¡Mentiroso, mentiroso, pantalones en fuego!  The worst, most blatantly corrupt, anti-American president in American history.  The entire Biden family should be viciously stomped and driven into the sea.  #FJB

N.P.: “The End” – The Raveonettes

Hot damn, dearest reader: it is December!  December is always a busy month on the Gallaway Calendar, but this year especially so.  There are, of course, the Holidays:

12/5 – Krampus Nacht!

12/7 – Pearl Harbor Day

12/21 – Winter Solstice/Longest Night of the Year

12/25 – Christmas

But this year, in addition to the festivities mentioned supra, the entire month of December is a full-court press on the current book proposal.  Unfortunately, I lost the last week of November due to a fight injury that had me laid up for days.  But I’m about healed up from that, and the schedule is as reasonably clear as an adult can make it, so the proverbial sailing should be smooth.

N.P.: “Obsession” – Terminatryx

Watched the Starship and its accoutrements launch into space and then “land” in the sea.  Literally awesome.  Inspirational.  America is back.

But the whole beautiful thing left me feeling like an underachiever.  Not wanting to be outdone on the boldly-going-where-no-man-has-gone-before front, I busted out my absinthe equipment and experimented with that rotten stuff for a while.

A quick update on the absinthe: experiments continue.  We shall procure our absinthe from a very reputable traditional Czech distiller whose process uses wormwood, anise, and fennel, extracting the essential oils from each resulting in a distinct taste and alcohol content that is off the charts.  Great.  Now, how the hell are we going to make it purple?  My first thought was food coloring, but artificial food dyes are about to become official uncool, that idea was quickly axed.  Since I know about as much about how colors work as I do about making booze, I asked by booze tutor what color need to be added to green to make purple, and he answered immediately, “Deep red.”
“How the hell did you know that so fast?”
“Basically, green is make up of yellow and blue,” he said like a smart-ass.  “Adding deep red will help neutralize the yellow component and blend with the blue to create purple.”  I accused him of sorcery and general assholishness.

So fine…red.  What’s a red liquid we can add to this weird Slavic concoction?  My instant answer was maraschino cherry juice.  Because that shit is delicious.  And red.  But it didn’t work.  My experiment involved two drinks.  I prepared the absinthe properly, but adding maraschino cherry juice only turned the cocktail brownish and muddy.  It tasted pretty good: sweet as hell, but it looked like sewer water.  Still, I drank the whole thing and called The Sorcerer and let him know of my failure.  He was still in smart-ass mode:
“Isn’t that stuff bright red? Yeah, that won’t work.  I said deep red.  More like blood than cherries.  Also, it’s not cherry juice at all…that’s formaldehyde.”
Well, I’ve got news for you, smart ass: formaldehyde tastes great!  And don’t cocktails called “Death in the Afternoon” demand the presence of some sort of embalming agent?  Just to keep it real?  Shit yes.  At this point, that first formaldehyde and absinthe drink was really starting to hit me, so I decided to prove everybody wrong.  So I made another drink, and this time, I just kept adding maraschino cherry juice, determined that I could simply overrun the color wheel with brutal and overwhelming force.  The whole ratio of cherry juice to absinthe was so far off kilter when I finally ran out of cherry juice, it was more of a weird syrup than any kind of recognizable libation.  In fact, the whole thing went down in one slug.  It was like drinking snot.

I called the Sorcerer and drunkenly told him of my failed second attempt.

“Dude, you gotta lose the cherry juice.  Forget about it.  It’s too fucking red!  We want deep red.  Like blood.”

“Could we just use actual blood, then?”

After a beat: “Whose blood would you use?”

“I dunno.  Not a person, obviously.  Could we just use cows’ blood?”

After another beat: “Are you really asking me if cows’ blood will work to turn absinthe purple?”

“Well, yeah…I openly admit I don’t know anything about cows’ blood, other than it’s deep red.  That’s what I’m asking…would cows’ blood be ‘deep’ enough?”

I guess the call got disconnected at that point.  He was probably getting in an elevator or something.  Anyway, he texted me a couple of minutes later: “You are to use ONLY pomegranate or cranberry juice.”  Which is a huge problem.  In fact, it’s a non-starter.

You see, I hate cranberry juice.  Pomegranate juice is even worse.  I refuse to drink either one.  And I’ll be damned if I’m going to put my name on or otherwise promote any drink with either of those nasty liquids involved.

