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Earth Mama! The deep, bright whirl of Demeter's Delight pops the buds--and how! By Edward E. Crouse Few times in life can one feel deflowered. By movies, by television, by sex? Please. Any of these can betray or backfire, as all have for me. And since this dipso, nipso column has flown my way for at least one fair issue, I get to choose one of the last reliables, to help nurse the greatest love of all--yes, that's the Muhammad Ali of alcohol, thanks. It's that spud-juicy stealer of dreams, that clear greaser of dream-slides: Vodka. Oh, wait. Editor just told Ed I had to mix it with something. Muhammad, can you come over here a sec? Just a triple sec? So, alright, after all the hip-to-hurt, cruelly intentioned offal one sucks from Venus, how'z about switching your goddess for once, and coupling vodka with a bigger bounty than your heart? You know, that same heart that by this time after Valentine's Day is looking wearier than an unsulphured apricot slice? That one. Giveth back to the earth child, and sail your tattered ship down to the Zodiac Club for Demeter's Delight, selected affected visions of which I'll give now. First sip: Wowsers. Pomegranate juice. Demeter is the protectress of the earth and social order, n'est-ce pas? Viva order, shine my cuffs. I'm back, champ. Second DD: Ali, what the--? Just when I leave, you buzz back in here, jivin' me about learning to love yourself? When d'you change your name to Chopra? Third DD: Crushproof pack of cigarettes turned heart on me and imploded. Now stuck with a Jerry Lewis-Duchamp stairs-descending cigarette. I wonder if the bartender's fingers have to squeeze each pomegranate seed by seed. Got nubs for digits, anyway. Ack, martini glass! I'm damp, champ! . [ San Francisco | MetroActive Central | Archives ]