You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy™
Silver Patron Tequila.
100% De Agave. Hecho En Mexico, Mi Amigo!
Vegas is one of those places that creates memories. It can also wipe memories from the frontal lobe.
My latest Vegas trip was many things.
A chance to stop drinking tequila, was not one of them.
Our suite had a full on bar. The bar was amply stocked with the finest liquors on the planet.
Representing the Tequila family was Senor Patron.
Compared to Cuervo, the equivalent of battery acid, or rock gut worm swill, like Mezcal, Patron is smooth as a Kobe Bryant jump shot.
By design tequila is aggressive. It’s liquid sand paper sprinkled with cayenne pepper. Tequila is lighter than air, because just when you think you have swallowed it, it tries to come back up.
Tequila is the rare liquor that you often have to swallow twice.
Nothing tastes more like acid indigestion than tequila.
But when consumed correctly, tequila is the universal equalizer. It transforms quiet into loud. It takes ugly and makes it attractive. It lets the meek think they can inherit the Earth.
In Suite 3716 Patron was the spark plug that got the party started.
Each night, a group of friends from different races, different backgrounds, different parts of the country, all had one look on their collective Benetton face. That look? The look of Patron burning its way, scratching its way, clawing its way, down a gullet.
Like swallowing flaming swords, , we did a shot of Patron and then waited for that rush of warmth followed by the rush of something hard to explain.
It’s one part electric jolt, one part kick in the testes.
But for this group, Patron signaled that another night of thump thump thump was about to jump jump jump.
We sat around a table, watching interminable episodes of Sports Center, passing the Patron round and round. One after another we grabbed that little bottle with the bumble bee on the label, and we took our turn taking a gulp and holding on for dear life.
Hecho En Mexico.
While most of us took our turn with little more than a shake and a wince, one among us was deeply affected.
Let’s call him Cluck.
To Cluck, drinking Patron was like guzzling broken glass.
On Saturday, I was opening up a new box of Patron and I saw him recoil in horror.
“Don’t do it man. Put it away. Please don’t pull it out.”
I laughed as I sliced open the box and put the bottle on the counter.
“Dude. It’s the rule. We can’t break the rules.”
“I just can’t drink this anymore,” He said, a sense of sadness in his eyes. He stared at that silver bottle like it was a subpoena from an ex wife wanting more alimony.
I smiled.
“Sorry Cluck.”
I cut the plastic wrapping off the top and pulled the cork.
I watched Cluck’s chin drop to his chest. His head was limp like a Gay Pride parade at a strip club.
I could tell the bad memories were swirling in his head. He was a dog and Patron was his master. It had pushed his face in his own mess and told him not to do it again.
Cluck was about to plead with me to hide it under the cabinet, but then the aroma of Patron escaped.
Tequila is a smell that is unique. Pungent like a cactus flower, the invisible calling card of Patron came out of the bottle like Barbara Eden in an I dream of Jeanie episode.
To me, the smell brought back memories of crazy.
But to Cluck, I think the smell reeked of something dark and scary, like that child in the Ring.
Just then another member of our party caught the tequila whiff.
“It’s time to party!” He shouted.
Cluck knew it was too late to hide.
“I don’t think I can do it,” he lamented, half under his breath.
Cluck was a majority of none.
We were going to drink Patron and we were going to do it any second.
I sensed the amplitude of energy in the suite rise as we gathered around the altar of consumption.
I looked for Cluck.
He was packing behind the bar, back and forth, like a gerbil on a wheel.
His head was down, the angst etched across his forehead.
He was making peace with the Tequila gods praying for a single swallow, for an easy digestive after life.
“Come on Cluck, get over here!” someone shouted.
We laughed.
I think Cluck sniffled.
It’s sad to see a man squat to pee. That’s what I was witnessing.
“I don’t think I can do it,” he said, his eyes darting around the room like a suspect about to be sentenced.
“Shut up you P****, and take a drink.”
No regard. No pity. No turning back.
Cluck joined the group and was handed the bottle.
He stared at it as if the anti Christ was dancing a jig on his shoulder.
Cluck drank like a sissy that night. We let that slide. We knew how hard this was for him.
Eventually Patron did what it always does.
It turned Cluck into Captain America, giving him the power, the fortitude to lead our group into the great unknown of another Vegas night.
Stay thirsty my friend.
Life’s Crazy™