At that point in the afternoon, I decided to finish off any open bottles of absinthe and then somnatically reconsider this weird whole deal.

N.P.: “Send In The Drugs” – Andy Prieboy

It was a cold November evening and I should have worn a coat.
I shivered, waiting for the ferry boat
to carry me to you.
Could see you dancing in the harbor lights; your hair an orange flame.
You’d turn away, swing on a crane
always quite the same.
You’d tiptoe halfway across a rooftop, drop headfirst into the river.
You’d stretch out for a helping hand and once again I’d stand there
Not close enough to touch, but I heard you call my name
As you died.
And the ferry boat?  It never did arrive.
~ Edward Ka-Spel

Spent some time getting reacquainted with my old frienemy Absinthe yesterday.  Our relationship has always been a rocky one…almost a love/hate relationship.  The last time we met, which I believe was in Seattle, did not go well.  The result was me saying stuff like, “Never again,” “Fuck this vile and insipid liquid,” et cetera.  But last night was different, mostly because I was with someone who Knows What He’s Doing when it comes to exotic drinks.  After trying a few different styles, we established that my favorite method of absinthe preparation is the Czech or Modern Bohemian method which involves pouring the absinthe into an absinthe glass, laying a special spoon over the glass and placing a sugar cube on the spoon.  Then one pours more absinthe over the sugar cube, soaking it, then lighting the sugar cube on fire.  Let it burn for a minute, then pour a little cold water over the sugar, then dump the remaining sugar into the glass, stir to dissolve, then drink.  That shit is delicious.  The process takes a minute, but is totally worth it.

That was going well enough, but then I asked about cocktails made with absinthe.  Turns out there are many,  but my instant favorite was something called “Death in the Afternoon,” which is probably the coolest name for a cocktail since the “Irish Car Bomb,” or the “Russian Quaalude.”  Death in the Afternoon is basically (if blurry memory serves, and it very well may not) absinthe (prepared in the method mentioned supra) and champagne.

By this point in the night, we were both pretty well oiled, and we were both discussing our plans of conquest in 2025, which, coincidentally, centered around the acquisition of actual Fuck-You Money and subsequent investment opportunities/business ventures, and we came up with A Big Idea: high-octane purple absinthe.  Sure, it’s disruptive as hell, and purists will undoubtedly find the idea of any non-green absinthe apocryphal, but I mentioned Walter White and his blue meth.  Purists no doubt bristled at the idea of blue meth, but after they tried it, the blue meth was the Next Big Thing.  So it shall be for the Drinkers of the Purple Absinthe!

But first things first…the acquisition of Fuck-You Money.  Which for me of course means back to the book, which book is going well even if still behind schedule.

N.P.: “Dance With The Dangerous” – Jesse Billson

Taking a brief break from the book today to wish the legendary Robert Louis Stevenson happy birthday!  Born on November 13, 1850, in Edinburgh, Scotland.  It’s easy to imagine Robert roaming the misty streets, dreaming about pirates and dual personalities….

Stevenson was a literary maverick who brought us adventures that were as thrilling as his life.  He is known, of course for epic works like “Treasure Island,”  the prototypical pirate adventure, which is awesome if you’re a younger reader into swashbuckling (which I once was).  But for the more adult reader, the dark and twisted alleyways of “The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde” might prove more intriguing.  That certainly is the case for college students when I’ve taught this book.  Yes, the story itself is riveting, and the theme of the duality is particularly engaging to 19-year-olds trying to figure out who they are.  The thing that really got them interested in the book was when I told them about how it was written.  Get this: old Bob got a stack of paper, a bunch of inkwells, and a big bottle of cocaine.  As I’m sure my dear reader knows, one received one’s cocaine from one’s physician in liquid form, which liquid you would mix with wine and drink (they may not have had electric light, but they knew How To Live back then).  So RLS sits there drinking his cocaine and scribbling away, hour after hour, and bangs out a draft of the book in three days!  So he immediately goes back to read it, decides it’s crap, and throws it on the fire.  He sits back down, takes a big belt of cocaine and wine, and starts writing again.  Three days later…draft #2 is complete!  And that draft went on to be an absolute classic.

So cheers to Robert Louis Stevenson, a man who lived and wrote at the edge of his own boundaries.  And for doing his best work whilst addled on a 6-day liquid cocaine bender.  Cheers!

