Played a weird show yesterday afternoon my fellow journal guys. Private birthday party for some business geezer's wife at a dingy little lounge just outside the city, surrounded by nothing but desert and drunks in stetsons.

You know, playing Tom Jones classics at four thirty in the afternoon is just plain wrong, even by Vegas standards. There's something inherently sad about it. Gin-soaked cat ladies with mustaches who never got a husband and old, leathery, crinkled guys lamenting the good old days where you could get a horse, a steak and some punani for a hundred bucks and still have change left over for a fifth of Jack Daniels.

This was a party however, but it's still wrong if you ask me. It's like drinking daiquiris from a highball glass, you just can't do it without cringing at the magnitude of wrong that suggests.

It all went ok though, despite that fuckin', deadbeat Pedro letting me down last minute with a hangover sent from el Diablo himself. He broke up with his dancing chica and was self medicating his way back to normality. I had to recruit my old buddy Perry DiSopo on bass and occasional guitar, since it was a full band effect this show needed and he's a full-on kinda guy.

Perry and I have jammed a number of times over the years and despite his being somewhat advanced in age he can still shake it with the best of 'em, so it wasn't as uncomfortable a job as you might expect. Think a shriveled, more orange Tony Bennett with Parkinson's and high on amphetamines and you'll have a decent idea of what that entails. Happily his legendary hip didn't give out - last time he did a guest stint he swiveled it a little too far. People were hugely impressed till they realized the dude had dislocated the fucker and his sexy 'come hither baby' look was actually saying 'holy shit I'm dying get a fucking paramedic you c**ts!'

Also the guy's not at all pleasant to look at and I'm sure he wouldn't mind me saying so. The years (and the liquor) haven't been all that kind. He kinda looks like someone superimposed an elephant's ass on his cheekbones. More contours than a map of New Mexico. Cool guy though. Straight up fella. His blood is 100% gin at this point in time, the crazy old fucker.

The lady having the birthday was delighted. She drank, clapped and jiggled around like a 14 year old Latina at a Menudo concert, only in a much less aesthetically pleasing fashion. There are parts that really should not wobble that just took on a life of their own. But the old gal had a damn good day and I think my version of "It's Not Unusual" sung with her sitting on my lap, made her whole fuckin' week. Wish I could say the same for my leg, I feel like I've been kneecapped by Al Capone. Plus the chick kept licking my neck, what the dilly is that all about, y'all? That ain't kosher.

Still, a couple C notes isn't too bad for a little leg discomfort and a soggy neck, know what I mean compadres? Rock out.

Yeah so last night was the Skybar show. The one I promised would be full of crappy Michael Bolton numbers and guys who wanted to kill Tony Spunk for the honor of their ladies. Well the night did not disappoint, ladies and gentlebums.

Firstly, I couldn’t get the truck from Ronny, he’s the dude I normally borrow from for a small fee, so I couldn’t take my Yamaha Electric Grand Piano to the show. This sucked for a variety of reasons, most of which involve showing off its shiny, sparkly, electric blue goodness to the ladies who naturally want to caress it lovingly. The thing’s just too damn clumsy without a truck however, so I took along a more portable organ instead. No biggie, I still fingered it lovingly and stroked some fine tunes out of it. Well, fine tunes and Douchebag Bolton. If it’s any consolation to y’all I think it’s the last time I’ll be doing his numbers. Sure the ladies might dig it but I felt dirty. Like seriously, just ‘fucked Paris Hilton in the glory hole’ dirty.

It was pretty funny though. There was this one chick who was blasted. I mean like rubberized. Chick could barely stand on her own two feet. The second she heard the first few bars of the first Bolton number she was on her feet, bobbing around like a half-anesthetized kangaroo, waving her lighter around. I mean like that isn’t hilarious enough, who waves their lighter at Douchebag Bolton numbers? I mean how is that possible? Does he get that a lot? Unless you're trying to set his hair on fire, in which case, go with God, little drunk chica.

So anyway, this dude who wanted to kick my nut-sack into next Thursday? He showed up and he was steamed. I mean his little, fat, unshaven face was red as a Halloween apple. He wanted a piece of old Tony, bad. Luckily he was also as round as a Halloween apple so his movements were a little on the side of an elephant practicing ballet so he was fairly easy to dodge. Plus I had my Mexican guard and all so you know, no damage was done. I even rubbed salt into his wounds by serenading him with “Isn’t She Lovely?” (you know, the old Stevie Wonder song?) as he was being escorted out by his suspenders, by the management. Man, he looked like he was about to pop like an over inflated balloon. Good times.

