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So, I’m mixin’ this bad boy one night, and this dude—total loudmouth—goes, “What’s THAT?!” Like I’m servin’ him swamp water. Pissed me off, man! I’m like, “Chill, it’s escort, ya caveman!” It’s smooth, sneaky strong—like No-Face creepin’ up, offerin’ gold but knockin’ ya flat. Ain’t no basic bitch drink, nah. Little known fact: back in the ‘30s, some swanky London bar whipped it up for high rollers. Prolly escorts—the people kind—sippin’ it too, winkin’ at rich fools.

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Personal, ha, lemme share; one time, in Astoria, I got so messed up on work stress, found myself poppin' into a meditation gig on 21st Street near 36th Ave—ya never know, random chance saves yer day sometimes! Crazy, huh? And, oh, some spots are pure treasure: that tiny Italian cafe on Court Sq, the aroma so good it nearly made me cry happy tears.

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