La Cerveza Cosa Nostra

I ate a Mexican street burrito for lunch. It was from a reputable dealer, I was told, but my stomach tells a different story. It was a careless mistake. And although sickness never struck me, a general menacing has chased my gut all through the afternoon. So I just attempted to invent a cure; a rather strong cocktail, consisting of tequila, mezcal, several other assorted syrupy liqueurs, a splash of lime and some blueberry syrup. Somehow, my stomach is settled. It's magic. It might have been the bag of sweet potato tortilla chips I ate before and during the drinking. Who knows? It was only after I started feeling the warm buzz of intoxication that I realized I hadn't eaten since the bowel-busting burrito, that the drink contained upwards of three shots of alcohol, and I was naked. In science class I learned the rate of alcohol absorption, on an empty stomach, far exceeds a fed one. Feed your head. That's what I say. So does Jefferson Airplane.

Speaking of white rabbits, Holly recommends I eat only carrots this year while at Burning Man. She insists that I am a bunny incarnate, and that I am at my best when sticking to just vegetables and leafy greens. I can't entirely disagree with her; or that sweet, sweet beta carotene. It's worth noting that my vision has always been superb. I have a knack for spotting people way out in the distance, and for reading the small print of far away shampoo bottles while I shit in people's bathrooms. It's a gift, truly. What else? I'm about to leave my apartment, to head to a bar I know that carries a beer I like. Pliny the Elder. I want one. It has been some time since I've had one. I fear it may not play nicely with the cocktail. You see, Pliny is a very hoppy beer, which is fitting, based on my pre-established rabbit-hood, and hops don't play. Someone told me they're in the weed family.

Ha. Makes it sound like a mob syndicate. John Gotti and Vinny Hoppanini.