Anyway yeah, no more Douchebag Bolton. I don’t mind compromise but I ain’t willing to sell my soul to El Diablo. Here's today's thought though. You never see Michael Bolton and Fabio in the same room do ya?

So cabrons, (Heh the spell check keeps changing that to 'carbons'! Hi carbons!) I have me a show down at the Skybar later tonight and it’s come to my attention that some dude with a bad attitude is planning on attending the show just to fuck with Tony Spunk. I know right? Surely not! It's not just any dude either, it's some fella with an extra Y chromosome and probably a penis like a breeding stallion. Some dude who wants to kick my shiny, satin ass and those were his words. Yeah really! Can you imagine? I am peeing in my silk monogrammed pants. OK not really.

I think this dude is a little, teensy bit touchy because I might have squeezed his wife’s booty or something at a show or let her stroke my organ, but to be honest the whole thing’s a bit cloudy. That describes most nights at my shows, let’s be frank here. Then dudes get all sensitive about these matters although seriously, I didn’t force his old lady to touch my organ she did it all on her lonesome. I ain’t going to stop a lady from showing her love for my organ, you dig? She even commented on its fine luster. I guess her old man thinks that’s grounds for a beatin’. He probably imagines he’ll look hot to the ladies, socking some guy in a sparkly suit with a nicely coiffed mustache. I bet he thinks bloodying up a Senor with a dazzling repertoire of musical genius and shiny apparel will make him seem all kickass ninja.

Well you’re wrong, guy because I have a little surprise for you. My “bodyguard” is coming to the show tonight. So you better watch your badass, testosteroned up, macho self.

OK, he’s not really my bodyguard, more of a Mexican friend of Pedro’s who weighs about the same as a combine harvester and has fists like two giant hams, but he says for a few beers and a beef burrito he’ll take care of me so I think I’m good. So bring it, angry wife-possessing dude.

It should be a good night as I’m debuting some new material I’ve been practicing, like some Michael Bolton (I know, I know, the guy’s a colossal douche who sings music for douches, but the ladies are always requesting his douchebag songs so I broke down, got drunk and downloaded a few of his douchey tracks to learn. It was torture but I ain’t proud. I am however broke and I’ll sacrifice anything, including my dignity to woo the ladies, so Douchebag Bolton it is) and also some Elvis. Normally I don’t touch Elvis. No one can touch Elvis and people get pretty steamed if you even try, he’s that close to God. I’m not even an Elvis fan myself but hey, there’s no denying the popularity for the dead dude. Besides I give those songs a distinctively Spunky feel complete with a Wurlitzer sound so I should be ok. I like a challenge.

Hell, Elvis only wishes he had a Wurlitzer.

Well hola my babies, Tony Spunk is back in da house, did ya miss me?

I had a touch of the influenza this weekend. The '24 hour zap your energy and leave you crying for your mama' type of thing. It was like breathing in a Louisiana swamp all in one sitting. I was a little delirious for a while there and momentarily forgot to unleash my great fabulousness on the world but I'm recovered now so I think it's safe to say I'm good to go.

Or come, if you prefer, ladies.

I went for a little body waxing today. Don't laugh, a guy must maintain some standard of grooming if I'm to believe those dickwads at 'Maxim'. Of course the chest hair remains (Rowr!) but the back hair had to go. Tony is a dark, devilish guy covered in dark, devilish hairs and one needs to control this hirsute manliness somehow. A lady doesn't want lots of dark curlies under her nicely manicured fingernails, am I correctamundo, gals? I think so.

Talking of, what's with those little decals the ladies are wearing on their nails these days? Little rhinestones and shit? Not that El Spunkarino is complaining or anything, it's just kinda wacky. Especially when the lady scratching those babies down your back has little decals of Mickey Mouse on her digits. That ain't right, truly. That's some perverted shit right there.

So after a weekend without playing any shows I actually feel kinda revived and ready to party. I dusted off my leopard skin pants and polished my medallion and once I've given my organ a good rub down I'll be at the Skybar tomorrow night. Be there or be absent, ladies. Wink.

