This weeks edition brought to you by the British Tabloid industry:
Naughty Frenchman Charles Baudelaire, whose surname, while not itself a synonym for high naughtiness, comes so close as to merit a green ribbon for honorable mention. Kicked out of military school, “Bawdy Charlie” wasted no time contracting syphilis in Paris’ seedy Latin Quarter.
Charles “Boudoir” fell in with the wrong crowd: a Femme Fatale known as Jeane Duval. Hashish, opium, and “high” fashion filled his days and nights until mum and pup drew the purse strings tight – with the help of a lawyer.
Good time Charlie turned to writing to keep himself afloat. Critical essays kept him in his “Bawdy-Lair” until he turned turned to poetry. He drew the Ire of the government for his poems about lesbians and vampires – Fifty Shades of Grey one hundred and fifty years too early!
Aaaaaaaaaaaand my head hurts.
Long and short of it, he was a great and glorious debaucher surrounded with enough tales of misdeeds and outrages attributed that fact and fiction blur. What we do know for a fact is that he is dead. Probably of post matricular syphilis (Stay in school kids!) Before achieving death, he set the world of poetry on fire.
Take off early and hit the bar, sneak out of the office to grab a cocktail, or sneak a bottle into the supply closet and salute Charles “Bawdy” Baudelaire. He wrote this:
(From the poem Get Drunk)
“Time to get drunk!
Don’t be martyred slaves of Time,
On wine, virtue, poetry, whatever!”