Flying hungover sucks….especially when the driver from the hotel to the airport has a romantic playlist for the ride. Nothing like Celine Dion at 7 am singing My Heart Will Go On right after listening to Don Henley’s Hotel California. We hit four bars last night, Jake’s where the hotel driver recommended we go for good karaoke, unfortunately he left out that it smelt like a bad locker room, but we did see some guy belt out “Don’t Stop Believin’”. Another bar had a Monchichi bartender, where a random stranger bought us drinks and we talked to some guy named Charlie on a cell phone and met 2 locals who’s first names had to be Al and Albert (no relation to each other). Something starting with an “N” from the night before where Johnny Knoxville wanna-be was performing and Barney’s which had license plates on the ceiling and a chick who needed extra support for her boobies because they were clearly grapes on steroids. If she bent over she would have needed help getting back up along with two slings. At Barneys we met some guy Adam, who looked like “Where’s Waldo” wanting to follow us to the next joint, he asked where we were going next, and we replied “New Jersey”. He was a local and he didn’t even know where to go. I swear, I can’t make this stuff up!
The highlight had to be the walk from the Spanish bar to Jakes carrying pre-historic weapons to be safe. We had nothing to worry about but just in case we had a huge rock and walking stick in hand for protection.
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