I just found out last night that I may be zipping down south of the border to do a short stint this Fall for a chain of casinos run by tequila-swilling bandits. This would be totally north of awesome since everyone knows Mexico is a den of vice, spice and possibly lice. The drinks are cheap, the ladies are cheaper and basically, to put it in perspective for ya - those people who envisage Hell as a big, hot, sweaty place full of hard liquor, scantily clad dancing ladies and horny beings torturing people, they're really imagining Mexico.

I actually embarked on a ten day Mexican tour in 2004 which took me all over the damn place, dodging banditos and raunchy senoritas. Admittedly, I tried harder to avoid one of those groups than the other.

It was pretty awesome at least what I can remember of it which admittedly, isn't a whole lot. I mean it's a country full of hallucinogens and cheap liquor, so if you come back remembering anything and wearing more than one shoe you did it wrong.

Anyway, that trip was basically ten days of ladies waving their fajitas in Uncle Spunkarino's tired old face. Ten days of debauchery with the craziest people on Earth. Ten days of having various dark skinned minxes taste my burrito of leurve.

Naturally, by "burrito of leurve" I mean my ginormous cock. And not the fighting type either.

I think we crossed back over the border at Yuma, Arizona with a gallon of home brewed tequila, a straw donkey and a hat so big it wouldn't fit in the El Camino. My companion, Rossi del Muncho, had to cart it back in the truck we toted the equipment in, the next morning and explain it to customs who thought he might be smuggling entire Mexican families in it.

The only grievance on that tour was we were minus a bass player, since Pedro couldn't come seeing as how he spent two years trying to escape that godforsaken country by less than legal means and now he's in the U.S. well, let's just put it this way, leaving the country again would be a bad move. I did call him from the Baja to give him a quick report on the state of Mexican affairs, the size of the chicas castanets and to call his mama a "puta". Good times.

Anyway, yeah, here's to another couple weeks of bad livin', bad wimmen and bad breath.

The esteemed blogmeister and all round crazy guy, Dr. Zibbs, from That Blue Yak (why won't this shitty thing accept Tony's html linking skills?) requested that I give a little summary of my sense of cool. I'm not entirely sure my cool can be conveyed by mere words but I'm going to have a valiant stab at it, in the hope I can make the world a little more groovy with my knowledge. Don't try this at home though kids. It takes years of practice to reach this level of perfection, you dig?

Firstly, the Doc wanted to know about the "toe tapping and finger snapping" stuff that cool guys like myself employ from time to time to say, "Hey, we might be happening and sparkly but we're really just regular guys like you, with shinier suits!"

Here's a little breakdown for you:

UNO: The step forward on one foot, wink and point movement. This little move lets a lady know, "Hey, I'm looking at YOU, Sweetcheeks, and may I say you are lookin' foxy this evening?" Don't forget to swing your lead shoulder around sexily as you go into the point. If you can raise one eyebrow simultaneously, even better. This gives a sense of confidence in your own foxability. And whatever you do, don't forget to practice this in the mirror to make sure that wink and pout are smoldering. There's a fine line between smoldering and "Wow, I need to take a dump the size of Oklahoma!" This is important.

DOS: The lip curl. The lip curl was perfected by that big, old, dead swinging pelvis from the fifties, Elvis. The thing most folks don't realize is that the King didn't do that shit to be sexy, he did it because he had a twitch whenever he smelled cheese, which, if you're Elvis, is a lot. Same with that pelvis shaking business. He had Restless Legs Syndrome and had to move them all the time or he'd seize up and have a spasm on the floor or something.

The lip curl is either something you got or you don't. Tony Spunk has it and can growl menacingly while using it to mesmerize the ladies. Don't feel inferior if you can't pull it off though, it's really not essential. Sure, you'll never be as awesome as me, but you can still get by, ok, so long as you're rich as shit.

TRES: Toe Tapping: This technique is all about rhythm. Having rhythm is sexy but again, you have to do it right. Firstly, the song has to be mid-tempo and smooth otherwise you start tappin' to a fast, paced little number and you look like you're having some kind of seizure. And seizures ain't sexy. The song is too slow and it looks like you're just plain riding the short bus.

