Hangovers are a bitch. I don’t mean no disrespect to you ladies by using a derogatory lady term to describe what’s going on in my head, mind, it’s just that whoa nellie! I think my brain moved out and a giant, toxic lump of radioactive jello moved in.
And I am not talking about Paris Hilton. Although put a paper bag over her head and stop her from talking and maybe we’ll discuss it, know what I’m saying?
I haven’t been to bed yet and it’s almost seven in the AM already. Pedro and I just got back from a little unexpected, last minute show we were asked to give in a little place off the strip when their regular guy was a no show and it just so happens this little show comes with a rider of free cocktails that would choke a donkey. I mean what sort of guy would I be if I didn’t take advantage of such a deal, huh? No man at all, right?
I managed to knock back six daiquiris before I even played a note, and alcohol tends to make me a little bit smiley and amorous, so it’s fair to say that by the time we started to rock, there was already a big, happy party brewing in Tony’s pants.
We rocked some ABBA (I always dug the blonde chick with the bodacious eye shadow and tight jumpsuit) and some sixties melodies since it was that kind of crowd. Honestly, you ain’t lived till you seen a seventy year old chick grinding her synthetic hip on some toothless old geezer to the Stones “Satisfaction” and after seeing that miracle I admit, I did kind of wish I was dead. The free drinks kept on coming however, so I barely remember the last half of the set except there was something with a woman in a leotard and some creme brulee that’s probably best forgotten.
The only live body I came home with however, is Pedro, who demolished so many White Russians he thought he was in Moscow. Since he was in danger of also driving like a crazy Russian, I threw him in the back of my pick up (it’s temporary until I can afford the vintage Thunderbird convertible that I’ve been jonesing after) and now the dumb Mexican’s snoring on my shag pile rug.