bothers like other cars and rules of the road. Outdoor oxygen seemed very necessary, and continues to beckon as I report to you from the confines of a dreadful, stuffy location near LAX. Not sure what else will help but the lunch truck is due any minute and I will be customizing a burrito with a hefty compliment of the hottest chilis they have. Purge we must. Usually the world's intrigues find me, but the Green Goddess has been fickle despite my heavy acquaintance since the age of 15 with the likes of Rimbaud, Baudelaire, Verlaine, Hemingway, and those wacky impressionists and cubists. Naturally I've never even seen Moulin Rouge, but perhaps I might now.

Obviously more research is necessary.

CRYPTIQUE – It’s not easy being green.

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COMMERCIAL
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