Secondly, tappin' alone won't cut it with the ladies. The ladies aren't dumbasses, they need a little more than a tappin' toe to dampen their gussets. The tapping must be accompanied by a little wink or nod or sly smile. Just a flash mind, nothing full on that shows the dazzlin' chompers. Those smiles are reserved for the old, drunk, rich people who look like they're half senile and tip crazy well . Just a little quick smile to suggest, "Hey. You and me could make beautiful music, baby!" is enough for the regular gals. Even if the lady looks like something a dog chewed-up under the Christmas tree, it helps to massage the lady's ego and let her think she's special. Plus her old man probably gave her some Benjamins to spend which she will dutifully use to tip you afterwards or buy you cocktails.

I would go into more detail, but a guy doesn't want to give away all his secrets in one go. Plus, you can't just jump into awesome, you have to let it come to you.

OK, first of all? Any of you folks here in Nevada who saw the article in the Sun the other day from my Caesar's gig? That was not my naked ass. Sure, it looked maybe a touch like my ass but, as most of the ladies in Vegas will attest, my ass is much less hairy than that guy, a lot less flabby and I prefer my mustache on my face, thanks all the same. I did call the Sun to protest and they assured me that it was hard to get me in the photo as that dude's caboose was taking up the entire shot. Dude was every freaking where the camera man went. He was sort of like my own personal "Soy Bomb".

On second glance I sort of recognize that ass. I'm sure I've seen that huge, hairy mole bobbing up and down at that party we did a set at last summer. Bobbing up and down on top of a senator's daughter I seem to recall. She was either asleep or completely wasted at the time. Either that or I'm thinking of Enrique Iglesias' face. A guy's memory gets cloudy after so much martini...uh...time.

The show, a fundraiser for a local animal shelter, went pretty darn well. We raised over $3,000 and the roof. Hah. It will be a long time before those guys forget Pedro in a bowtie and nothing else doing a Russian dance on top of the Mayor's table, his wind section swinging free in the breeze. I guess if that didn't persuade folks to neuter their animals I don't know what will.

I know what you're thinking, you're thinking "What the hay is Tony Spunk doing up before noon?" Well I have a good reason people. I haven't actually been to bed yet. Not to sleep anyway, heh.

That was my way of saying "I tapped some badonkadonk last night." And again this morning if you want to be specific. That little Vanessa is a livewire.

It's also my birthday. I'm officially older than dirt (and just as filthy). Happy birthday to me. I got a great card from my mom who still thinks I'm 12. She also sent some "Old Spice" and this thing...well I'm not exactly sure what the thing is, but it looks like some kind of torture implement from Roman times. I'm sure I'll figure it out sometime. Let's face matters, if an object of unknown origin doesn't relate to eating or the wiener, I'm kinda stumped.

The other great gift I got, besides the roll in the hay, was a remote control cocktail robot courtesy of the Mexican. It's a little mechanical dude who can carry you a cocktail clean across the room from the bar. Or kitchen sink if you don't have a bar. Sort of like me. Problem is, he doesn't know how to make a darn cocktail so it sort of voids the whole convenience issue. I have to make my own drink, give it to the robot and he brings it to me on the couch. I mean does that sound like a sensible idea to anyone? Still he impresses the ladies and scares the neighbor's dog so all is well, I'm thinking. He also has a super scary mechanical voice. Sounds like a big, metal German dude. "Vee hef vays of making you cocktails."

I know you've all missed the shit out of old Tony Spunk the past two days. Don't deny it. You've been sobbing like a chick at "Titanic".

I might as well just come right out and say it. I've been doing a midget. And by "doing" I mean inserting parts of my anatomy into her various exits and entrances with gay abandon. Don't knock it till you've tried it fellas. The little girls are fighters. Just make sure you get one with some curves otherwise it's like bouncing around with a ten year old and that ain't cool.

Her name's Vanessa and she doesn't appreciate the term "midget" I'm reliably told. "Little person" seems to be a preference of hers although that really puts a guy off his stroke because I don't know about you guys, but that term makes me think of Keebler Elves or like leprechauns or something. That ain't good for a guy's karma at crucial moments, you dig?

Then one night she choked on a piece of salmon and her face for a moment was alarmingly red. She got really pissed off at me, even though I performed the Heimlich Maneuver perfectly. I mean all I said was for a moment she looked exactly like an Oompa Loompa. I mean she truly did.

Then last night she left me sitting in the Golden Queen in the middle of my dim sung just because I mentioned that she couldn't finish dinner because her organs were smaller due to her being "pocket sized". It was a compliment, dammit! I guess I still have a lot to learn about the ladies. Especially the miniature variety.

