8 Shots Of Absinthe

(The following report originally appeared on Mike The Pod in December of 2007, and was written in the Pod studio.)

Around this time either last year or the year before, I acquired four bottles of absinthe from a company overseas in a republic that may no longer exist. My confusion over the exact year will make more sense after you’ve read this; also I’m too lazy to look up the dates on the pictures. Rest assured however, that what you are about to read is, embarrassingly, the truth.

I’d always wanted to try absinthe, after enjoying the work of so many followers of the “green devil” since childhood. Van Gogh? Picasso? Hemingway? You got it. In fact, it’s often speculated that absinthe made Vinny the unbearable beast he was in his final days, and shit, Hemingway became so determined to kill himself late in life that he was restrained from doddering into a whizzing plane propeller. Some claim absinthe has hallucinogenic properties, but nobody disputes that it tastes like bile hot from Satan’s fucking spleen.

When we first started on the JA production, I would bring out the absinthe as a “party bonus” after a long week of recording. Granted, we never drank it correctly by diluting it with water. This was irrelevant, however, since we’d excoriated our esophageal sphincters years prior, while competing to see who could take the most Scoville units without a trip to the ER. I put a slotted spoon over a glass, laid a sugar cube on it, poured the absinthe over the sugar, and then lit the cube. After a few moments of blue flame, I would dunk it into the glass, where it would light the top of the absinthe as it dissolved. Blow the fire out, steel yourself, and down the shot. First one’s the worst. Well, they’re all bad, honestly.

Of all who partook of The Pod’s green devil-teat, only a few were able to stomach more than a shot. One of these few is a friend whom I have footage of, on his birthday, when we had to make him drink warm water so he’d finally puke… after nearly 30 shots of keg beer. (I’ve been meaning to post the video for ages.) Another one of the few is me. Not because I’m tough, or can drink. Because I’m just incredibly stupid.

So it was that, early in the “Absinthe Period”, there came a night where a friend who shall remain nameless and myself decided to see exactly where the limit was. We were incited particularly to do this after seeing a photo of our sound guy, Pickles, rocked off his nut after four shots of absinthe in Amsterdam. Actually, I doubt there was any planning involved in this incident. My friend and I have often engaged in binges for scientific purpose, especially when it involves drinking. We kept a camera and camcorder nearby to record evidence, which in hindsight was a brilliant idea, being that no memory of the night exists, in anyone’s noggin.

Below is the aftermath. By studying the videotape, I learned that my friend and I had each consumed eight shots of undiluted absinthe. I don’t recall any hallucinations, but then again I don’t recall anything at all, other than the realization that I’d never been fucked up like that before.

I don’t know if we had been listening to “Angel Dust” by Faith No More before I destroyed it. Admittedly it is among my least favorite FNM discs, but surely there was one song on it that made it worth keeping. Perhaps I realized that after I snapped it to pieces with my bare hands; notice the noble scotch-tape attempt.

We had been playing this Cypress Hill rip, which I think was called “Til Death Do Us Part”. It sucked ass, so I took it out of the player and set it afire. CDs don’t burn like you think they would. Quick and bright, though.

CD destruction was apparently a theme of the evening, which ebbed after I smashed the case to my Zoot Allures CD. Looks like I wised up by that point; all I busted was the case (it had also been dutifully taped back together, I just didn’t take a pic of it).

It’s anybody’s guess what offended me enough in this issue of Time to shred it by rolling it up and shoving it into the garbage disposal. I did use this as a talking point when I called Time to explain why I didn’t want their magazine. It stopped coming soon after that.

I was also serious as fuck about this letter I wrote to Marvel Comics; I managed to get their correct address (although Stan no longer works there). I’d wager I was riled up about Marvel hiring Pat Lee. Fuck you, Pat Lee. You’re a piece of shit. Change your fucking name to Liefeld, you unscrupulous hack motherfucker.

Here is the back. I have no idea.

Equally unintelligible, here is a poem I wrote in longhand on the inside of a pizza box (we dared to prepare food, as well). I strung it onto the kitchen cabinets with galvanized steel wire. This all made perfect sense at the time.

Lastly, although we had nothing to do with it, the gutter came down sometime in the night. It’s hard to tell from the picture, but we’re talking a dangling 30-foot aluminum gutter from the ’20s. Imagine yourself putting the pieces of the night together, trying to get a handle on what’s happened and what you did, and then you notice a 30-foot rust missile is swaying from your roof. It was a highlight, to be sure.

I’ve also embedded a video, to make it clear we’re not talking about a typical level of drunk here. I was boldface annihilated, yet I still was able to make somewhat rational decisions. If you enjoy the taste of anise drops and you like to have blackouts, you might give absinthe a try. Also, despite the high proof, I never puked, and I only came close when the flavor of the shit started to overwhelm me now and again. It’s like concentrated black licorice (there’s a ‘Pup song that’s heavily influenced by absinthe and this fact, guess the title), and it burns like fire, thanks to the octane.