I hear my friend, Mike Simpson, talking cheerily with our hostess. He asks about her sons and the night starts to flash back to me. Did we see a deer in the front yard? Did I dream that? Why is my face so hurty? Then I peel it off the leather couch it's stuck to and ask the same thing about my head. I look at Mike and mentally send him pictures of coffee and bacon and biscuits with gravy. He must be getting the hint because he heads in to shower. I know I have no time. Hygiene is for the young and spry. If I don't get greasy solids into my stomach to wrestle down the incorrectly made Irish car bombs we did the night before, I am going to have a much bigger problem on my hands. I cannot be all barfy for the drive I had ahead of me. I have 6 hours before the next show. It's back in Las Vegas so that will give me about 20 minutes to get ready. I can't even get some hair of the dog in me to alleviate my internal suffering. I have to drive. I know I look like a hot turd on the hood of a Pontiac, so I reach into my backpack for my trusty face sheet mask: the basic bitch's human white out.