My ma came round yesterday and rearranged chez Spunk. So screw you guys who thought I lived in my ma's basement. She left a lasagna in my freezer and a mason jar of iced tea in the fridge so I guess all's ok with the world. And every guy knows, no woman will ever love them like their ma.

And I don't mean that in a dirty sense, you filthy heathens.

Plus you need to see my shitter, honestly. You could eat dinner off that thing. It's like a toothpaste commercial full of sparkle. One thing moms are good for is providing your ass a clean receptacle to drop a deuce into.

But talking of eating, as we were briefly up there, my ma brought me some table set thing. You know, plates, cups, those little plates you put a tea cup on, the whole shebang. She was displeased with my old kitchen apparatus. My old plates I'd had since 1989. I got them from a Mexican restaurant that was closed down by the health department. They're made of some plastic compound with cacti around the rim and had gotten a little warped and bumpy over the years. It was like eating pizza off of Gwen Stefani's ribs. No more though. Thanks ma.

In other news, Pedro is dating a flamenco dancer. It's serious lust. One shake of her castanets and he's jello. Plus the last time I saw that dude gel his mustache, the Pope was in town hanging with Tony Bennett.

It hasn't been my month frankly. First the wanger bending, then the ball zipping, now today I'm suffering a little from what Johnny Cash referred to as "Ring of Fire" due to some deadly-hot Indian chow last night. I was up half of the night blasting the porcelain altar with the remnants of indescribable vegetables. My toilet looked like that shitter in "Trainspotting". Remember that thing? I loved the movie but didn't understand a fucking word those people were saying. Thank God for subtitles.

Anyway, yeah that was my boudoir last night. In all honesty, my anus hasn't been this inflamed since I was seven and Tommy Bardelli tried to convince me that doing Evel Knievel stunts on a bike with a missing seat was a good idea. Thanks a fuckin' bunch, Tommy. Took me a month to walk like I hadn't just been pounded by a horse. Dude's in jail now, hopefully receiving a little anal inflammation of his own.

Played an emergency show at the Bellagio last night, suckers. That's big time y'all know. I was helping a bro out however, not headlining or anything tres cool like that. I was playing piano for Big Bobby Flatbush who is a 450lb African dude who has hair straight from a 1976 roller disco and a voice like Marvin Gaye. He also hosts the most alarming suits seen on a dude since that cool, black pimp dude on Starsky & Hutch. Good time was had by all and there was an all night free buffet. That's a Boofay not like...Jimmy Buffet. Though come on, really, the guy should just call himself Jimmy Boofay and add some comedy to the world because his songs sure aren't helping much, unless you're in need of an insomnia cure or a need to kill.

Now I gotta go grab some sleep before my eyelids go on strike. I'm getting too old for this staying up all night, shit.

Just when my wanger had regained a shred of dignity after the "bent" incident, I go and catch my balls in my zipper and have to go to the E.R. to get them "unzipped". That's what happens when you have a late show at night and get up too early next morning. I'm telling you, you know shit about indignity till you've had some 600lb lady named Helga, approaching your fishing tackle with pliers. Jeebus!

Not to mention the pain, although I will mention it anyway, because IT FUCKING HURT! Looking down at my Little Hasselhoff, it was like it was being eaten by some angry little silver teeth. Goddamn, there's pain then there's getting your chalupas stuck in a zipper.

What else? It's hard to think with swollen red cajones and everything. Oh yeah, work. We have done some shows sparodically over the past couple of months, myself, Pedro and Alfonso Del Bautista Maria Concepcion. That's his real name, y'all he's not being an ass or nothing. He even has his name stenciled on the rear window of his Chevy, in case there's any doubt. For real. Takes up two fuckin' lines. Anyway, Alfonso is one of those dudes who can get a tune out of a milk bottle and a fart if you ask him to. So he's plenty useful for a set of lounge classics. He plays regular guitar, slide guitar, bass, piano, all sorts of stuff that you blow. Dude's like a one man show and the drunker his ass gets the more saucy his tunes. He can make grown women weep with his trumpet. Even El Spunkarino is a little in awe.

Anyway the shows (six in all) were all in the same little club, the last one being last night and we had to arrange the band around the strippers' pole which was tricky but we managed. Last night as a finale we knocked out a kickass version of that Barbra Streisand/Kenny Rogers number "You Don't Bring Me Flowers" with Alfonso doing the girl's part to my Kenny. I admit fully we were beyond blasted at this stage of the proceedings and it wasn't a real kiss, my mouth stayed shut.

