Rivers of moonshine, blood in the streets: honey, grab your coat, we're going to Mexico

George Plimpton used to love to tell the story of how he asked the first son of the Aga Khan for money to finance the Paris Review as together they ran from the bulls in Pamplona: "Yes! Yes, I will!" (Read about it here, or here).

Whatever desire I harbored to run with those animals in Spain has been supplanted. I recently learned that the bulls run in Tlacotalpan every year. It's the best news to flip through my virtual transom in a long time.

But unlike Pamplona, where a pack of bulls chases people for a few
minutes down a carefully cordoned-off path, in Tlacotalpan the beasts
are let loose to rampage through the streets for hours as crowds taunt
them.

There's more here to pique my interest than simply a bunch of crazed bulls goring the townsfolk.

The dangers increase after hours of drinking sweet creamy cocktails
called "toritos" ("little bulls") made with local moonshine, sugar,
milk and fruit or peanut flavoring.

The wanton disregard for the safety of, well, everyone and everything is admirable.