enthalpy

Tuesday, December 20, 2005


Something about the fabled alcohol abuse of tortured writers made me pause in the bleat today. "The Tragic Writer's choice of weapons" should be a brand name of whiskey, I think.
Fitzgerald never talked about the dark three o-clock in the afternoon of the soul, which is odd, since he’s from these parts. There’s probably a tour built around his old haunts, including permanent spray paint around an irregular spot where he threw up a gutload of Hamm’s. (He was a beer drunk towards the end in his LA days, which is somehow less glamorously self-destructive than whiskey, the Tragic Writer’s choice of weapon, or Vodka, “For When Flavor Somehow Gets In the Way.”)
Nothing says "tortured writer" like drinking your weight in cheap bourbon.

By the way, don't bother reading the rest of the column. It ends with a silly, prosaic dialog where he justifies the government's absolute authority to wiretap anyone's phone line, so long as it's not his.



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