Ache. Oh, the Ache.

After a night of daiquiris, beer and a delicious concoction called "bourbon slush" there was of course the inevitable hangover--the sort that has you waking saying "this isn't good" and "I can't imagine how it'll feel when I try and raise my head up". So I stagger slowly into the kitchen, with enough presence of mind to make sure I'm wearing a shirt and shorts since the guests passed out in the living room might be stirring and unwilling to see that much Brando at this hour.

Of course, the kitchen looks like Dresden after the firebombing, or a typical hotel after Guns n' Roses showed up--dishes, glasses and slop piled everywhere. Unbowed, I begin the bacon frying and egg-scramblin', and the making of milkshakes. For some reason I refuse Aspirin, figuring my kidneys are busy enough fighting off the bourbon.

The gang stirs, and informs me of things said and done of which I have no recollection--yes there was Karaoke, but I recall my silken voice crooning out tunes to much cheers and awe rather than the stumbling performance they're describing now. After some food and rest, and a hearty walk around town in the 70-degree weather, I return for more sleep and a viewing of perhaps the best-worst film I've seen since Barbarian Queen--Xanadu. Yes, the film that destroyed more careers and trends than any other. I shall review it in due time.