It was violent. My weekend began with a wickedness I haven't experienced in a long long time. Food poisoning. It was bad, I mean real bad. It felt like I had a demon inside me, a demon wrapped in bile who wanted out, continuously. Of course, Beelzebub showed up at the convienent hour of 4 AM. So, besides the torment of hurling like a tequilla filled frat boy, I was very very tired. I wanted to crawl up and die. Seriously, I'm a wimp. I was like, "Jesus, please take me now! I'll hang with Warren Zevon, Elvis, and my grandfathers. Please, I can't take the pain"... and it is painful, isn't it. Puking is your body at it's last straw. It's saying to you, "that's it, jackass, I ain't puttin' up with this bullshit any longer." In my case, it didn't want to deal with a bad piece of palomilla steak (at least that's what I think it was). I'm much better now, thank you. Gatorade and ibuprofen helped me to rest, and in turn I think the rest helped me to move along that wonderful road called recovery (I even played my gig that night though I know it wasn't one of my best shows). I'm still pacing myself. I can't blame palomilla steak in general, just that one piece. I'll never turn on my Cuban heritage. Afterall, we're taking over and I want to be on the winning side. (OK Jim, I know I wasn't born Irish. It's a show biz thing.) Proof of my allegence to the island of my ancestors: I ate an empanada last night and I must say it settled in my tummy just fine, gov'na. Bring on the ropa veja, plantanos madurro, arroz con frijolles negros... feliz navidad. Take care. Later, Butch