FIVE THINGS YOU DIDN'T KNOW ABOUT TEQUILA

I'll be honest, the only tequila I like has the name Tila in front of it. No, I'm not a tequila guy and I don't think Buk was either. Be that as it may, the spirit has a bad reputation -- perhaps because some of the boobs who imbibe are lured by its ritualistic methods of consumption and its promise to take them to a higher level of consciousness. In the end, though, they're usually left with a vague recollection of the prior night’s proceedings, wondering who’s in their bed beside them, cotton-mouthed and crusty-eyed.

So alas, 'The Basement' gives you "Five Things you Didn't Know About Tequila."

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BUKOWSKI: A VETERINARIAN??

Check out this video that explores the notion of Bukowski in different professions. While the idea of the vid is pretty humorous, the guy playing Chuck Buk has to be the worst fucking Bukowski ever. I mean, did he even try???



Check out the REAL thing here:

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MR. MANILA FOLDER (FLASH FICTION)

Like most ingenues, she thinks he's not that smart. And a bore to boot. She thinks he's just another manila folder (wait, or is that vanilla?) buried deep within a six drawer filing cabinet. Well, maybe that's so.

But he tells her to open his so-called humdrum file -- pretty thick with substance. But she wouldn't know it. He tries to tell her yet again that people will eventually discover and remember their folders and its contents.

"That sweetheart...," he stresses, "...is when you'll be judged."

Her eyes roll.

All he can think is, "Ah, the lost potential..."

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WOULD YOU PAY $70 FOR A CAN 'O BEER?

It's in the Queen's cellar; and the maker says it has traces of vanilla and curry leaf with hints of honey and passionfruit. Sound like one of those pompous descriptions for a luxury wine? It's not - it's an Aussie beer. Fosters no less...

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BOWLING FOR BREWSKIS (and BACON)

The Four B's ... Bukowski, bacon, beer and bourban, Man does this nugget ever have Bukowski's name written all over it. What happens when a bowling alley opens next to a brewery? While it may not be entirely clear, bacon is probably involved. Bourban, too. Lots of it. Read all about it.

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THE MEN BEHIND YOUR FAVORITE BOOZE

This one is too good not to share. You know their names. You drink their hooch. The following men exploited society's desire for booze - thank God - and built empires from the vine and barrel. Check it out

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POE MOVIE TO START FILMING: 'THE RAVEN'

This comes comes courtesy of Slashfilm. What’s next for "V for Vendetta" director James McTeigue is currently casting a period thriller titled "The Raven," a fictionalized account of the final five “mysterious” days of Edgar Allan Poe’s life. Apparently the famous writer joins the hunt for a serial killer whose murders are inspired by his stories.

Says the director: “It’s like the poem, 'The Raven,' itself, crossed with 'Se7en.' It should be pretty cool. The script is really good and everyone responds to it really well. I’m in the middle of casting.”

The screenplay is written by Hannah Shakespeare (who wrote the 2005 drama Loverboy, and was a story editor on Bionic Woman and Ghost Whisperer) and Ben Livingston. Machinist/Session 9 director Brad Anderson had been previously developing the project.


The real death of Poe was also mysterious. The writer was discovered on the streets of Baltimore in great distress and in need of “immediate assistance.” He was wearing someone else’s clothes and repeating the name “Reynolds”. He died shortly after in hospital, never able to explain what had happened.

Sounds creepy and chilling. We can't wait. Oh, and someone please for the love of God, snag Robert Downey, Jr. to play Poe.

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• Robert Downey Still Lobbying For Edgar Allan Poe (cinemablend.com)

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THE PIPE DREAMERS (flash fiction)

He met her on the highway.

She was sitting Indian-style on the side of her beat-to-crap Pontiac Fiero wishing she could find the spare, wishing she had AAA and wishing that someone would just drive by.

He was on his way to Tinseltown to write for the pictures and she was going to Vegas to become a full time poker player. By the time he managed to actually find the spare (which was in the front of the car) she knew that he was an interesting one.

And sure, they had about 17 interesting months before they went through what couples normally go through.

As he slammed the door, he swore he'd never call her again but 98 miles out of Reno he dialed their number.

And so he met her on the highway - again. Under the same street lamp.

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OH NO ... KNOB CREEK SHORTAGE

Fans of Knob Creek bourbon may find their favorite whiskey in short supply this summer as the brand's bottle warehouses near Clermont, Ky., are empty and the next batch of aged whiskey won't be ready until November.

