Tequila is not what you could call a normal liquor. It has always come wrapped in raffish myth and credited with properties more mystical than medical (although if a maniac in a sombrero insists you knock back a few jolts to cure your prostate cancer there are few contraindications to taking it like a man).

This air of mystery and madness is only partially explained by Tequila's geographical origins, bitter experience being another factor frequently cited. The central Jalisco plains are forbidding psychic terrain that have given rise to peculiar, disaffected literature and song. For that matter, the town of Tequila is only a few miles journey from the Ixtlan of Carlos Castaneda fame, which may or may not be another story. The soil preferred by the blue Weber agave plant--which is not so different from your aunt's potted aloe vera--is rich in volcanic minerals but very little else, so fields of future Tequila are small tracts of stubby succulents fenced in by low walls of heaped-up lava and basalt.

The town itself is less grubby and drab than its neighbors, mostly because every building in sight, even the school, is brightly painted with Tequila advertisements. "Orendain, The Family Tequila," for example. Though the drink originated in this dusty pueblo, most is now made in big distilleries in Guadalajara. But all the big brands maintain "home plants" in the namesake village so there enough stills remain for the city kids to stop by and purchase six-packs of plastic gallon jugs of raw, unaged Tequila on their way to the beach, often leading to the kind of drastic and unscheduled actions that keep current Tequila's reputation as a desperate, diabolical, and somewhat supernatural companion.

One brand not advertised in Tequila is Jose Cuervo. Curiously, many Americans who drink a lot of Tequila think that Cuervo is a top line brand, though it is scorned in Mexico and mostly sold where Americans hang out. Part of this is the name brand syndrome: What's so good about Vuarnet sunglasses, Ughs boots, or Speedo swimwear except that they are the only brands most people are familiar with? Until recently Jose Cuervo was the only brand that advertised in the U.S, which led to Old Joe Crow being the only brand celebrated in country-western songs, which led in turn to a publicity posture tough to compete with, especially for a product widely associated with cowpoke imagry and borderline psychosis.

Ask a Mexican the best brand and he will usually recommend Sauza, particularly the Commemorativo. Other brands honorably mentioned are Orendain (especially the Ollitas) or Herradura Reposado. Many in the know favor the sweet, almond-flavored Orendain Almendrada for straight-shot sipping because, unique among Tequilas, it tastes good. Which makes it even sneaker than the others. In fact, most people who know anything at all about Tequila will tell you that Jose Cuervo is swill, but many "Tequila lovers" swear by it, a triumph of image over reality similar to that enjoyed by Harley Davidson, Perrier, Italian automobiles, Madonna and the averag Democratic presidential candidate.

This odd confusion among alleged cosnoscenti is typical of Tequila, whose more transparent myths abound among those who should, if gross consumption is any measure of familiarity, know better. The same affliction allows people who eat a lot of sushi to think it is raw fish, instead of recognizing what they are eating as rice, only sometimes topped with sashimi, which actually is raw fish.

One glaring instance is the idea that Tequila is made from cactus rather than agave. Even some manufacturers remain unclear on that point--Cuervo's latest competition in beach volleyball sponsorship is a substance labeled "Cactus Juice". Under such circumstances, consumer confusion is understandable.

Neither does Tequila contain worms. Some Mescal contains worms (but not, as many believe, any derivative of mescaline, peyote or cactus). So why do people who pound down gallons of Tequila as a matter of course believe that it contains worms, and even insist that they have eaten enough of them to start up a bait shop? Well, Tequila does contain a lot of alcohol and other even less reliable alkaloids, all capable of inducing distorted memories, bizarre sensations, and delusions of squalor. But more likely is that if gringos expect Tequila to be infested with worms, the worms will appear. If you're paying you can have a worm in your damn Tequila if you want one. Or an egg in your beer, a roach in your coffee, an owl up your butt, for that matter...whatever floats your boat. If the Senor chooses to drink Cuervo when Suaza is cheaper...Andale, cabron. One worm or two in your swill?

The more modern myths, most of which have been traced to inscriptions on T-shirts, are laughably unscientific. The belief that repeated shots of Tequila render the shootee progressively good-looking, invisible, and bulletproof is too flimsy to withstand even amateur investigation. An impartial survey of recent snorters will frequently confirm looks that only invisibility could improve and the bulletproof thing is probably associated with the abuse of unregistered "shooters" or being totally shot or at least fit to be. These legends are best debunked at one's own leisure and expense, and it frequently turns out that the alleged anti-ballistic properties are not always the most painful to dis-establish.

In fact, these pallid recent myths are fragile in comparison to pre-existing Mexican Tequila properties and propensities. That Tequila can cure impotence, raise the dead, and restore virginity has never been reliably disproven. Tequila is never going to be the sort of libation associated with mulling over peat fires, pensive play of light in Paris rains, or appreciative sipping from glasses specially shaped and warmed to enhance the bouquet. In fact, it's far more likely to be brutally pounded and yucca-bucked by sunburned, shitfaced hodaddies; but that doesn't mean we shouldn't respect it enough to keep its legends straight. Try some of the silvery Ollitas; slinky, shiny, and more limpid than any gin. Try the strong, aged taste of the carmel-colored Reposada; smooth as a Scotch just to lead you on. Try a couple more. Now try to do something sensible. Maybe you won't become handsome, invisible or bulletproof, but the last line on that T-shirt says you will be able to fly, another arcane property which remains to be reputably refuted. The existance of a coveted and calamitous Bogus Plan for Frequent Flyers is a future myth that will emerge as soon as someone who read this article downs enough shooters to mention it. It's that very historical aspect that creates Tequila myths--you never know when you're a few shots away from being history.