Getting ready for Cinco de fucking Mayo? It’s one of my favorite holidays for bad decisions. This year you might make a couple shitty judgment calls but don’t start with your margarita mix. You see how many goddamn ingredients are in those fuckers? Red 40? WHATTHEFUCKISTHAT? Artificial flavors? GO FUCK YOURSELF. Don’t be serving up disrespectful drinks.
STRAWBERRY GRAPEFRUIT MARGARITA
¾ cup tequila (optional, but who are you kidding?)
¾ cup grapefruit juice (about 1 grapefruit)
¼ cup lime juice (about 3 limes)
1 cup frozen strawberries (whole strawberries are really fucking hard to measure. It was about 8 medium sized strawberries but extra won’t hurt a thing)
1 ½ cups ice
Blend that shit up.
If your fruit wasn’t super sweet you might need to add a little something extra like a teaspoon or two of whateverthefuck sweetener you like to use is fine. Personally I like agave but you can use honey or sugar. Serve this up immediately.
The real value of a real education: has almost nothing to do with knowledge and everything to do with simple awareness. Awareness of what is so real and essential, so hidden in plain sight all around us, all the time that we have to keep reminding ourselves, over and over, this is water.
“My friends – fair-haired friends especially – had told me stories about China. They talked of train trips in the 80s during which they met people who had never seen a white person, and those people spent much of the trip trying to hold their hands and stroke their hair. I figured: I didn’t look Chinese, but I also wasn’t blonde.
Apparently a beard counted. My personal bubble had never been squeezed as much as it was in 2010, traveling through Sichuan. I couldn’t walk far through any market before someone would grab and tug my beard, and lift my sleeves to see my tattoos. I wasn’t too bothered, because often next I would be offered a pint of barley whiskey, sweet, like it comes in China.
So – when I spent a day traveling to the Yunnan Province, an English-speaking driver took it to the next level. He grabbed my beard, called me “Yakman”, and gave me the shotgun seat. He taught me the Tibetan words for “I love you! Let’s fuck!” and encouraged me to yell it at every girl the bus passed (I abstained). When we passed the many yaks in the Himalayan foothills, he shouted: “Look, your mother! Look, your sister!” No one I had seen for weeks had a beard close to as long as mine. I could have been offended, but I couldn’t stop laughing”
