(no subject)
A passage that spoke to the weirdo in me:
"I remember all those who had succumbed to the allure of the Green Fairy: among them, Toulouse-Lautrec, who carried absinthe around Montmartre cabarets in a hollow cane; and Alfred Jarry, the playwright who dyed his face and hands green, toted pistols on his absinthe binges, and died at the age of 34. With the opaline, nerve-damaging muse in hand,
I drink to squandered talent and beautiful corpses.
But I'm really drinking to danger--and to the grateful realization that, in this world in which people are increasingly protected from themselves, there are still places left where we are free to choose our own poison."