Bourbon experts say the looming shortage is somewhat unusual, although brands such as Knob Creek, which is aged for nine years, are more susceptible because their distillers must predict demand far in advance.

"It's very difficult to forecast out nine-year demand," said Kelly Doss, senior director of U.S. bourbon and whiskey at Beam Global Spirits & Wine, which makes Knob Creek. "We can only sell what we can bottle and ship."

To read the rest of the story, click HERE.

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• Knob Creek: Quality Over Quantity (paulisakson.typepad.com)

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ME??? DON DRAPER????

While it's far from the world of Chuck Buk's Skid Row, check out these pretty nifty retro radio commercials I wrote. They're in the vein of those pulpy radio serials of the 30s and 40s. I wrote them for my buddy Stephen Lewis who started O-Hi, an ad agency in California. So, here's me channeling my inner Don Draper. I hope you enjoy. Click HERE to hear them (scroll down on the page).

BTW, if you don't know who Don Draper is, click HERE...

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A HAPPY AND SAD DAY

Despite it being a sad day in the entertainment world (I still can't belive MJ is gone forever), it was also my wedding anniversary. Two years ago, I got hitched in Sin City on 7 7 7 and was lucky enough to have a pic snapped by an Associated press shutterbug.


Read all about the crazy day HERE.

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YOU'LL BE MISSED

I sit here numb on a Friday night, late, staring at TV images of a legend gone forever. This generation's last mania-inducing legend.

Mad genius and oddball eccentric he was part Howard Hughes, part Elvis, part Mickey Mouse and that's what made him, him.

Scandals aside, my adolescence and to a large degree, even my early adulthood was consumed by his essence.

I wasn't alone. There wasn't a tucked away corner of the world where people didn't know him.

Need proof? He broke the internet when he died. Imagine that.

He's suddenly and unexpectedly gone now and I, like, the rest of the world will miss him dearly.

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LAYOVER IN AN AIRPORT LOUNGE (poem)

LAYOVER IN AN AIRPORT LOUNGE
I was at the airport recently
when I saddled up to a gentleman
in the lounge.
People were smoking.
She brought me my usual in this
most unusual of places.
At least for me.
It had been years since I was in
an airport lounge alone and I
couldn't help my body language from
advertising it.

My plane wasn't in for at
least an hour and I had
enough time to kill before
the pre-flight Valium, so
I glanced at the TV
and thanked the Lord
next week's impending
hurricane would be arriving
just about the time I'd be mowing
my lawn safely 1000 miles away.

As I stared at the local anchor
I admired her teeth and face.
They jived.

The guy two seats down must've
been on my wavelength because
he pointed at the screen and said
to me, "Now that's a doll..."
I nodded and tried to size the
guy up, two drinks in.

He was wearing a three piece suit
and I found that quite odd
since no one dresses for travel
anymore and furthermore, it was
a fucking three piece suit.
Who wears those? As I was inspecting
him for a pocket watch and monocle,
he asked me what my poison was.

Raising the glass, I answered
him and he raised his eyebrows
with approval.

His name was Rick or Rob or
something short and manly and
we chatted about our work.
I told him that I was asked to
speak at some conference I had
no business speaking at.
I told him I bluffed my way
through and they all bought it.

As he checked his watch, he seemed
to listen to a distant,
muffled voice through some
godforsaken airport speaker.

When I asked where he was off to,
he stopped and whispered in
my ear, "Like I'd tell you..."

Stupefied, I ordered my third drink.

Chomping on ice, I watched him
walk to his gate and wondered
how I could ruin that flight.
A second later I was looking
for a payphone.

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THE POWER OF A SINATRA ZIPPO (poem)

I remember my old Sinatra Zippo
that I picked it up on one of the Vegas
trips that seem now like a figmant.

For years to come, Frankie would
keep me company at the watering
holes and help me look cool
when one of the cupcakes needed a light.

He'd stare at me, smiling,
half-embarassed that I placed him
next to my sweaty Miller Light.
It beckoned me to order a Jack.
He was right. I did him the favor.

Through the years I've come to
understand that it takes a particular
kind of man to do certain things
like wear leather;
sip whiskey;
construct the perfect tie knot;
look without getting noticed;
and yes, work a Zippo.

One night after one too much
petrol, I left without Frank.
The next night I went back
but 'Ol Blue Eyes was gone.
I felt like one of the dames
he'd pat on rear after a day,
month or a year of hey-hey.

I managed to track down the
same Zippo online but it
just wasn't the same.
Frank was gone.
His work was over.
Someone else needed the cool.

I knew now how to sip whiskey.

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