Ahh, Carlo Rossi. A wine so fine that only Franzia can compete. I'm not a wine expert, but I use my old stand-by logic... if wine has a screw-top then it certainly isn't wine. It may be a bottle of liquefied, fermented grapes... but I'm not ready to call it wine.

So, what happens to a man when he consumes the entire half-gallon of Carlo's finest? Well, the answer to that question is unleashing the fury of his stomach in my bathroom as we speak. I'm not going to name names, but if you know the people that I know, then you can probably estimate who the culprit in the great wine-chug adventure of '06 could be. Here's a hint, if you give him a gallon of rot-gut wine and a keyboard, you'll be treated to "Axel F" and "The Final Countdown" for hours on end.

So, here I am. I'm sitting in my apartment with a blues riff being strummed in the background. In the distance people are or were watching "Dawn of the Dead," and the Craw-dawg is preparing to entertain us with a rousing rendition of Travis Tritt's "If Hell Had A Jukebox." It's just another night on 8th Avenue. Many of you are familiar, many aren't... but as you well know, you just had to be here.

By the way, one of my guests feels like makin' love, the other seems to be all out.