Back in the summer of 1973, when I was nine years old, my dad, Antonio Spunk II and his brother Ricardo "Dick" Spunk, used to have a kind of faux mariachi act on the Vegas strip. They had sombreros with shiny bits on, they had Spanish guitars and they had shirts that would make a baby cry. They played all kinds of dives and basements and occasionally they'd get to debut at some glittery gala at Caesar's, on like a Tuesday night, opening for some old lush in a sparkly dress (and sometimes the occasional woman too!).

My dad was a mediocre musician, more into gambling and martinis and fast women than actually playing his instrument although you could argue he played his instrument plenty if you get my meaning. Plus he had an unusually small head which caused a whole bucket full of problems keeping that damn sombrero upright. Some nights, mid song, his giant sombrero would slip down over his eyes and the audience, who'd spent three hours downing cheap Scotch, would spend ten minutes wondering why they were watching a giant hat play a guitar.

My uncle Dick though, he was a genius. A man's man. A guy so comfortable in his own testosterone he didn't think twice about wearing pink ruffles on his shirt or sewing sequins on his matador pants. It was Dick Spunk who taught me to play piano when I was eleven. He taught me to read music by a complicated procedure where he compared various music notes to a woman's anatomy. I never quite got the hang of that philosophy (he did drink a fuck of a lot) but even now, when I get close enough to a lady to twiddle her crochets, I still expect to hear a B#.

So this pina colada I'm holding in my hand right now? It's for my uncle Dick Spunk. Still a player after all these years. Happy birthday Dick.

Arriba! Forgive old Spunko won't you guys, I am a little bit toasted from drinking some potent little fuckers called "Bombarderos". Basically it's a highball glass with a shot each of the following: Scotch, vodka, tequila, gin and some kind of weird foreign bitters, filled to the brim with ice, lemon juice and Sprite. After a couple of those you are so bombed you would find your own mom attractive if she bent over in a denim mini skirt.

Not to mention the lady cop who stops your wasted ass on the way home. She was hawt stuff folks. Well she was hot after four bombarderos, at least. Something about a lady who's packing and stacking that gets the juices flowing. She had a giant ass you could bounce tennis balls off. Or any kind of balls you wish, to be brutally honest. I can think of some balls I'd like to bounce off that badonkadonk.

Oddly enough, asking if she wished to finger my gun got me cuffed. Well the joke's on you lady cuz I don't have a freaking gun, I was referencing my cock.

I wasn't driving during any of this, I hasten to add. The Mexican was in charge of that chore. He's under doctor's orders to lay off the booze while he's taking some antibiotics. This is fine with me. I get to charm the ladies and drink the refreshing beverages all on my lonesome, while he drives me home and puts me to bed.

Damn assladycop gave us a ticket for a busted headlight. I refrained from any more jokes regarding her own headlights, which, let me tell you, were shining pretty bright, if you get my meaning.

Ain't it sweet.

(Hey, has my gibberish alien code disappeared yet?)

I had a couple buddies in town from Texas this past couple of days, playing a mariachi festival up in the Reno area. They figured while in Nevada, look up the Spunk for a good time. Not that kinda good time, I'm not that kind of boy.

We had a blast just drinkin' and hangin' and boasting about who had the biggest penis, that kind of deal. You know what those Tejanos are like after a few bottles of Tecate. Everything's a fuckin' competition. I'll tell you one thing. Mexicans might not be the Amazons of modern man but they sure have disproportionately large dongers. Not that I looked. Well I might have peeked. A guy's gotta know what he's up against. Again, not literally. Tony Spunk doesn't swing that way. Not that there's anything wrong with it.

The second night the guys joined me on stage at the Pink Flamingo for a little Mexican themed hoedown, complete with sombreros and full bolero jacketed goodness. One thing. Who here knew a sombrero brim could hold a sixpack? My grandfather on my father's side was from Ancuna, Mexico. He used to tell me a sombrero could be used for anything from potty training to berry picking to holding a giant margarita. He was a little fucked from too much tequila however, so I took that with a grain of salt. Margarita salt naturally.

Anyway those guys leave today (vibes to Tito, El Lobo and Esteban!) and my fridge is full of Tex Mex, so I'm gonna go, eat a load, dump a load and get ready for tonight's show. Incidentally, my wanger's doing better now, thanks for your concern. Peace out!