beneath me like stops on a zoetrope wheel. I looked out the window of the plane and felt the plastic airline cup flex in my hand. The first sip of bourbon burned in a thrilling way. I watched a Wes Anderson movie in the dark. I’d been thinking about this bourbon on ice for the past few hours as I turned in my rental car and trudged through two different airports. I wanted a real drink. But just one. One and a half ounces a day max. That’s it for me now. Oh how the mighty have fallen! My doctor Mac told me I’d come to the end of excess. I was about to become a fat diabetic, and there’s no such thing as old, fat diabetics. Mac’s medical advice was simple: Eliminate sugar and bread, which meant pizza—thin
