I went to Cage (its latest incarnation as a Mexican fine dining establishment) to check out their quality tequila. And after last week’s hot mess, I was a bit apprehensive about carrying out my editorial duties sans vomit. Their PR, Claudia, a fellow polyglot from Mexico City who’s lived in Paris and South Korea, showed me their collection of exotic bottles. “These are premium tequilas, 100 percent agave, which means no throwing up, no hangover,” Claudia reassured me. “Of course, if you do more than six... then... I can’t guarantee anything,” she added. Chef Oscar (formerly at Izote) told me that there’s no need for limes, which are just used to kill the throat burn of cheap college crap. Apparently, tequila’s just like Champagne, in that the agave-based spirit has to be made within the area around the city of Tequila. Otherwise, it can’t be labeled as tequila. It would then be mezcal, which used to be a poor man’s tequila, but is now otherwise thoroughly yuppified. They usually put a little worm in there for that extra je-ne-sais-quoi. I savored the aged Don Julio reposado and a Patrón from a snifter glass, then two types of mezcal, including the Gusano Rojo (“red worm.”) And after a Mexican beer and five shot glasses of agave spirit on an empty stomach, I was giggling like a schoolgirl. “Come back with your food writer and try the dishes!” she invited. I said muchas gracias, and walked out, intoxicated, yet completely awake and alert, like I was ON DRUGS. No nausea. It was a novel experience, and it was only 7:30pm. I decided to text EVERYONE as I catwalked down Hollywood. “OMG i hve bn tryin tequilas since 6; am drunk as fuck.” I wanted to throw my hands up in the air, and wave them like you just don’t care. But alas, NOBODY wanted to go pull venomous shapes with me on an empty dance floor. None of my friends wanted to be a clubbing whore with me at 8pm, Thursday. Speaking of whores, ladies, you don’t have to all dress up like them on Halloween. Hey, what are the working girls in Wan Chai going to wear that night then? They dress like that every day. My ideal would be transforming myself into Lady Gaga bleeding magnificently at the VMAs, but I don’t think I can pull off that richesse in a week’s time as my Haus of Joha and I have been procrastinating (oh so many events, oh so little ME time). Oh and I loved how this manatee wrote in to tell me to STFU about Gaga, but our new columnist The Straight Man wrote about her concert in his debut column last week. Who has the last laugh now, you unconstructive wench? B, puh-lease!