I found myself in Darwin years back and noticed mango daiquiri’s littering menus. My Drunk Pynchon antennae did certainly twitch, but I let the opportunity drift by, concerned perhaps with weirding everyone out taking a bunch of photos of a cocktail. Recently, I returned to the tropical Territory, and this time let no such qualms stand in my way.

A mango daiquiri might sound bright and tropical and alive, but it actually comes to us here from the realm of the undead. Weed Atman, in his “like death but different” Thanatoid state, is putting them away:

Back at the Zero Inn, they found a party going on, a lot of gloating, Weed drinking mango daiquiris and trying on different kinds of hats, Ortho Bob sitting in with the band and also singing, though nothing slower tonight than “Your Cheatin’ Heart.”

Vineland, p. 380.

I did wear a nice straw hat while drinking mine, but must unfortunately report I tried on no other kind of hat during. The drink was a festival number, as you may be able to tell, sweet and slurpable in a plastic cup.

I enjoyed the experience, but it occurs to me that we could say the daiquiri itself is in a sort of “like death but different” state too these days. The original daiquiri was crisp, serious, almost ascetic: silver rum, fresh lime, a little sugar. But like Weed Atman himself, assassinated but lingering nonetheless in northern California trailer parks watching daytime television, the daiquiri died and didn’t quite leave. It crossed over into the Thanatoid plane of commercial slushy machines and became a poolside staple.

But if the daiquiri lost its soul along the way, well, give it enough rum and crushed ice and you may not miss yours either.