More Cowbell

It's Thursday already. How exactly that happened is a mystery. Last thing I knew, it was Monday and I was feeling kinda petty and whiney about having only a week left of freedom and now here it is, Thursday. Sigh. In the blink of an eye, my time will no longer be my own and I will double click on the shackles of employment.

Mom was right. Should have spent more time hanging out in medical center cafeterias.

In the meantime, we're going on a bit of a socialized gambling spree; off to Charlestown to bet on the ponies tonight then having some folks over for some poker tomorrow. Still haven't gotten the car fixed or cleaned my room, but you know, priorities. Whether or not we're going to a BBQ on Saturday is also a gamble as the hosts are not really getting along. Evidence is piling up to support my theory that a season of Valentinian discontent is upon us, one and all.

Had us a kickass time at the Poison show last night, and not only because of the "Is That a Transvestite?" game, but certainly not despite it.

Even if you refuse to rock out to Talk Dirty to Me live, it's worth the $9 ticket just to re-experience the following:

• the 80's hair and neon neon neon.
• Brett Micheals still has the prettiest man-hair in Rock n' Roll and he sure can play that cowbell.
• Three different outfit changes resulted in his wearing three different Poison t-shirts
• and he called out to C.C. Deville no fewer than 17 times in a 75 minute show (yep, we counted).
• C.C. also called himself out once, in the middle of a guitar solo. "Go C.C.!", he said he said.
• It's also entirely possible that the drummer was wearing assless chaps.
  

Don't need nothin' but a good time. Go Bee!