Now back to work…some of us don’t have liquid cocaine and wine as fuel.

N.P.: “Werewolves of London” – Adam Sandler

A literary birthday 2-fer today as we celebrate the births of two of the most badass authors ever to grace the page: Fyodor Dostoyevsky and Kurt Vonnegut.  Imagine these two guys in a room together: one with a deep dive into the darkest corners of the human psyche, the other with a satirical scimitar (you like that?  You’re welcome) to slice through society’s bullshit.  Society’s satirical scimitar.  So sexy.  It would be like putting Batman and Deadpool at the same table, ready to hash out the meaning of life over a drink or two.

First up, Dostoyevsky, who rolled onto the scene on November 11, 1821.  This Russian maestro didn’t just write massive tomes; he cracked open the human brain and exposed all the beautiful, ugly mess inside.  His novels, like “Crime and Punishment” and “The Brothers Karamazov,” are a wild ride through morality, redemption, an existential dread.  That said, both books can be unwieldy and daunting.  You would not be blamed for looking at their lengths alone and running for the nearest bar.  So let’s talk about my favorite of his, “Notes from the Underground,” which is basically a philosophical gut-punch.  First published in 1864, it’s often considered one of the first existential novels, delving deep into the mind of its protagonist, known as the “underground man,” who’s as complex and contradictory as they come.  He’s a retired civil servant living in St. Petersburg, grappling with spiraling thoughts about alienation and resentment toward society.  He’s the precursor to the modern anti-hero.

The book is divided into two parts.  The first part, “Underground,” is a monologue where the protagonist presents his philosophy, his disdain for the rationalist and utopian ideas of his time.  He challenges the notion that human behavior can be predicted or controlled by logic or reason, focusing on the irrationality and unpredictability of human nature.

The second part, “Apropos of the Wet Snow,” provides a narrative that illustrates the underground man’s interactions with others, highlighting his social awkwardness and self-destructive tendencies.  The whole thing is amazing.  If you’re ready to stare into the abyss of the human psyche, “Notes from the Underground” is your literary gateway drug.

Now, fast forward a century or so, and we find Kurt Vonnegut being born on November 11, 1922.  Vonnegut’s writing held up a mirror to society and cackled while we all noticed our own absurdity, often for the first time.  With classics like “Slaughterhouse-Five” and Cat’s Cradle,” he masterfully mixed humor with a poignant critique of humanity’s ridiculous escapades.

“Slaughterhouse-Five” follows Billy Pilgrim, an optometrist who becomes “unstuck in time” after being abducted by aliens.  Yep, aliens.  As Billy bounces between moments in his life, including his time as a soldier in World War II and his capture in the firebombing of Dresden, Vonnegut blends science fiction with a hard-hitting antiwar narrative.  If, like me, you have certain psychic itches that can only be scratched by spending long periods of time thinking about time, free will, and destiny, Vonnegut’s your guy.

Cheers to Uncles Fy and Kurt, OG literary badasses.

N.P.: “Wild Flower” – The Cult

Gratitude and respect to all of our veterans and their families!

Today is a day of remembrance in the Dead Poet’s Society for one of my favorites, dear reader.  Arthur Rimbaud  gained full membership into the DPS on November 10, 1891, leaving behind a legacy as vital and reckless as his short-lived career.

To catch our non-English majors up, Arthur Rimbaud was a French poet born on October 20, 1854, in Charleville, France.  He was a prodigious talent, writing some of his most famous works while still in his teens.

In just a few frenetic years, Rimbaud produced a body of work that explored the themes of identity, rebellion, and the subconscious.    Rimbaud’s most notable works include “A Season in Hell” and “Illuminations,” both of which have had a lasting impact on modern literature and inspired countless writers and artists (including yrs. truly).  Two of my favorite lines of Rimbaud’s:

“I believe that I am in hell, therefore I am.” (A Season in Hell)

“I saw that all men live and do not know it.” (The Drunken Boat)

Despite his early success, Rimbaud abandoned poetry altogether by the age of 21, and decided to see the world.  He traveled extensively, venturing to places like Java, Cyprus, and Ethiopia, engaging in various occupations, including trading and exploring.

Arthur was punk rock…audacious and defiant, and over a century later, his words still roar.

Pour some out or raise a glass and drink deeply to our friend and Society Member: Rimbaud!

N.P.: “A Velvet Resurrection” – The Legendary Pink Dots